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

“Some victimized children later initiate sexual abuse,” an article said, “so they can predict when it’s coming.” Those words from a well-known psychologist shocked me.

Some of us may have initiated abuse—after we became victimized. I question the reason was because we’d know what was coming. For me, I see it as habitual, learned behavior. We weren’t mature enough to know the difference between our need for love and the perp’s lust.

We help ourselves by remembering and focusing on our youth and innocence. Someone older groomed us and exploited us. Even if we sensed there was something wrong with what was happening, we had been carefully chosen and were easily convinced of the other’s love for us.

The analogy that comes to mind was my aversion to many vegetables when I was first married. My wife got me to eat a few Brussels sprouts. I didn’t like them. Over a period of weeks, she put one or two on my plate. Over time, I learned to enjoy them as well as cauliflower and other members of the cabbage family. Now they’re among my favorites.

Because we felt wanted and loved in our loneliness, why wouldn’t we sometimes initiate the abuse?

§ 

I started this series by asking if sexual harassment was different for men. My answer: The emotional results are much the same—lack of trust, doubting our self-work, afraid to speak, and the list goes on.

Perhaps we can form our own #MeToo movement to encourage more victimized males to speak up.

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 8 of 9)

“It was my fault.”

That’s one of the most insidious lies of all. Too many of us believed we did something to arouse our perpetrators. Many women live with guilt over that same issue.

Years ago, I was part of a weekly group of adult males who had been sexually assaulted. In one of our early meetings, Al said, “If I hadn’t been so good looking, he wouldn’t have molested me.”

“No! That’s not true,” George yelled out. “He wasn’t looking at your face when he came on to you. You could have been the ugliest kid in town, and he would have done the same thing.”

Hank turned to Al. “I’ll bet your perp said that you were so handsome or cute he couldn’t resist you. Didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like the bungling bank robber declaring, ‘The money was there, or I wouldn’t have tried to take it.’ That’s an example of the guilty blaming the innocent.”

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men (Part 7 of 9)

Another argument used to silence women who claim to have been sexually harassed is, “She didn’t fight back.”

Yet when people are robbed or mugged, no one asks them, “Why didn’t you resist?” That argument assumes that any person who didn’t want to be fondled would struggle and try to overcome the advances. I smile (ruefully) when I read such arguments. Occasionally, I’ve heard male survivors blame themselves.

“If I were a real man, I wouldn’t have let it happen.” Or they say, “I must have wanted it,” and then blame themselves for the sexual assault. As with women, we were physically overpowered by someone bigger and stronger when we were boys. Most of those women who kept silent did it out of fear—fear of losing their jobs, fear of being laughed at, fear of not being believed.

With us, it means that, as adult males, we look back and assume our younger selves to have been strong enough to fight. What could we have done? Cried out? Screamed? Kicked? Perhaps, but there’s something else with us. Our perps targeted us. They knew we were vulnerable. They waited until they had won our trust.

We were the ignored, unloved, unwanted boys. All anyone had to do was show us love and affection. We were too immature to reason out that they were only satisfying themselves and not truly caring for us.

Research used to refer to the fight-or-flight response to danger. A better way to put it today is to refer to fight, flight, or freeze. Victims become paralyzed as their body's protective response. Too often we punish ourselves, believing we know how we should have reacted.

Instead, we need to be kind and loving to ourselves. We did the best we knew how.

And we survived.

Did you blame yourself for not fighting back?

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 5 of 9)

Here is one of the irrational arguments used about women who are now speaking up after years of silence: “She didn’t come forward immediately.”

Isn’t this also typical of us male survivors of sexual assault? We were kids. Perhaps it didn’t occur to us to tell anyone. I wouldn’t have known whom to tell. I didn’t think anyone cared enough. In fact, if I had been shown the love and attention I needed, I probably wouldn’t have been victimized. My perps chose me because I was lonely, felt unloved, and craved attention.

This argument about not speaking up immediately after the incident is just another backhanded way at blaming the victim rather than the perpetrator. Instead of authority figures accepting the information and investigating, they slam the door in the face of the already hurting survivor.

One of my male survivor friends said, “It’s like being abused twice—first by the perp and then by those who should be able to help but don’t.”

Have you felt blamed for the abuse?

Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 4 of 9)

One of the charges leveled against the women who claimed to be groped or raped is that they stayed friendly with their abuser. Their critics can’t seem to realize that those victims were afraid of losing their jobs or not being believed. They wanted to put the trauma behind them, so they played the role of being friendly.

And they silently suffered.

Many of us know that feeling well, but our reasons for silence may be different. Although I knew it was wrong when an older man groomed me and assaulted me, I felt a deep love for him. As strange as that may seem to my adult self, I truly thought he loved me. No one else listened to me or seemed to care about my feelings. Even though it was deception on his part, it was real to me.

Recently, I spoke with a man in his sixties who was assaulted in his early teens and stayed in a relationship with an older man until he was 20 years old. “I thought he loved me,” the survivor said, “until he said I was too old for him.”

Did any of you stay friendly or loving toward your perpetrator?

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?

"I Could Never . . ." (Part 7 of 7)

All of us have harmed others, and we’ll do it again. We probably find it easier to forgive ourselves for those simple, thoughtless deeds. We tell ourselves, “I was having a bad day.” Or, “I received a bill for a huge amount and couldn’t find the cash to pay it.” Or, “Our son got in trouble with the police last night.” Our self-excusing goes on endlessly. We provide the rationale behind our foolish actions.

That’s not to equate what was done to us as minor. Our tendency is to condemn our abusers by focusing on the horror of what they did to us. “I would never . . . ,” we say. Or, “I could never . . .”

I think of a Bible verse I memorized many years ago: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9).

We’ve all made mistakes and harmed others; we will again. We may rightly call them minor, but it’s only a matter of degree.

We find it easier to practice forgiveness when we can imagine that the roles could have been reversed. Each of us could have been the perpetrator rather than the victim. Each of us has the capacity to commit the wrongs that were done to us. Although I might say, “I would never . . . ,” genuine humility answers, “I hope that, given the same circumstances, I wouldn’t . . .”

But can we ever really know? “Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12).

Because I’ve learned to forgive the simple things I’ve done to others, 

I can learn to forgive the serious things others did to me.

Forgiving Unconditionally (Part 6 of 7)

Forgiving unconditionally is different from forgiving with conditions. True forgiveness is a grace—a gift not deserved.

Forgiveness on our part frees the perpetrator who inflicted the pain. That’s where some falter, unable to let go. I understand that, but by letting them go, we also give up all claims to waiting for them to change or to confess they’ve hurt us.

By the simple act of wiping away their evil deeds from our hearts, we also free ourselves. We no longer feel a gnawing ache when the other person is mentioned. The tension leaves our body. It becomes like an old toothache—we may remember the experience, but we’re free from the agony.

I’ve learned that I need to have experienced undeserved pardon before I can pass it on. For me, as a Christian, that’s at the core of my faith. I didn’t deserve divine forgiveness, but I joyfully accept it.

Only as I understand unconditional forgiveness for myself 

am I able to offer it to someone else.

It's Not Up to Them (Part 5 of 7)

“When he admits what he’s done, then I’ll forgive.”

“I’m willing to forgive him for molesting me, after he admits what he did to me.”

We’ve all heard people say those words. What they can’t seem to accept is that forgiveness isn’t dependent on actions of others.

Of course, it’s easier to forgive when the perpetrator expresses remorse. Then we can feel as if we’ve been paid back in some way.

For many, forgiveness is the understanding that we offer to someone—a gift—but it has strings attached. The if-you-will condition is implied.

By adding conditions, they become the chains that bind us to the person who harmed us. We may set the conditions for granting forgiveness, but the person who harmed us decides whether the conditions are too costly.

If we wait for those who harmed us to repent, 

we may never be healed.

Self-interest of Forgiving (Part 3 of 7)

Not long ago, I read research about the results of forgiving. In report after report, statistics pointed out that those who forgive had fewer health and mental issues, physical problems, and felt less stress.

If we think of forgiving our perpetrators as doing something for ourselves—to promote our healing—we’re on the right path.

This solidifies the idea that forgiving is a loving act of compassion for me—a benefit for myself.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? So why is it difficult for some?

Because I care about myself, 

I release my anger toward my perpetrator.

Hurting Back (Part 2 of 7)

As I continue to learn about forgiving, I’m able to say that people who hurt often hurt others. That may not be obvious to us who were molested. Perhaps not every perp was first victimized, but something caused deep pain or need in their lives, and finding temporary sexual satisfaction was their form of self-medication.

Even knowing that, for some of us it’s still hard to forgive. The anguish is too deep. The traumas of our childhood remain stuck in our memories.

Hurting back doesn’t satisfy. We may think it will, but it doesn’t. If I sock you after you struck me, it doesn’t lessen the sting I felt. Nor does it diminish my sadness that you hit me. At best, retaliation gives a momentary respite from pain. The only way to experience healing and peace is to release the pain—that is, to forgive.

Until we can forgive, we’re in a prison, padlocked in our heartache and locked out of the possibility of experiencing healing and freedom. In short, we’re unable to experience peace because we’re still bolted to the past.

Someone wisely said, “Without forgiveness, we remain tethered to the person who harmed us. We’re bound by chains of bitterness and vengeance. Until we can forgive the one who harmed us, we’re unable to grab hold the key that frees us from our prison. Our perpetrators are still inflicting agony and despair. That person is our jailer.”

When we forgive, we take control of our lives and feelings. We become our own liberators.

Above all, we don’t forgive to help our perpetrators. We forgive for ourselves. Forgiveness is the best form of self-interest.

The best way to win over our oppressor is to forgive him 

and not allow him to continue the torment.

Deserving Forgiveness (Part 1 of 7)

“He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven,” my friend Neal said years ago. He added, “For a long time, I held in the anger and unforgiveness toward the perp who stole my innocence.”

My friend hadn’t been very open, but I remember saying one sentence: “There’s no one who can’t be forgiven.”

Nearly five years later, Neal and I were talking about his abuse. He reminded me of the words I had spoken. “You’re right. It’s more than just forgiving him, but it also means I can move on from my pain.”

Although glad for where he was, I wish I had also said, “When you’re ready to forgive or to release the hurt, you’ll see it differently.”

He smiled and nodded. “I felt that by not forgiving I was withholding something from him—giving him pain for his evil deeds. Perhaps that seems incredulous, but I wanted him to suffer.”

It’s sad, but that’s the confused reasoning of many. We want them to hurt; we want them to feel the agony they caused us.

Life just doesn’t work that way. We forgive for our own sake. As long as we hold on to the hurt they caused, healing doesn’t take place.

I need to forgive those who hurt me, 

and when I’ve hurt enough, I will.

Contemplating My Father (Part 2 of 2)

(This post comes from Roger Mann.)

I swore to myself repeatedly that I wouldn't allow myself to become my father. I've managed fairly well, but sadly, there are exceptions, and that brings me many regrets.

I've imitated my father's work ethic, his charm and charisma, his wit, and his intelligence. Still, I also have the imparted weaknesses. Is it generational? Have the sins of the father actually been passed down to me by decree or by nurture? IDK.

What I do know is that, like him, I’m manipulative, competitive, secretive, lustful, angry, and by my own actions, a loner and lonely. I've done all the things he did with few exceptions and many more he probably wished he had done. And yet, I have no STDs, I'm in good health for my age and look and act at least ten years younger than I am.

I've been wishing my life was over and I could rest. But that's not to be. I must still be needed here for something, and I'm happy to stay a while longer.

If my father’s actually in heaven, as I suspect he is, I don't look forward to seeing him. I think it's because I understand him a lot more now than I ever did. A lot more than I ever wanted to.

Rape

I recently read a powerful novel called Beartown, by Fredrick Backman, translated from the Swedish. Maya, age 15, is raped by Kevin, age 17. At the end of the chapter, the author writes this powerful statement: “For the perpetrator, rape lasts just a matter of minutes. For the victim, it never stops.”[1]

What does that mean for us—the survivors of sexual assault? First, as I’ve pointed out previously, we were raped. That’s a strong word, but we were molested before we were able to make our own choices. Chosen. Groomed. That’s also the reason I often used the term sexual assault.

Second, those words state the situation well. For perpetrators, it’s another conquest. I assume they feel satisfaction afterward; I hope they also feel guilt and shame. Regardless, they have the ability to push away such emotions and move on to the next victimization. To them, each of us was just another means to a temporary satisfaction.

But what about us—the victims? As Backman says, “it never stops.” Call it PTSD flashbacks or recurring memory. For us it never stops. At least not for a long, long time.

For Backman, the end seems hopeless. For some, that’s exactly what it is. But to those of us who are able to face our rape, pain, and humiliation, our stories can end in triumph.

For us, it’s not too late to have a happy ending. 

[1] Beartown by Fredrick Backman (Atria books, 2016), page 177.

Scott's Story

I recently received this poignant email from Scott (which I’ve edited with his approval). He wrote an additional 500 words, and the pain was so obvious. I was especially touched when I read that he wasn’t believed. Many of us know that experience. (Cec)

* * * * *

I reached puberty at age 16. I was put on growth hormones at age 15, as I had not started growing.

Around that time, a teacher fondled me at least once. He was reported by other parents for doing the same to their sons and dismissed from the school. I remember feeling sorry for him as I didn't realize he had done anything wrong.

The serious abuse started when I was 14 or 15. A friend, only 6 months older, began to abuse me. That situation continued for 5 years until I was 19.

All that is mild, and I could live with it. Now comes the bombshell: I became a perpetrator, and I’ve never truly forgiven myself. I had a sexual experience with a 7- or 8-year-old boy. I was 16.

Then on a Tuesday—a day I’ll never forget—the boy’s mother knocked on our apartment door. My life forever changed on that day. I confessed and had to go to the police. I was lucky because the case was dropped by the judge.

I had stopped by then, although I’m pretty sure I would not have done it again even if I had not got caught.

I explained to my parents and the psychologist that I did it because it had been done to me. They didn’t believe me because the person who had done it to me was not much older than I was.

I accepted that, and never understood why I had committed that most awful sin. Eleven years later, I realized I was re-enacting what happened to me when another psychologist suggested it— as a reason, and not as an excuse.

Maybe that’s why I let the abuse to me go on—as self-punishment.

A Story and Guidelines

First, I’ll tell you a story.

For more than 30 years, I’ve made my living as a professional writer (primarily a ghostwriter). Back in 2010, male survivors contacted me after I spoke at conferences. By then, each time I made oblique references to my abusive childhood.

Almost every time I spoke, some man would come to me afterward and say sheepishly, “I’m—uh, one of those—uh, men.”

Often, I was the first person he had ever told. I felt those men gave me a precious part of their trust and I didn’t want to violate it. And, as many of you know, trust is hard for us.

Second, those experiences made me sense the need for a blog—a safe place for hurting and healing men. That’s why I started MenShatteringtheSilence. The blog is to offer insight and encouragement for sharing our lives with each other.

This isn’t a chat room or a typical sharing group. Please don’t send personal messages to other blog readers. I want the entries to be of a general nature and focus on healing and growth.

Third, I’m a serious Christian, and several blog readers don’t embrace the same faith. I don’t want them turned away because of the posts. That’s not to ignore God in our lives, but to ask you, the readers and commenters, to be sensitive to them.

Some of you experienced sexual assault by those individuals who were supposed to represent God—pastors, Sunday school teachers, youth ministers. I want this blog to be the kind where any hurting man can find healing for his soul.

Fourth, if any of you want to talk to me personally, you may email me at cec.murp@comcast.net. If you want to make direct contact with someone on the blog who gives his name, I’ll send your request to that person and leave it up to him whether to respond.

Finally, thank you for reading this blog. I’ve been on the healing path a long time. I’m still learning and growing when I read your comments.

"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!

“I Was an Object”

Even as an adult, I looked back on old Mr. Lee (my second perpetrator) as a grandfatherly figure. (All my grandparents were dead by the time I was five years old.) I even dedicated one of my early books to his memory.

He didn’t love me. To him, I was an object. I was there, and he used my body (and my soul) for his powerful lusts.

For me to say I was only a thing was tough for me. I thought I was special (often he said I was). They were lies.

When I told a friend how hard it was to use that word, he suggested I think of myself as a commodity. He used the word to mean an article of trade.

He said, “You were like something he bought by carefully grooming you. It wasn’t because you were special; it was because you were vulnerable and available.”

I hated to hear those words, but they were correct. They helped set me free.

I was a useful object to him;

I am a lovable human being to God.

“It Could Have Been Worse”

That statement, “It could have been worse,” angered me. I heard it only once from a relative. Even though she probably didn’t mean it that way, the words were dismissive and minimized the damage the abuse had done. I said nothing.

If I were to hear it today, I’d like to say, “And how much more would it have taken for you to consider it worse?” I’d explain the emotional damage the molestation caused me throughout my life. What did she think would have been worse? If my perp had killed me? Made me a sex slave? (I wouldn’t say it, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to.)

Most likely I sound defensive here, and she thought her words were encouraging me.

Because of the abusive behavior of others, my childhood was miserable and one time I was suicidal. I felt worthless, unloved, and wanted. I could add other symptoms, but the question remains: how much worse did it need to have been?

I heard the statement again recently from a man who was trying to share his pain in a small-group setting. And the leader, shockingly, spoke those words.

After the meeting, the survivor asked me, “Should I go back to that group?”

He has to answer that for himself, but if the leader was as insensitive as the words appear in writing, I wouldn’t go back.

None of us survivors need patronizing words that diminish our pain or make us feel as if we’re self-pitying.

Our abuse was bad enough to make us struggle with it all through the rest of our lives.

Isn’t that bad enough?

“You’re Not Alone” (Part 1 of 2)

I read those words often: “You’re not alone.” Sometimes I find them comforting because it implies that the speaker/writer is reaching out for us. And knowing that we’re not alone can be immensely helpful on our journey.

And yet we are alone—a reality we have to face.

We must do the inner work ourselves; we have to feel the pain, the doubts, and the self-accusations. No one in the world knows exactly what we go through.

We are alone because the battle is within—a place others can’t go.

Think of it this way. We were victimized in isolation. Our perpetrators sought us out, groomed us, separated us from others, and then molested us. Healing means going back into the place of segregation from others. Our problems started there; our victories arise from there.

This isn’t to rule out the help of others—and we do need others. But the battle is ours alone.

We are alone because the battle is within.