Rewriting Life

The speaker referred to "strategies for protection from painful memories." He said many of us, unable to face the reality of horrible childhoods, unconsciously rewrote our family history and called that period of life by many terms, such as happy, conventional, nearly perfect.

Yes, I thought, I was one of them. In seminary, we had to take courses in pastoral counseling. In a personal interview, the lead professor asked me about my childhood.

"My mother was warm and accepting; my dad was quiet. I had a conventional, happy childhood." I said more than that—and thought I was telling the truth.

Years later, I was showering and realized I had not seen my family the way they truly were. "My mother was hard-hearted and unloving!" I yelled at my wife. "My dad was mean and brutal!"

Shirley hugged me and said, "Several times I heard you talk to others about your warm, loving family. I thought your mother was one of the coldest individuals I've ever met."

That opened me up. I had deceived myself (or I could call it lived in denial) and used words like conventional or happy to express my childhood. From that day onward, I began to accept my real family history. A year later, I could admit that I had been physically, verbally, and sexual assaulted as a child and that neither of my parents expressed affection.

God, help me not to rewrite my childhood history.

Instead, help me to accept the real one.

* * * * *

This post is excerpted from Cec's book More Than Surviving: Courageous Meditations for Men Hurting from Childhood Abuse (Kregel, 2018).

Moving On?

(This post comes from Roger Mann.)

Sometimes I think my entire life has revolved around sex. I understand it’s a big part of a guy’s life. Someone once said, “From the time we exit the exit, we spend the rest of our lives trying to get back in.” Much of art and literature—and now the media—is devoted to it in one way or another, especially these days. I get that.

Still, for me it’s been an ongoing theme. Being a sex object as a child was a large part of my confusion over my identity and worth. The teens, normally a tumultuous time for a boy, were even more confusing. When I should have been discovering girls, I was already being discovered by males.

I married thinking that would solve and solidify my ambivalence about the whole thing. It didn’t. I gave up for a while and listened to those telling me to accept who and what I was. But that’s not who I came to realize I was after all.

So, years of therapy later, and many books, counseling sessions, and so forth, I still find my mind haunted by what happened to me so long ago. Today I find myself asking this question. Do I want this issue to continue being the main theme my life seems to revolve around? Or is it time to put it on the back burner to simmer, and try and enjoy what life has led me to in the present?

I’m not giving up on trying to heal, but I’m not going to spend the rest of my life looking back. I have a good life. Yet I think that at times I miss some of the goodness while trying to deal with scars from my past. Although there’s no question I’m scarred, I’m still alive, and I suspect I’m still missing much because of trying to lick my wounds.

Moving on is not denial. It can also be a part of the healing process.

"We Didn't Know"

"We didn't know," the civilians said when asked about the gas chambers after World War II.

"We didn't know," neighbors say when they learn that the man across the street had molested a boy.

"We didn't know," parents say when their adult children talk about their past sexual abuse.

When I began to deal with my abuse, I told my three older sisters. They said the same thing.

I don't think they were lying. I think they couldn't accept the enormity of the revelation. If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have been able to face the personal guilt for doing nothing.

What about abused kids' point of view when they hear those responses? One of the witnesses against Jerry Sandusky said he never told anyone. Asked why, he repeated an answer that rang true to me and to many others, "Who would believe a kid?"

When the perpetrator is a prominent person in the community, leads a scout troop, teaches Sunday school, or runs a charitable organization for kids, who wants to hear such stories?

The answer: No one wants to hear such stories.

Perhaps the question should be, Who needs to hear such stories?

When asked that way, the answer is obvious. Parents and religious and civic leaders need to hear. But too often they don't.

Sandusky's wife said she never heard the boy screaming in the basement. Apparently, she also didn't know when their adopted son said Sandusky molested him repeatedly for several years.

When will they believe us?

When will the cries of bruised and raped boys be heard?

Until they are, the survivor on the witness stand has spoken for all of us who were abused in the past. He speaks for those who are or will be molested.

"Who would believe a kid?"

* * * * *

A note from Cec's assistant: Cec's publisher (Kregel Publishing) plans to release his newest book, More than Surviving, in March, and they've asked us to provide a list of influencers. An influencer is someone who is familiar with Cec and his work and would be willing to help get the word out about his book through reviews, social media, blogs, and/or other ways. If you're interested in being an influencer for More than Surviving, email Cec at cec.murp@comcast.net to let him know, and make sure to provide your contact info. The publisher will send you a copy of the book when it's available. Thank you!

Moving Beyond the Abuse

"It's the past. Forget it and move on," my youngest brother, Chuck, said to me. We had both been sexually assaulted by the same person. He didn't admit being sexually molested, but he didn't deny it either. On the few occasions when I tried to talk to him about it, his answer was, (1) "You can't undo the past," (2) "We don't have to think about those things," or (3) "That stuff happened back then." His words implied that we need only to forget the past, leave it behind, and it's gone.

If only it were that simple.

Chuck died after years of trying to cure his pain through alcohol. I don't know if the pain he tried to medicate was the abuse, but I suspect it was. On rare occasions when he was drunk, he made oblique references to "that mess in childhood."

Outwardly, Chuck wanted to get past the sexual molestation and get on with his life. So why didn't he "move on" with his life?

I had a second brother named Mel, also an alcoholic. He was married five times and died of cirrhosis at age 48. Unlike Chuck, Mel wouldn't talk about our childhood. "There's nothing back there to talk about," was the most he ever said.

I write about my two brothers because both of them seemed determined to get past the abuse of childhood by forgetting, denying, or ignoring. That approach doesn't work.

We don't forget—not really. We don't forget because childhood abuse affects our lives and shapes our attitudes about people and relationships. Some guys want to hurry and get over it, but it's not something to get over and to move on.

Abuse happened to us. Until we accept it and face what it has done to our lives, we don't really move forward. We only live unhealed lives.

Collateral Damage

The term collateral damage began as a military term to refer to damage done to civilians or unintended targets in warfare. Today, most of us understand it means the undesired consequences of horrific events. For survivors, it’s the harm done to those within our circle, especially family members.

In my own journey, I can think of nothing more difficult for me than speaking to my family of origin about the abuse during my childhood and then informing my own children. The first was more difficult because I assumed they, like me, lived with denial. To my surprise, my three older sisters either said, “I knew” or “I suspected.”

My own children, again to my surprise, handled it well. The thing about which I’m grateful is that I never took my molestation to the next generation—that is, did to them what was done to me.

I’m grateful I caused no collateral damage for my children.

Why the Memories and Flashbacks Now? (Part 2 of 3)

My friend Ed Toms has said many times, “Your abusive memories don’t come back until you’re emotionally ready.”

For Ed, the breakthrough was the unfreezing of his emotions. “Once the emotions thawed, I cried for a long time—something I hadn’t done since I was about seven years old.”

I smiled remembering a similar experience in my own life.

“It wasn’t just the crying,” he said, “but it was downloading my serious emotions.” He focused on crying because he said kids learn, either by direct words or implication that boys don’t cry.

“Crying is a feminine activity—something for sissies. I heard that often enough.” The last time he cried his father told him to “suck it up and take it like a man.”

“That’s denial. It shuts off the emotional download,” he said with eyes that blinked with tears.

“The return of tears came the night I saw my newborn son. I hugged the infant and said, ‘I’ll always protect you.’ That opened me up, but several years passed before I learned to cry for myself.”

We’re all different and we don’t respond the same way. If you don’t feel safe, you won’t unlock your heart. And when you finally do open up and struggle through the flashbacks and memories, it’s hard to believe that’s part of the healing process. It’s something most of us have to go through to get past our pain.

When I first told my wife and my best friend, I didn’t know if they would laugh at me, sneer, or turn away in disgust. Both of them hugged me. That gave me the courage and the ability to continue to open up to others.

Did It Really Happen?

I "forgot" (that's denial) about my abuse until I was 51 years old. For several months after the memories began seeping back into my consciousness, I kept trying to convince myself that the abuse hadn't happened.

I hadn't gone to a counselor or therapist, but that happened around the time we heard so much about the false-memory syndrome. Therapists had inadvertently planted false memories in some of their clients.

I wanted mine to be false memories.

But they weren't.

I was molested. 

Because I can accept that fact, I can overcome the pain.

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

“I’m Totally Free”

In the fall of 2011, I participated in a two-day conference for male survivors of sexual assault. At a plenary session, one man spoke of his abuse and that it had once made him afraid to allow anyone to get close. He said God had healed him. “Now I’m totally free.”

As I listened, this thought raced through my brain: He’s still not going to let people get close. Then I thought I was being judgmental and silently chastised myself.

A few weeks later, Tom Scales and I had coffee together. He had also spoken during the conference. Without my bringing up the topic, Tom referred to that man. “He shouldn’t have been up there speaking,” he said. “He’s not healed enough himself.”

How did both of us—independently—come to that same conclusion? I can’t give you reasons or a concrete analysis, yet both of us sensed he spoke more about his hopes than his reality.

That’s the positive side. The negative side is that the man was still in denial. He has issues he must yet face if he truly wants to be healed and free.

I’m learning the difference between hope and reality.

Knowing and Not Knowing

On February 19, 2016, I posted a blog called ”Unpleasant Things” about families refusing to know about sexual assault in the home.

Andrew Schmutzer, a frequent responder to this blog, commented, “They don’t know, because they don't want to know. This is an ETHICAL issue, not a cognitive one.” His response resonated with me.

Immediately I thought of the trial of Jerry Sandusky of Penn State. He sometimes took his victims into his basement, and one survivor said he screamed for help. Sandusky’s wife testified that she never heard any cries.

I can only conclude Sandusky’s wife didn’t want to hear.

We often don’t hear or see those terribly unpleasant things. Too many men have told me that other family members didn’t believe them or insisted, “You’re angry and making up things.” Or “He would never have done such a thing.” Those words add more pain. Like Andrew says, “They don’t want to know.”

In the film, A Few Good Men, Colonel Jessup (Jack Nicholson) is asked to tell the truth. He ends his diatribe by shouting, “You can’t handle the truth!”

Too often those who should believe us can’t accept the truth. But then, I realize that all of us have some of that not-knowing-the-truth.

When any criticism or accusation is something we’re not ready or unable to hear, we deny it. I think of many times my friends or enemies tried to tell me something distasteful or repulsive about myself. Until I was open, I never “heard” them.

I make this point to say, we also need to learn to forgive those deniers. They help victimize us without realizing their wrongdoing.

I forgive my perpetrators;

I also forgive those who hurt me by being unable to face the truth.

* * * * *

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.

“But I’m Over It”

I’ve lost count of the men who tell me about their abusive childhoods and then add, “But I’m over it.”

They’re lying—even if they can’t admit it.

That’s not meant to be judgmental. In fact, I consider their words as more a wish or desire than fact. I’m not convinced anyone gets over it. We certainly move past the pain and the horror of childhood, but the trauma holds lasting effects.

For example, some men absolutely can’t trust others. One of my good friends was sexually assaulted by his mother and he admits he doesn’t trust women. Three divorces have forced him to admit that.

All of us have residual effects and we’ve lived with them all our lives. I’m an example of the overachiever. No normal person writes 137 books, posts twice weekly for two blogs, and does a lot of public speaking. I used to say, “God gave me a lot of energy,” and that’s true.

Now I say, “I was a driven man.” I constantly had to prove myself. I could have said, “prove myself to others,” and that’s a factor. But having to prove myself to myself that I’m lovable and worthwhile was the major residual effect of my abuse.

Last month, two different men told me they were over “it.” I didn’t argue or try to correct them. But both of them are in the morbidly obese category. Food seems to be their drug of choice. And their drug keeps them in denial about where they are now.

I’m not totally over my abuse, but I’m stronger and healthier for having faced my pain.

Healing is an ongoing process in my life.

* * * * *

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.

Feeling My Feelings

One of my big struggles in my healing journey has been to feel my emotions, especially the intense ones. That’s the curse and the blessing of my childhood abuse.

The pain and the memories were so intense, I blocked them out.

That unconscious action was a marvelous survival technique and a way to avoid my deepest hurts. Other men use artificial means to deaden their pain—alcohol, drugs, or sexual experiences. And when they’re not engaged in them, they’re in agony.

I’m one of those who didn’t feel the anguish and lived in denial. I didn’t remember my childhood trauma for a long, long time. Whenever an emotional situation became acute, I numbed out. And wondered why.

Over the years of writing this blog, responses from other survivors have shown me that many of you are like I used to be.

I’m a strong believer in self-talk, which is (for me) also a form of prayer. One of the things I said aloud to myself daily for at least two years was this: “I feel my feelings.”

Part of the problem was that I was afraid of those powerful emotions, especially my anger. My friend David said, “You haven’t killed anyone yet, so trust yourself and open up."

One day my emotions seeped through my resistance and I began to weep. Not just a few tears, but convulsively. For hours the pain was so severe I couldn’t stop. A few weeks later, anger was one of those powerful emotions that erupted, but I was able to accept.

And yet, in the midst of that excruciating trauma, I was glad. “Finally,” I said. That didn’t lessen the pain, but it pushed me down the road toward reclaiming my emotions.

It hasn’t been easy, but I can now say that most of the time I feel my emotions and they’re no longer as terrifying as I once thought they were.

I feel my pain, as well as a wide range of emotions,

to make me healthier and to connect more fully with others.

* * * * *

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. 

"I've Put That Behind Me"

I had lunch with a man I'll call Ned, and he knew about my abuse. Just before we left the restaurant he leaned toward me and said, "It happened to me, but I've put all that behind me." And he spoke of other things.

I looked at Ned's 300-pound frame and wondered how he knew he had moved beyond his abuse. I don't know if he was obese because of the molestation, but a number of survivors admit that they became compulsive overeaters by finding their comfort in food. That's a nice way of saying, "I'm addicted to food."

Right here I want to point out that I'm not a therapist, but this much I know. People with addictive behavior become that way to fight off or satisfy some painful aspect of their lives. My alcoholic baby brother, Chuck, once said he drank because it was the only time he didn't feel the pain.

There is no putting molestation behind us. There is healing and there is denial. Our abuse will always be there, but if we work at it, the pain decreases and we become stronger and more emotionally helpful.

We don't put abuse behind us. 

It stays with us as we heal.

Why Now?

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

Recently, I read an in-progress master's thesis on male sexual abuse. The writer's research said that most men don't deal with their abuse until they're middle-aged—late 30s to early 50s. She provided no rationale, only the figures. Maybe that's well-known in therapeutic practice, but it was new to me.

Although a few children are able to ask for help while young, some of us (and perhaps that word should be many) aren't ready until we're hitting our middle years. I was one of those.

Men like me "forgot" about our experiences. That is, the trauma was so severe we couldn't face it and lived in denial until the truth resurfaced. The descriptive term is Post Trauma Stress Disorder (PTSD).

"But why did it surface now?" I asked myself that question many times during the first year of my struggle with the molestation. The easiest thing to say is that it happened when I was able to cope with the pain. I was secure enough as a person—that is, I liked myself well enough—that I was willing to risk the shame and embarrassment.

One day, without ever seeing a therapist or being in any encounter groups, the memories started to flow. I cried—the first real crying since I was 11 years old. The intense agony disrupted my work habits and my sleep for weeks. My wife and my best friend comforted me. Their love and kindness enabled me to move ahead.

But the question still haunted me: Why now? I've concluded that my unconscious, inner wisdom kept the information hidden from me. I had focused on my education, career, marriage, and fatherhood. By the time I was ready, our third and last child had left home.

I still can't give a definitive answer on the timing except that I know I was ready. Because I had dealt with the major traumas of living, I had grown comfortable with myself. And realizing the certainty of my wife's love and commitment helped me know that I could face anything and she would be with me.

Every man needs someone to trust—implicitly—whether it's a spouse, a friend, or a therapist. He needs that safety to divulge and know he'll be heard and not rejected.

Maybe that is the answer: Once we're ready, we can face our pain—even if we feel at times that we can't suffer any more.

"That Didn't Happen."

One of the hardest blows to our healing occurs when a family member says, "That didn't happen. He would never have done such a thing." Occasionally I receive emails from survivors who've been ostracized from their family for saying such terrible things "about your uncle Harold."

*Eldon had gone through more than two years of counseling, regularly attended Celebrate Recovery, and began to refer to his dysfunctional childhood on his blog. "Until you admit that those terrible things didn't happen, we want nothing more to do with you," his father said. "Unless you stop writing such terrible lies, you're not welcome in our home."

Four years have lapsed and he has no contact with his family of origin.

"Their words hurt," he said, "and I miss them. I still love them." They returned his letters, and because they had caller ID on their phone, refused to answer when he phoned them.

Eldon had a good job, married a co-worker, and they have a three-year-old son and an infant daughter. "No one in my family has ever seen them, and maybe they never will."

As sad as Eldon was in telling me, I admired his courage for not backing down. "It happened to me and I can't deny the truth."

I wonder how many Eldons have been cut off from their families for being truthful.

Even if it's only one, that's still too many.

Hiding the Pain (Part 1 of 2)

We hide our pain in many ways. The obvious is by denying it and refusing to admit it. One time, early in my healing journey, I mentioned an abusive experience to a small group and said, "But I'm over it."

One of the men in the small group said, "You're not over it."

"But I am—"

"Your voice and your face show otherwise."

And he was correct. I was hiding the reality from myself. No one ever asked if I had been sexually molested and physically beaten. And that's not a blaming statement, but I had no memories of the sexual assault until I was 51 years old. One day, while running, the painful memories tumbled out and I couldn't stop them.

In retrospect, that experience of being confronted said I was ready to face my pain. It also told me that all those years I had hidden the pain deep, deep within.

Shortly after the memories returned, I had a dream. I was underwater and saw a huge cement structure. As I got closer, I saw it was encrusted with seaweed and rust and sealed with a padlock. I wondered what was inside. I pulled at the lock, it broke and a passageway opened up and I stared inside.

"I didn't know that was down here." Something between revulsion and fear grabbed me even though I don’t remember what I saw. Then I awakened. Later, I realized my dream was telling me that my pain had been hidden and sealed—and had been that way a long time.

Now the lock was broken and the past had been unlocked.

Then the pain began.

But so did the healing.

"We Didn't Know."

(an encore post from Cecil Murphey)

"We didn't know," the civilians said when asked about the gas chambers after World War II.

"We didn't know," neighbors say when they learn that the man across the street had molested a boy.

"We didn't know," parents say when their adult children talk about their past sexual abuse.

When I began to deal with my abuse, I told my three older sisters. They said the same thing.

I don't think they were lying. I think they couldn't accept the enormity of the revelation. If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have been able to face the personal guilt for doing nothing.

What about abused kids' point of view when they hear those responses? One of the witnesses against Jerry Sandusky said he never told anyone. Asked why, he repeated an answer that rang true to me and to many others, "Who would believe a kid?"

When the perpetrator is a prominent person in the community, leads a scout troop, teaches Sunday school, or runs a charitable organization for kids, who wants to hear such stories?

The answer: No one wants to hear such stories.

Perhaps the question should be, Who needs to hear such stories?

When asked that way, the answer is obvious. Parents, religious and civic leaders need to hear. But too often they don't.

Sandusky's wife said she never heard the boy screaming in the basement. Apparently, she also didn't know when their adopted son said Sandusky molested him repeatedly for several years.

When will they believe us?

When will the cries of bruised and raped boys be heard?

Until they are, the survivor on the witness stand has spoken for all of us who were abused in the past. He speaks for those who are or will be molested.

"Who would believe a kid?"

Moving Beyond the Abuse

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

"It's the past. Forget it and move on," my youngest brother, Chuck, said to me. We had both been sexually assaulted by the same person. He didn't admit being sexually molested, but he didn't deny it either. On the few occasions when I tried to talk to him about it, his answer was, (1) "You can't undo the past," (2) "We don't have to think about those things," or (3) "That stuff happened back then." His words implied that we need only to forget the past, leave it behind, and it's gone.

If only it were that simple.

Chuck died after years of trying to cure his pain through alcohol. I don't know if the pain he tried to medicate was the abuse, but I suspect it was. On rare occasions when he was drunk, he made oblique references to "that mess in childhood."

Outwardly, Chuck wanted to get past the sexual molestation and get on with his life. So why didn't he "move on" with his life?

I had a second brother named Mel, also an alcoholic. He was married five times and died of cirrhosis at age 48. Unlike Chuck, Mel wouldn't talk about our childhood. "There's nothing back there to talk about," was the most he ever said.

I write about my two brothers because both of them seemed determined to get past the abuse of childhood by forgetting, denying, or ignoring. That approach doesn't work.

We don't forget—not really. We don't forget because childhood abuse affects our lives and shapes our attitudes about people and relationships. Some guys want to hurry and get over it, but it's not something to get over and to move on.

Abuse happened to us. Until we accept it and face what it has done to our lives, we don't really move forward. We only live unhealed lives.

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.

Adopt Healthy Coping Habits

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

In the previous blog I mentioned the book of 75 things men could do to help themselves survive and overcome childhood abuse. Number 73 read: "Adopt Healthy Coping Habits."

The author wrote eight paragraphs about how important it was to learn to cope and to do it in healthy ways. I had the same reaction on this as I did on self-love.

"Thank you for that advice," I wanted to shout at the author. "But tell me how to do that." I felt as if the author patronized me and pulverized perfectly healthy trees to have such a book published.

I'm a pragmatist. Don't simply tell me what, tell me how.

Most of us who've been abused have figured out that we survived by doing things that weren't helpful for recovery or for growth. My two younger brothers became alcoholics as their coping method. I coped by denial in the form of amnesia. When I began to face my painful childhood, my healthy coping method was to open myself to my own childhood pain. Instead of running from the memories of abuse, I began to do practical things to face them. (In my next blog I'll mention one of them.)

What I did wasn't easy, but it was powerful and life changing.