"I Can Handle It Myself"

(By Cecil Murphey)

No one heals alone. You may challenge that statement, but I'm convinced it's true. We're survivors, but we need others—at least one person who cares.

As human beings, we're built to relate to others. We need them to love, rebuke, encourage, and inspire us. Those who are willing to hear, who can understand our pain, and assure us that we matter, are the people who help us realize the healing we receive from others.

We need other human beings to help us confront the lies and deceptions of our perpetrators.

I need others. 

My denying that fact doesn't destroy the truth.

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

Learning About Myself

(By Cecil Murphey)

My blog entries may imply that I jump from insight to insight, change to change, growth to growth, and race toward total healing.

I wish it were that simple.

It hurts to learn more about myself, especially when others are aware of my defects. I don't like it when I realize I've been petty, selfish, or envious. Such concepts don’t fit with what I call my self-image of being a nice, caring person.

My immediate reaction is to say, "I'm not like that." And yet even as I protest, a deeper part of myself admits that my denial doesn't make it less true.

I could blame the abuser, the perpetrator, or throw the guilt on someone else when I confront those uncomfortable, painful parts. Sometimes it's not even outward behavior, but an inward attitude toward a person or an incident.

"Am I really like that?" That's the question I need to ask myself. It's not easy to face my self-image and realize that I don't live up to my own mental picture. I usually feel anguish, self-disgust, and sadness. Once I change, I also feel at peace. I don't like the hurt, but I need those self-accusing fingers to move me to positive action.

I don't like the self-accusations and the anguish, 

but their occasional presence reminds me that I'm growing.

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

Female Perpetrators

I received a personal email from Andrew Schmutzer after my last blog entry posted:

As a male survivor, I’ve really appreciated the brief and potent thoughts you consistently share in Shattering the Silence. Regarding this entry, I thought I would mention that females are also perpetrators—against both men and women. Because some male survivors feel doubly estranged by this reality, may I suggest that you ‘open your description’ to more than a bald ‘He?’ A one-size-fits-all offender can be very difficult for some men to stomach.

Females are perpetrators, and I appreciate Andrews's comments. My first perpetrator was a woman, and I've heard many others echo the same statement. I recently read that 38 percent of male abusers are females (I have no idea how to validate that figure).

Gary Roe, who is my co-writer on our soon-to-be released book, Not Quite Healed, was (like me) molested by both a female and male.

As Andrew points out, being molested by a female does double damage to survivors.

Those of you who have been molested by females: Will you email me personally about your experience, especially the ongoing after-effects? cec.murp@comcast.net.

Why Me?

(By Cecil Murphey)

Why did he choose us? What did we do to make him single us out?

Although complicated, here's the most direct and simple answer I know: We were needy kids. Those four words sum it up. We may not have realized our neediness. After all, how many four-year-olds or ten-year-old boys are mature enough to reflect on such issues?

We were needy kids. Whether we came from impoverished homes or our parents were millionaires, unless we felt deep within ourselves that we were loved, we were open to anyone who showed us kindness or affection.

Our perpetrators reached out in such ways that we were ensnared. They gave us gifts or took us places. They spent time with us. They listened to us and made us feel important. They deceived us, but we didn't know.

We were needy kids. I'm not blaming parents, saying only that we didn't feel the warmth we yearned for. Perhaps they were unable to give it to us (as was true with my parents) or they didn't express it in a way that convinced us of their love.

We were needy kids. Maybe we need to repeat those words in first person. I was a needy kid. The absence of affirmation or acceptance, love or affection—whatever I was lacking—made me vulnerable.

I was a needy kid; 

someone took advantage of my neediness and my innocence.

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

Shaped

(By Cecil Murphey)

Most of us acknowledge that events in our lives shape our attitudes and our behavior. If we reflect on our lives, usually we can see that the past—both good and bad—affected our personalities and outlook and made us who we are today.

Molestation is one of the sad parts. What happened to us at the hands of our perpetrators involves every relationship—even though we're not always conscious of the effect. Success in the healing process means being aware that we behave in certain ways because of trying to cope with our childhood abuse.

For example, I'm a compulsive overachiever. I used to say that God gave me a lot of energy (true) and I work quickly (also true). A third truth, however, is that the little boy inside me was crying out, "I'm worthwhile! Look at what I've been doing! I'm showing you!"

I was driven by overpowering forces and a search to feel acceptable to myself. I'm learning to appreciate who I am, and I'm much happier.

The more aware I am of that need to be loved and appreciated, 

the less I yield to my compulsion.

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

"I'll Never Forgive You."

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hartigay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 10/25/12.)

For several days, one sentence has continued to trouble me: "I'll never forgive you." Those words were spoken by the man identified only as Victim 4 at the Jerry Sandusky sentencing on October 9, 2012. His emotional cry says several things to me.

The most obvious is that he expresses the unhealed pain that comes from betrayal. At the trial itself, Victim 4 and other survivors referred to the gifts and personal attentiveness from Sandusky, who became their role model. Then came the molestation. Until then, Sandusky had probably been the most trusted man in their lives. His wooing them through seductive actions and evil motives caused an unrelenting pain that still remains.

Perhaps the words are also an unconscious cry to the perpetrator to admit what he did. If I faced someone and shouted those words, it would signify an unconscious or unspoken plea: "Please tell me you're sorry for how deeply you wounded me. Help me understand why you would hurt me." When the victimizer is someone we admire and love, the hurt becomes far more intense.

The words also speak of despair. What Victim 4 lost as a boy won't ever be restored, even if his perpetrator confesses. As a survivor of sexual molestation, I know how abuse damages us for life. We're emotionally shattered and we don't know how to trust others. We're suspicious of the motives when someone treats us kindly. We push away many good people because one bad person took advantage of our naïveté and youth.

Possibly the words are also a threat. It's as if to say, "You want absolution for your wrongdoing but you'll never, never get it from me." They seem like words to withhold forgiveness and that will punish the guilty.

Even worse, the words mean we carry the pain and refuse to offer compassion for the wrongdoer. I call myself a serious Christian and many of my peers would jump on Victim 4's words and insist, "You must forgive him."

If I could speak to Victim 4, I'd say, "Feel your pain. Don't release it until you're ready. If you move forward to find your own healing, the day will come when you'll shed your anger and freely offer your forgiveness (even if you never tell him).

I think of his statement as much like people who grieve after the death of a loved one—an awareness of the abuse is like death—the end of a powerful, emotional relationship.

"Number 4, grieve as long as you need to. Don't push yourself or allow anyone to nudge you toward letting go. When you're ready, you won't need prodding."

"We Didn't Know."

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hartigay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 7/5/12.)

"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?"

15 Seconds

(This post comes from Eric Wagenmaker.)

I grew up in a small town and live here still today. About twice a year, I inadvertently see my perpetrator. Whether it’s at the mall, a community event, or seeing him in his car at a stoplight, I see him.

Because of my abuse, I have learned how to wear masks. If people are with me they can't tell that my blood was boiling or that everything inside of me had gone numb. When I see him, for about 15 seconds or so, I am brought back to the high school locker room where my abuser abducted me.

Once the 15 seconds are over and my emotions are normal, I'm reminded of how far I have come.

I've experienced substantial healing in the last year and a half since I first shared about my abuse publicly for the first time. I've been able to share my story freely with person after person. Each time I share, a new layer peels back and the more freedom I experience.

Every time I see my perpetrator it allows me another opportunity to forgive him. That is truly where the healing started for me. I pray for the day I can see him and my emotions won't miss a beat.

Owning the Pain

(This post comes from "J".)

One of the things that has kept me in the pain of my abuse is not owning it. So much of my life was spent avoiding the pain of my childhood abuse that it didn't have a chance to be felt and ultimately healed.

No one wants to feel pain. We're wired to seek pleasure and to avoid pain. The truth about abuse, however, is that it can't be processed and healed without acknowledging it, feeling it, and processing it.

I didn’t know that I had been abused. I was grown when I was driven into counseling through addictive and compulsive sexual behavior. I was out of control and close to losing my marriage. I hadn’t acknowledged the depths of the pain of my childhood; the molesting at four years old; the odd encounters with older boys in my family; what I now understand as a rape when I was ten; and the fact that I was criminally abused by an older man and woman when I was 15 to 18 years old. It was like I was a magnet for abuse.

My pain flooded in when I came to understand that my hyper-sexualized appetites weren’t appetites for sex but an insatiable yearning for acceptance and healing. I'm thankful that the pain isn’t experienced and processed all at once.

I've experienced the pain in doses, some large and some small. There have been seasons of pain and reckoning with it. There have been good times and bad, but I'm continually amazed that owning the pain of it is the only way to process and get it out of the way.

Research Help Needed

My name is Angela Komar and I am working on my bachelor's thesis. I am looking for adult male survivors of female-perpetrated childhood sexual abuse; if you would be interested in being interviewed either by email, phone, instant message, face-to-face, or Skype please contact me at AKomarCASA@gmail.com and I will provide the letter of consent and answer any questions. This project has been approved by the Colorado College IRB. Feel free to visit my blog: http://adultmalecsa.blogspot.com/

Managing Our Triggers (Part 5 of 8)

(This post comes from Gary Roe.)

"Can I really discover the root of that trigger?"

It takes practice. The more you practice asking the four questions, the better you are at stopping your thoughts after the initial emotional reflex.

Let's say I’m at a party and I’ve been introduced to someone. I feel uncomfortable. The stranger seems pleasant, but my anxiety expands. I excuse myself. The fear subsides.

What am I feeling and what just happened? I’m afraid. I met a stranger. When have I felt that way before? It happens occasionally when I meet someone new. When do I remember that first feeling? In early childhood when I met one of my perpetrators.

The person at the party reminded me of the perpetrator. That could also be a warning. The person might be dangerous, perhaps an abuser.

We can manage our triggers; If we don’t they’ll manage us.

If I continue to work at it, 

I may be able to trace a trigger back to its origin.

Managing Our Triggers (Part 4 of 8)

(This post comes from Gary Roe.)

"Once I know my triggers, how do I deal with them?"

When we're triggered, our reactions are automatic. We can’t stop reflex reactions, but we can learn to manage what happens next.

For example, I walk into a room filled with people I haven't met. I become self-conscious, because I feel as if everyone is staring at me.

What am I feeling and what just happened? I’m feeling nervous. I walked into a room where I didn’t know anyone. When have I felt this way before? When I entered a new environment. When was the first time I felt that way? I was about four years old at a department store with a female perpetrator. What happened the first time I felt that way? She knelt down beside me and said, "The world isn't a safe place. Stay close to me. I’ll protect you."

What was the trigger? Entering a place where I don’t know anyone. When I am triggered that way, I still hear my perpetrator’s message again. If I realize that, I can learn to see things from a different perspective. Being able to identify the trigger can derail the emotion train.

I don’t have to let my triggers rule and force me to relive my abuse. 

I can learn to unplug the "trigger train."

Goliath Won

After his sentence on October 9, 2012, Jerry Sandusky wrote a letter to Judge Cleland in which he compared his court trial with the biblical encounter of David and Goliath. "I was supposed to be David but failed to pick up the slingshot. Goliath won . . . "

He's right—Goliath won.

However, Sandusky was Goliath—a giant—when he abused those small boys, who didn't have slingshots and stones with which to fight. He won again when he denied his guilt. A third win was the re-victimizing of those boys in court when they were forced to recount their molestation in front of strangers and doubters.

No one knows how many little Davids suffered because of that one overpowering giant. But a few finally picked up slingshots. With tears and deep-seated anguish, those brave Davids testified about their abuse. And the jury believed them. The words at the sentencing make it clear that Judge Cleland believed it was time to punish Goliath.

For a few of us, there is justice.

But what about the cost to those once-innocent children? Those survivors again faced shame, rejection, pain, as well as criticism and denial for justice to prevail.

Managing Our Triggers (Part 3 of 8)

(This post comes from Gary Roe.)

"How do I discover my triggers?"

I suggest we ask ourselves these 4 questions: 

1. What am I feeling and what just happened?

2. When have I felt this way before?

3. When was the first time I felt that way?

4. What happened the first time I felt that way?

Here’s how this plays out. At a restaurant, an older man stares at me. Immediately I drop my head. Suddenly I feel nervous or anxious. I’ve been triggered, but if I’m not aware, I may feel uneasy for hours.

What am I feeling and what just happened? I’m feeling anxious and scared. An older man stared at me.

When have I felt this way before? I felt that way when an older man stared at me.

When was the first time I felt that way? When I was inside an older man’s house.

What happened the first time I felt that way? This older man called me to the back of the house and stared at me. Then he abused me.

Isolating how I feel and tracing it back to the first time I felt that way 

can help me identify the trigger.

Managing Our Triggers (Part 1 of 8)

(This post comes from Gary Roe.)

"What is a trigger?"

I was sexually abused between the ages of 3 and 6. It profoundly affected me by skewing my view of self, the world, and God. The abuse conditioned me to feel a certain way when certain things happened.

Here is an example. One of my perpetrators was female. She sometimes became angry and violent during the abuse. To this day, when a woman gets angry, I react strongly. Fear, or sometimes terror, instantly wells up in me. Anxiety isn't far behind. Those emotions control my mind and behavior.

The fear response operates like a reflex—involuntary and immediate—because a woman's anger originally triggered it.

As abuse survivors, it’s important we understand our triggers and how they work. As we become more aware of our abuse-victim-reflexes, we can respond differently when the reflex hits. Knowing what triggers us can aid greatly in our healing.

As I discover what triggers me, I can choose to respond differently.

Waiting to Exhale

(This post comes from Anonymous.)

One of the effects of my abuse has been the feeling of holding my breath inside. Because sexual addiction was a huge result of abuse in my life, I didn’t think I could breathe unless I was acting out the brokenness inflicted upon me through sexual molestation. I found my deepest worth in being used by a man. When that wasn’t happening, I didn’t feel I was breathing.

A therapist related my need to be abused to people who cut themselves. I’m not an expert on cutting, but my therapist said that cutters seem to feel as I did, existing miserably between periods of cutting themselves. He indicated they feel like they can’t breathe until they cut. Once they cut, they feel temporary relief, then all the self-loathing returns. That described me.

I lived for years holding my breath between acting out sexually online or with others as a result of my abuse. If I wasn’t engaging in my addiction I was thinking about it. My life revolved around secrets and shame, knowing that I wasn’t being the man I should be or wanted to be. I understand men who are living a double life and who often become suicidal because of the depths of pain and shame.

Yet the more I've come to understand that abuse wasn’t my fault and that I was victimized by older men, the closer I come to finding wholeness in my life.

I'm learning to breathe on my own and not just exist until acting out my addiction. I understand that my thoughts and feelings are often irrational and overwhelming and that I have to have safety precautions built into my life to help me to overcome them.

Learning to breathe emotionally is a function of the knowledge of being part of a caring community. Knowing I am a survivor is a great step, but I need support and understanding to overcome the abuse.

One day at a time I learn to take a breath, exhale, take a breath, and then exhale. I no longer have to act out my brokenness in order to breathe.

I’m no longer waiting to exhale.

Separation Anxiety

(This post comes from Anonymous.)

Sexual abuse began so early in my life that I missed the chance to become my own person in the way that I should have at an early age. My initial identity was formed as someone who existed to bring another a sick pleasure.

The secret use of my body to satisfy someone older and bigger was the first place that I felt valued as a human being and that identity stuck to me like hot glue. Fortunately for me, I have come to know that that was only a false identity and not the real me.

Babies and small children often suffer through what we know as separation anxiety. Having been so close to the mother in the womb and at the breast results in fear and anxiety when infants experience separation. I have experienced a different form of separation anxiety as I have faced the reality that the early identity formed in me on was the wrong one. Or worse, that it was forced on me by my abusers. I became an object and not a human to them and then to myself.

My abuse stretched out over many years, and I was acting it out in multiple bisexual relationships primarily as the sex-slave of others. I lived to pleasure others and took that role because it was the only thing I knew. I was the powerless one and the partner always the strong one. It was sheer hell in so many ways, even though I thought I wanted this. I didn’t know that I was living out the wrong identity for many years after the abuse. Eventually, truth broke through.

I've spent many years untangling the effects of abuse. I've made great strides in separating myself from the false identity forced on me and in developing the real me, the man who has power over my own mind and body. This causes anxiety at times when I seem to fall back into old patterns of thinking. Like a baby, I don’t know who I am apart from the abuse that "mothered" me in many ways. But with each day I find that I won’t die becoming the real me.

I will live and I will live well.

Shadow Boxing

(This post comes from Anonymous.)

One of the strange things about surviving sexual abuse is that it never quite feels like I’ve survived it. I have to remind myself quite often that the abuse was in the past and isn't happening to me today. However, having suffered so much in my childhood resulted in a nasty case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that went undiagnosed for more than thirty years. I’ve realized that this is why I keep shadow boxing with the memories and feelings of being abused long into adulthood.

Someone older and bigger abused me. The size and age differential were massive and caused me to live my life in fear of other men. When I walked into a room or drove down the street, any man I saw was bigger and more powerful than I was, even if they really weren’t.

In business meetings the other men had advantages over me because I thought of myself as weaker than them. Even women were stronger and more powerful, especially if they seemed to be "together" or strong-minded.

One of the most difficult things I've wrestled with as an abuse survivor is realizing that these thoughts and feelings are irrational. They're the shadows of the past, the specters of abuse that rendered me powerless and feeling that I'm less than the man I really am. I struggle with continually giving my power away to other people, especially men, even if they have no advantage over me.

There's no way to win at shadow boxing. The shadows are real; they have no real power. As I continue to overcome my abuse, one of my greatest strengths is to realize that shadow boxing is useless. When I realize that I am caught up in an irrational thought pattern or feeling, I stop, surrender to God, and claim for myself the true freedom of who I am at this moment.

Control

(This blog post comes from Bill Christman.)

The priest raped me and I couldn't do anything about it. After that, unconsciously, I decided I wouldn't ever allow anyone to control me again. For example, my mom's new husband, a captain in the military, told my brother and me to use sir or ma'am when addressing them. That resulted in my negative responses such as swearing, yelling, or obvious indifference—whatever it took to stop it and give me control. Throughout my life, whenever I perceived being controlled in any way, I reacted angrily. Verbally at first, physically if that didn't work.

Many times it was my mistaken perception of what someone was doing or saying, such as a man's friendly gesture of touching me on the shoulder and saying hello. My fear of being controlled brought out my dark side.

Bill Christman is the author of Forgiving the Catholic Church: Finding Justice for the Abused and Abusers (WinePress Publishing, 2012).

Battling the Guilt Monster (Part 2 of 8)

(This blog post comes from Gary Roe.)

I know the abuse wasn't my fault. At least, I think it wasn’t. See, there I go again because I’ve been conditioned to feel guilty.

In the morning Guilt says, "Time to get going, you slouch. Yeah, you work hard, but you never seem to get it right, do you? If you were okay, things would go smoothly. Now get out and there and be perfect."

Guilt speaks throughout the day: "You failed again. You messed up here. You missed it there. If you would get it right, I would go away and you could enjoy peace."

At bedtime Guilt proclaims, "You’ve done it again, buddy. I hope you still feel me sitting on your shoulder, because I’m here. Better luck tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you."

Guilt was thrust upon me by my perpetrators. I couldn’t resist it at the time, but I can now. I can tell Guilt to take a hike. I can’t stop it from knocking, but I don’t have to let it unpack its lethal suitcase.

Guilt is a liar. I don’t have to believe him.