Friendship (Part 2 of 2)

In reviewing my life, which I do occasionally, friendship has always been a large factor. What I didn't get was that I was the good friend. I pursued relationships, reached out to others, and they responded, but I don't think of them as my true friends, let alone best friends.

That's not to speak against them—but to face the fact that I wasn't able to accept others or open myself to them. When a significant piece of our lives remains hidden from us, as mine was, we don't know how to receive such relationships. Even more, we didn't know how to recognize such relationships.

I reached out for something I didn't have and didn't know how to receive. Maybe that's why I surrounded myself with people—and I did that a lot. One thing I did realize, even during my teens, was that when I had a serious crisis in my life, I had no one to tell or ask.

I lived with that paradox: I had many friends, but I had no true, deep friendship. When I was still in high school, I read Edgar Allan Poe's poem "Alone" and memorized the first lines.

They read this way:

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Why did that poem stay with me and touch me so deeply? I know the answer now. But it was an enigma then. And part of my tortured life was the secret I had told no one until I was 51 years old.

Like many other men, my sexual assault kept me isolated and unavailable.

These days I have a best friend and several good friends. I'm open to widening the circle.

Friendship (Part 1 of 2)

For the first years of my adult life, I considered friendship one of the greatest things in my life. I had friends—many of them—and spent time with them and enjoyed their company.

In 1978, however, after the third person said to me in less than a month, "You're my best friend," I didn't know how to process that information. The third person was the biggest shock because I hardly knew him. He was a member of our church, who was going through a serious career decision, and I spent time listening to him.

About that same time I met David, who became my best friend. Better, he became my first best friend. That's when I faced a startling reality: I had been "everybody's" best friend; I had no best friend.

I also realized that most of them knew things about me and saw me as open and transparent. I was—but only so far. Until I began to deal with my sexual molestation, I didn't know how to open the deeper part of myself.

I wasn't open to myself; how could I be open to others?

"Sometimes I Think I'm Crazy"

I've heard that statement from survivors several times, and I assume it's fairly common. They don't usually mean they think they're insane, but rather that their lives don't make sense. They're confused about values and behavior.

That doesn't make them crazy, even though it feels that way. They speak of conflicting emotions and often of not trusting their perceptions.

Why wouldn't we feel strange or odd? When we tried to tell the truth, we weren't believed. Or we were told we were wrong when we spoke up. I remember quite clearly that before the old man molested me, I said to my mother, "You like Mel more than you like me." Mel was two years younger.

"I love all of you the same," she said.

As young as I was, that statement didn't make sense to me, and I knew Mel was the favorite. Years later, my other siblings and I talked about Mel, and they all agreed he was the favorite.

Because I wasn't believed when I made a simple observation, why would I expect my parents to believe me on something like sexual assault?

We're not crazy; we're hurting or confused, but if we persist, life will make sense.

Grieving

Yes, we survivors need to grieve—grieve for our lost childhood, for our painful memories, for our exploitation. Years ago I read a proverb that went something like this: Those who hide their grief have no remedy for it.

In our healing journey, most of us go through a plethora of emotions, including anger and shame. And we can't neglect grief. By that I mean the anguish and heartache of our stolen childhoods. We need to mourn over the energy we expended trying to help ourselves out of something that wasn't our fault. It's all right to feel sad, miserable, or distressed.

We were victimized because we were young and defenseless. We wanted someone to care for us, to love us, and to accept us. What we received was none of those. And we suffered.

So grieve for that little boy. This may seem strange to some of you, but I've learned to talk to that little boy and say, "I'm here for you. I've suffered with you. We don't want to focus on what we might have been or what we've lost. Together we'll concentrate on what we're going to be."

Our revenge is to turn into happy, peaceful, and loving men.

Guilt

"I feel so guilty," George said.

When I asked him for specifics, he could only mumble, "I don't know . . . it's just this nagging feeling." Finally he said, "If only I had . . ." and he mentioned several things he wished he'd done.

"That kind of thinking is more common than you know." I stared right at him as I added, "You were a kid; you didn't understand and couldn't reason the way you do today. You've had more than thirty years to live with that pain. Don't punish that little boy for being vulnerable."

Apparently shocked by my response, tears filled his eyes. "I—I never thought of it that way. I've been tough on myself because I didn't tell or fight him off—"

"And he's still abusing you today, isn't he? As long as you focus on what you didn't do, he'll keep hurting you."

He nodded.

"George, each time you feel guilty, say these words aloud to yourself: 'I am not guilty. I was a child.'"

Why Is It So Hard?

About six months after I first dealt with my sexual assault, I made progress, but the process seemed to go on and on. "Why is it so hard?" I asked Steven Grubmann, a fellow survivor.

"The deeper the wound, the slower the healing." Those aren't Steve's exact words, but I knew what he meant. We were naïve, innocent kids and they turned our world upside down.

If the violation had been only somebody beating us up on the playground that probably wouldn't change our entire life. But sexual assault permeates every part of us.

The question makes me think of a situation I encounter professionally. I'm a ghostwriter-collaborator and have made my living at this craft for thirty years. Perhaps twenty times a year someone wants help in learning to write a book, and comes to me.

I hardly know how to answer except to point out that the art or craft of writing takes time—years—of hard work and serious commitment. One reason most would-be writers fail is because they stop trying. They often pout, "Nobody will take first-time writers." "No one cares." The excuses pile up, and I heard all of them when I first started. But I persevered and it paid off.

Perseverance. Persistence. It's not a one-month rehab course.

The wound is deep. The healing is slow, but the result is worth it.

Where Do We Find Safe People?

That's difficult to answer because we were kids who trusted the wrong individuals. Some of us have grown up distrustful and fearful of being vulnerable again.

For must of us, safe people are available. We're afraid to approach them and focus on all the harsh, judgmental things they will say to us. And that might happen.

To heal means to encounter risks. Look at the people in your circle at work or church or wherever you're with others. Then trust your instincts. That's the only way I know how to say it. We were violated and victimized as children, and we may be afraid. Despite that, don't we sense those who deserve our trust? Those who care? Whom we can trust?

I believe that opening up to others is an absolute in healing, and I also point out that the first steps are the most difficult and painful. You know the people who listen—really listen when you talk. You also know they don't spread gossip or speak ill of others. Trust them.