Final Words

For a long time I felt different, as if something inside me hadn't been wired correctly. "What's wrong with me?" I must have asked myself that question thousands of times over the years.

Some days I felt as if I wanted to die; other days I didn't know if the struggle was worth it. I can now say, “Yes, it was worth the fight.”

That was the beginning for writing this blog, MenShatteringTheSilence. I started it nine years ago to reach out to men who, like me, were willing to face the hurt and especially the undeserved shame of childhood sexual abuse.

The blog has provided a safe place for us to discuss hard-to-talk-about issues, and we’ve been able to focus on healing and growth.

I appreciate those who have been willing to transparently share your painful experiences. I’m also grateful for the encouragement you’ve given one another and me. Together, we’ve learned and grown. And although we might not be completely healed, we’re getting close.

Now it’s time to say good-bye. As one of my last steps toward retirement, I’m discontinuing this blog. The decision didn’t come easily because I care deeply about each of you.

As always, you are welcome to reach out to me through email.

* * * * *

I am working on shutting down my office, and I have extra copies of the three books I've written on the topic of abuse: When a Man You Love Was Abused, Not Quite Healed, and More Than Surviving. If you are part of a group or organization that could benefit from the use of any of these books, please contact me. I will send them to you at no charge. 

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 6 of 9)

Another cruel argument against the women who claim to have been sexually harassed are these five words: her story doesn’t add up.

Because of a few inconsistencies in reporting, does that make the molestation invalid? It’s normal, especially when we finally speak up. Time has lapsed and the memories have abated, even though the pain lies dormant inside.

For many of us, the agony is too severe to recall every step in the sexual rape we endured. When I reflect on the abuse by a female, I can’t give details. Two things stand out in my memory. First, the smell of the powder she wore, and second, her breath as she put her face next to mine.

What people often don’t understand is that when we tell an experience, we don’t tell it the same way twice. With each telling, we add details or omit something. That’s human nature. One therapist said that when he hears a traumatic story and the person tells it exactly the same way each time, that causes him to doubt them. “If they’ve memorized the details, that often points to false accusation.”

Some truly harassed adults or molested kids don’t get heard properly because of those inconsistencies. It’s easier to disbelieve than to be open to the victimization of the speaker. It takes courage to speak up.

I hope authorities will recognize that, listen, and truly hear our painful tales.

Do you struggle/have you struggled with trying to remember every detail?

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 2 of 9)

For their 2017 “Person of the Year,” Time magazine chose “The Silence Breakers”—women who triggered a #MeToo national outcry over sexual harassment. They showed photographs of four famous women and the intentionally obscured face of a fifth. She represented those who hadn’t yet gone public.

I applaud that—and wish there were more males speaking up, such as actor Anthony Rapp, who rang the bell on Kevin Spacey.

The public still seems stuck on the idea that sexual attacks are committed by strangers in dark alleys. Despite being told repeatedly through the media, most of us males (and the recent influx of females claiming sexual harassment) knew our perpetrators.

Our abuse came from people we trusted (or should have been able to trust). People can lie and make up things, and some individuals get caught in the false-memory syndrome of believing abuse when there was none. But, again, those are rare.

Think of what the victim must endure to go public. And many have horror stories to relate. Why would any of us want to subject ourselves to such painful scrutiny and unbelief? Why would we expect to be believed?

When you first spoke out, were you believed?

Did You Tell?

I’ve lost count of the number of radio and TV interviews I’ve done on the topic of sexual assault. In the majority of them, they ask me to tell my story. Almost as soon as I finish, the next question becomes, “Did you tell anyone?”

“No, I didn’t.” If they ask why, I usually say, “I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” That answer is only partially true. Probably more accurately the answer should be, “I felt no one cared enough to listen.”

Like a lot of abused kids, I felt alone, unloved, and unwanted. Who would I have told? Who would have listened?

I haven’t posed such questions on this blog, but if you didn’t tell, I’d like to hear your answer. Use your own name or write anonymously.

If you didn’t tell, do you know why?

"Why Tell Anybody?"

I don't know how he got my telephone number, and he never told me his name. As soon as I identified myself, he blurted: "Why should a man tell anyone about his abuse?"

"He doesn't need to tell anyone. He can keep it a secret until he dies," I said.

"But talking is just talking—just mere words."

Certain he referred to himself, I asked, "Have you ever told anyone?"

After a long silence, he mumbled, "No."

"Suppose I had a tumor inside my body," I said. "I could live with that a long time as it slowly grew. But I'd be aware and have some discomfort or even a lot of pain. And suppose the tumor wasn't operable. Then what?"

He didn't respond, so I said, “You might use medication to shrink that tumor. It would likely take place over a period of time, but you could do it."

"So you think that's what talking does?"

"It worked for me," I said, "and for many men who've talked with me."

Before we hung up, I gave him one of my original maxims: I know of myself only what I say of myself.

By that I meant we have to speak the words of our pain to someone else for the healing to begin. "Survivors need other people," I told him. "If you don't want to start with a spouse or a good male friend, go to a professional.

"Once you can start talking about it, you become an instrument of your own healing. You enlist others. Each time you're able to talk about it—"

"The more effective, right?"

I tried to explain that we've been created to connect with other humans. And with a basic need to be understood by others. I'm convinced that as I enable others to understand me, I also learn to understand myself.

(This entry was originally posted at Joyful Heart Foundation.)

“Males Are Less Traumatized than Females”

I wonder how many people have written or spoken words like that. They parrot the idea that females are more emotional and more damaged than males. They don’t produce any evidence, but make strong assertions.

Societal climate is more open to females writing and speaking about their sexual assaults. (Check Amazon.com and see for yourself.)

This much seems obvious to me; however, we males are more severely damaged by society’s reluctance to accept our victimization. We’re afraid of being called gay, sissy, or being judged as being less than male.

Thus many of us tough it out and remain silent. By not speaking up, we don’t have to face taunts and pointing fingers. But we also miss healthy affirmation, sympathy, and acceptance.

And why does it have to be a comparison between the genders? Shouldn’t it be enough to say, “I am a survivor of sexual assault that stole my innocence”?

I’m not concerned about proving I was more traumatized than a female. I am concerned about admitting my deep-seated pain and recovering. The more we males speak up, the more we push others to accept us.

In 1990, I heard a scholar insist that boys were not abused. Does anyone still hold to that? We’re making progress. And it’s up to us, the survivors, to gain acceptance by speaking out.

The more I face my abuse, the more I heal;

the more I speak about my abuse, the more I help other men to heal.

* * * * *

Are there questions or specific topics you'd like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com.

Needing to Be Heard

The most courageous step for survivors is to speak about our abuse openly. That was the single most healing step for me. Until I opened up to others, my sexual assault was still something secret. Hidden. And publicly denied.

I needed to speak, to be believed and understood, so I chose my first confidants carefully—and with trepidation. To my amazement, the first two people heard me and supported me. They embraced me with words, but also with their arms that pulled me into a warm embrace.

For me, that was the beginning. I’m a public speaker and appear before various groups, congregations, and organizations. The first two times I referred to my painful childhood, my hands shook and my voice quivered. But I did it.

I make my living as a ghostwriter or collaborator and have taught in 259 conferences for writers. For the past decade, whenever I tell them about me, I mentioned being molested.

Some may cringe or feel it’s distasteful, but no one has ever rebuked me or belittled me for it. In fact, fairly often, a man will come up to me privately and say, “When you talked about your childhood . . .,” and nearly always he also says, “I’ve never told anyone.”

And I wait silently while he tells me his story. When that happens, I feel affirmed for being vulnerable to an audience. I also feel invigorated for helping another man start his healing journey.

Every survivor needs to be heard and believed.
I need to be heard and believed.

* * * * *

Are there questions or specific topics you'd like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com.

Unpleasant Things

"We don't talk about unpleasant things in this family." While he was growing up, my friend Rodney told me that was what he heard regularly.

Whether parents say such words isn't as important as their behavior that implies those words. They probably mean they don’t want to face difficult issues or have their lives disrupted. For Rodney and others like him, there was no openness to talk about the sexual abuse by his much older brother. He obeyed the family rules and kept quiet.

We refer to that as a conspiracy of silence. That term usually means the family ignores, denies, or chooses to remain ignorant. They don't know because they don't want to know.

It may appear as if they are protecting the family; in reality, they're worsening the effects. By not addressing painful issues, parents fail their children.

It's not that all parents say such negative words, but they still don't invite the Rodneys to open up.

I refuse to remain silent 
because others consider abuse an unpleasant topic.

* * * * *

Are there questions or specific topics you would like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com. 

Family Secrets

I dealt with my sexual assault for at least two years before I told my family of origin. I made dozens of excuses for myself, such as:

* It no longer matters.

* They don’t care.

* What difference does it make?

* I talk about it to others; why should I have to bring in my siblings?

* It will only stir up anger and hurt.

* They probably won’t believe me.

Despite all the excuses, I knew that speaking to the people among whom I had grown up was something I had to do. For me, it was a significant barrier to overcome on my healing journey.

I finally spoke up and, to my surprise, my three surviving sisters understood. I felt such great freedom in opening up. Maybe my siblings didn't need to hear as much as I needed to tell them.

To tell my family about my abuse—

regardless of their response—

can be a powerful healing experience for me.

(This post was adapted from Not Quite Healed, written by Cecil Murphey and Gary Roe.)

* * * * *

Are there questions or specific topics you would like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com. 

Why Do I Have to Talk About It?

One reason for murky statistics about male survivors of sexual assault is that many of us aren't forthcoming. That is, we don’t want to talk about being molested. It still hurts and we feel less like real men if we admit our pain.

I never want to force anyone to talk about their abusive past. And yet, I know that until we do bring the dark secrets into the light by talking about them, the pain stays inside. We try to ignore it or pretend it doesn’t hurt. But we know differently.

Speaking about our pain-streaked childhood isn't easy. Shame often holds us back, even though we were innocent, pliable children.

But those of us who have the courage to speak out—even when fear and self-loathing keep trying to pull us back—have learned an invaluable lesson. When the truth comes out, it's no longer a secret. When another human being—a person with whom we feel safe—hears and understands our anguish, the healing process becomes operational.

We were abused in secret; we lived with our secrets.

Now we're ready to bring the truth into the open.

(This post was adapted from Not Quite Healed, written by Cecil Murphey and Gary Roe.)

Telling

From my own experience and learning about other survivors, we usually start the healing journey by telling someone. That someone may be a person we've learned to trust, or we take the risk, hoping that person will understand.

Usually we start with innocuous statements and little detail, thinking if they can accept that, we'll tell more. It's sad, but sometimes those first answers push us back into silence. "I'm sorry," or "That was long ago." They don't mean to be unkind, but I assume that's a safe way for them to signal that they're not going to be comfortable or compassionate in listening.

The worst response is, "You're imagining everything. Who would do such a thing to a child?" Such responses usually come from family members who refuse to face the reality.

Then someone does understand and we sense that. Once we break the silence with a single, caring individual, we're ready to start healing.

Some rush to see a professional, and it's an excellent healing step. They can open up and have someone listen.

Others, like me, can't face opening ourselves to someone we don't know. I needed someone I could trust and who cared for me. Having a reliable person was like reversing the process. Someone I trusted violated me; a second person I trusted opened the door to healing.

Regardless, we're constructed in such a way that telling is the only viable way to healing. As long as we hold the pain inside, it never goes away. We may temporarily bury it, but it won't stay buried.

Here's one of my sayings: I know of myself only what I say of myself. That means, I know who I am only by saying the words, hearing them accepted, and affirmed by someone else. That "witness" verifies my experience.

I know of myself 

only what I say of myself.

Secrets

In our family, sexual abuse wasn’t the only thing we didn't talk about, but it was the most important. Although no one ever instructed me, outside the house we were an average family with normal problems—no worse than anyone else.

We were also liars and frauds by our silence and cover-ups. And yet had anyone said that to my parents, me, or any of my siblings, we would have been aghast, even angry. The hidden reality was so deeply ingrained in my family of origin we didn't know a different way to behave.

I broke the silence and brought my sexual assault out into the open. After talking to my wife and friends about my childhood, I gained the courage to talk to my surviving siblings. It was the most difficult conversation I ever had in growing up.

To my amazement (and delight) they were open to me. In addition, and even more important, we no longer had to guard the family secrets.

Secrets trapped us in the past;

now we're free to live without secrets in the present.

"It Happened Only Once."

(This post from Cecil Murphey first appeared at 1in6.org.)

Occasionally a survivor of sexual assault says, "It happened only one time," as if that made the offense and agony less important.

To that, I answer, "It's not whether molestation happened one time or fifty times, you were still molested." Here's a good first question to ask: How did the abuse affect you?

I've talked with a few men who say they were abused and not damaged by the assault. That may be denial or their words may be true. Some individuals just don't hurt as easily or as deeply as others.

Regardless, many men who say it didn't happen a second time were so traumatized, they struggled with the same issues as those who reported abuse that went on for years.

We need to remind ourselves that our innocence was destroyed the first time someone assaulted us. And assault is the right word. We were defenseless children and someone usually bigger and older did something to us without our consent or our being old enough to know they were harming us.

There doesn't have to be a second or tenth time. The damage occurred and our innocence was shattered.

"How did the molestation change your life?" is a good second question. Most of us struggle with the issue of not being able to trust others. If a person we should have been able to trust betrayed us, how can we trust anyone else?

To heal from that abuse means we finally must take a risk. We have to trust someone enough to tell our story. The healing happens when we relate what happened to us and sense the listener understands. That exchange validates us and the healing process begins.

One time. Five hundred times. Ignore that, and focus on the hurt so the healing can take place.

Vulnerability and Weakness

For a long time I was afraid to be vulnerable—I didn't want others to see my weaknesses. If they saw me for who I truly was, they'd surely despise me.

But one day, a group of church leaders held an open discussion on sexual abuse. A recently retired professor from a seminary talked about sexual abuse and defined it exclusively as males penetrating females. Penetration was his primary word, which he used several times. When someone asked him about males being molested, he refused to admit that possibility.

Finally, one man stood and said, "Sir, maybe men can't be molested, but boys can. And they are molested! And your ignorance and closed-mindedness only perpetuates the myth."

Spontaneous clapping broke out before the man added, "I was six years old when I was molested—by my aunt—so don't tell me males can't be abused, and I refuse to submit to your macho BS."

More applause broke out. The old professor stared stonily ahead and didn't say another word.

That courageous man who spoke up did so much for me. I had only been dealing with my abuse a short time before that meeting. It must have taken great courage for him to speak up, especially to refute an authority figure.

He isn't weak, I thought. He's strong. It takes deep, inner strength to do what he did.

Over the next few days, I pondered that event and realized something: It takes the greatest amount of bravery to be transparent. It took a man of immeasurable strength to stand defenseless in front of others and expose himself.

From that time on, I wanted to be like that strong man.

The Inner Circle

Over the years, many other men said, "You're my best friend," and they sincerely meant it. But none of them was my best friend. That's not to blame them, but to admit I didn't know how to open up and trust another man.

Several men included me in their inner circle; I wish I could have included them in mine.

I wanted to open up, but I couldn't. My trust had been stolen as a child, and for me to expose my inner feelings was to suffer the abuse again. It seemed safer to lock up my past.

I had my inner circle—which consisted only of myself. For a long time, I couldn't even open up to my wife, and yet she was the most loving and trusting soul I knew.

My first break came through a friend named Martin. He told me that at age 15, his drunken mother had seduced him. After he told me, I marveled that he trusted me with that deep, deep secret. Years later, he told me that I was the first person he'd told, and that it was the beginning of his healing.

Another man, Steven, assaulted by a teacher, cried as he talked of his trauma 40 years after the fact, but I sensed he experienced some healing just from the act of sharing.

Martin and Steven included me in their inner circle, even if they didn't use those words. They also opened the door for me by modeling trusting behavior.

When I haltingly told my wife about my childhood assault, I expected rejection and revulsion. Instead, Shirley said, "I'm sorry," and hugged me. That same day, I told David, who later became my best friend. Just by the way he listened, I knew he accepted my pain. He didn't try to fix me; he simple accepted me.

Shirley and David were the first members of my inner circle and because of them, I could invite others into it.

As I openly spoke of my pain, I was giving others permission to face their past and open up.

Healing in Community

(This post comes from John Joseph*.)

Recovery from childhood sexual trauma doesn’t happen in isolation. Of course, we want it to, hoping that we’ll never have to share the grisly details of our abuse or have to feel awkward that there was some part of it we may have enjoyed. Childhood violation is a very complicated thing and always requires the love, understanding, and intercession of a community to progressively heal.

Telling our story in a safe environment is one step toward healing. Being able to receive the love and encouragement of others is also a healthy step. Coming to the place where we can own what happened, own our responsibility for our sinful responses, and even moving slowly toward forgiveness are important progressions often facilitated in a healing community.

The abuse happened in secrecy, but the way out is by acknowledging it and sharing it with others in safe environments. Much of my own healing has occurred in 12-Step meetings or one-on-one counseling or prayer encounters in which I could safely share what happened and how it has affected me.

*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.

Confidence to Speak

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

I handled my abuse with amnesia (a form of denial) and was fifty-one years old before the first memories trickled back to my consciousness. As the painful memories emerged, my wife held my hand and my friend David gave me his shoulder. They encouraged me and infused me with confidence to speak about my molestation.

Every time I spoke about my abuse to anyone else, it emboldened me to speak more freely. But I didn't tell my family of origin or my own children. I made dozens of excuses for myself, such as:

* It no longer matters.

* They don't care.

* What difference does it make?

* I talk about it to others; why should I have to bring in my siblings or my kids?

* It will only stir up anger and hurt.

* They probably won't believe me.

I lived and grew up in a dysfunctional family. We didn't talk about secret things. When I was growing up, my family didn't even use words like pregnant. My mother would say, "She's that way." Her emphasis on those two words made it clear to me what she meant. It also reminds me of the way life was in those days.

A thought came to me one day. Perhaps speaking to my siblings would bring healing for all of us. Perhaps all of us could face our painful childhood—even though our issues were not the same.

Most of all, I admitted to myself that if I opened up, it would help me. By the time I was able to face my abuse, my parents were dead, and both my abusers were dead.

I opened up and truly shattered the silence. To my surprise, my three surviving siblings understand what I went through.

Shattering the Conspiracy of Silence

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

"Have you told anyone?" I asked the twenty-year-old man.

He shook his head. "Only you." He went on to say, "They wouldn't understand." He referred to his family.

"How do you know?"

He shrugged. "It wouldn't do any good. They won't believe me."

Our conversation went on for a full minute before he admitted he was afraid to tell his family. I pleaded with him to speak up—but only when he was ready. "We have a term called 'the conspiracy of silence,' which means that no one in the family talks about it. No one admits the horrible, shameful acts. The suffering continues."

"It was no big deal for you, but to me—"

"It took me seven years to speak up," I said.

"Really?"

"That's right. And the longer we wait to tell anyone, the easier it is to pretend it didn't happen. Or to convince ourselves that it's not important."

My response surprised him because I talk openly and easily about the issue of male sexual abuse. I keep talking about it to help others—and to help Cec—get to the other side, which is freedom. Deliverance. Total victory.

I'm still on the road to healing. "Even so," I told him, "shattering the conspiracy of silence was one of the biggest, most positive steps I ever took."

Hand-in-glove Dysfunction

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

This post comes from an anonymous reader.

Thank you for your shattering the silence blog and your openness. It's been nearly 20 years now since my first 20-year marriage ended. I knew I had been sexually abused as a girl, but had no idea until many years later that my children’s dad also had been a victim.

It explained why we fit “hand in glove” in our dysfunction. He watched me go through recovery with a Christian counselor's help, but he said nothing. When men started speaking out, though, he discovered he wasn't unique and alone. He got good help and it changed him completely.

He’s a good friend today and a great dad/grandpa to my children and grandchildren. You are doing such a service to families everywhere by speaking out. Thank you.

A Giant Step

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

The brief email read: When we finally face the abuse and disclose the secret to others, we've made a giant step toward healing.

He wrote only one sentence, but it's true. Here's how I think about it. I need to tell someone else who listens, who believes me, and who also understands.

Here's something I started to say years ago (and still believe): "I know of myself only what I say about myself." That is, when I speak the words about myself and get an understanding nod from someone else, I "own" my words.