That Was Sexual Abuse?

To support his wife, Wayne Jamison attended a two-hour presentation I called "Healing4You." At the end of the evening, as I was packing up my books, Wayne came to me.

He leaned over and said softly, "I—I'd like to ask you something."

I stopped boxing my books. Haltingly, Wayne told me about an older cousin who "did things to him" when he was 12 years old. He described what took place, and added, "It happened maybe four or five times, but we outgrew that, and I forgot about them." He hesitated and asked, "Was that abuse?"

I stared at him, not sure how to answer and then I said, "It was and if you're now aware of it, it says you didn't forget."

He admitted that and went on to say, "I just thought it was things guys did until they were old enough to date girls. That's what my cousin said."

Sounds naïve, doesn't it? Yet I occasionally hear stories from men who didn't recognized that they had been sexually assaulted. The predator made it seem like something natural—as the cousin did to Wayne. As one man said, "It felt normal because my dad came into my room at least once a week. He told me he loved more than he loved my mother and my sister."

Normal. That's just one of the ways we don't face our sexual assault as children. Or perhaps we think that if we could convince ourselves that it was normal, it wasn't really abuse.

On some level we know. And we don't forget.

Trusting My Guts

For 30 years I've earned a living as a fulltime collaborator or ghostwriter. Only a decade ago I realized why I've been successful at this. Editors tell me I have the ability to get inside others' heads and hearts. Clients trust me. I don't know what I do to engender their faith in me, but that's true.

Here's an example. A few years ago I did a retreat for 15 men. After our first session, Kurt said to me, "You've earned our trust remarkably fast."

That was the first time I'd thought about it. But since then, I see it as my divine gift that developed as a result of my abusive childhood. As a young kid, I learned to sense when my dad was working up toward beating me—usually a day before he erupted. The best I can remember about the old man who sexually assaulted me (and he rented a room from us), is that he became especially friendly and smiled more before he invited me into his room.

I can't attempt to explain how that transfers to adult behavior, but I know it does because I've learned to trust my guts. On two different occasions, I sensed I couldn't work with the people who hired me. But I went ahead anyway, because I couldn't explain the reason to myself for the hesitation. Both efforts bombed.

As survivors, many of us survive and mature because we're willing to trust our instincts. We don't wait for proof or reasons. It's enough to trust our gut instincts.

It's Not Fair

While a member of a recovery group sponsored by the State of Georgia, one man cried out during the second meeting, "It's not fair!" He went on to compare himself with his older and younger brothers who, seemingly, were not molested and had no serious problems.

After allowing him to rant for several minutes, the therapist said, "You're right. It's not fair, but it is real."

Dean, the quietest man in the group, pulled up his left pants leg and showed his prosthesis from just below the knee. "And this isn't fair either. It's not fair that I'm alive and my dad died in the accident."

We were stunned and hardly knew how to respond but Dean added, "You can groan all you want about the unfairness, but nothing will change. If you're willing to grow up, you'll accept the reality and ask, 'Now how do I live the rest of my life'?"

I can't remember how the exchange went after that, except the it's-not-fair complainer yelled and groaned. He never came back to the group, and was our first dropout.

Maybe the poor man couldn't face the reality of his situation. Storming against the unfairness of life does no good. If anything, it makes it worse because we can't accept life as it is.

It took me a long time, but I finally began to say, "What is is what is." That's my shorthand way of saying, "That's the situation and I can't change it. But now I can make decisions on what to do next."

The Need to Trust

A few days ago I received an email from a man who was hesitant to post, afraid that I might share his information. I understand his concern and lack of trust. I could reply only that I never share anything confidential. I also informed him that he could post as anonymous.

Below is part of his response to me. I'd appreciate any of you responding to him on this blog. His final paragraph touched me deeply—and I'm sure some of you can still remember when you took the risk of speaking up.

I'm a young man carrying many scars from my childhood and they affect me more than I would like on a daily basis. Some days are good and some days I wish what happened to me never did. It feels unfair at times that I never asked for this but it happened and now I have to deal with it. I have been through some healing but it seems like there is so much to be dealt with. No one seems to truly understand what I experience and I often feel lonely as a result of it.

I've read many of the posts on your blog and I can relate to some of the men that have been courageous to share their stories, including yourself. I hope to share mine as well. 

My name is Alan and you can use this on your blog as a post if you desire. I guess it would be a start.

Going It Alone

The great American tradition is to honor and applaud those who go it alone—the Clint-Eastwood-John-Wayne heroic types. They didn't need anyone and were able to do it all by themselves.

Really?

Maybe in books and films it works that way, but I don't know anyone like that who's truly happy. I believe God created us for companionship (and it doesn't have to be romantic). In recent years, a number of films have been labeled bromedy—where two men join together for a common goal.

I'll tell you why I haven't wanted to go it alone. I need people and have always been aware of that. I'm a highly emotional person and my late wife was my anchor. So many times I was ready to move on in various phases of my life, but she was the calm one. She didn't argue or yell, but she helped me realize I was making an emotional decision and not a careful or reasoned one.

More than anything else, Shirley taught me that I didn't have to take the lonesome road by myself. Until her death, she was always there to hold my hand.

I no longer have her, but I have friends I can call or visit. I don't have to take that road marked Alone.

Sideways Anger

Most of us struggle with anger on some level.

Anger that 

* we were molested; 

* no one stepped in to save us; 

* no one believed us;

* no one loved us.

Despite the obvious reasons for being irate, some of us don't even know we're incensed. Or I can speak for myself. I had no awareness that I was an angry person. Sometimes the ire popped out—temporarily—but I made no connection that I was an infuriated individual.

If we're angry, it will come out—directly or indirectly. A good way to look at our anger level is to eavesdrop on our own conversation. What do we say about other people? Do we blame the government? Others at work? Those expressions are what I call the sideways anger.

They flow out in unexpected and unrecognized forms such as sarcasm, criticism, speaking our piece, or "just being frank."

About a year after I started my healing journey, I finally admitted my anger. Part of acknowledgment was because I lived among conservative Christians who mistakenly thought it was sinful to be angry. And I believe they were wrong. The apostle Paul wrote, "In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you're still angry" (Ephesians 4:26 TNIV).

Merely to acknowledge my outrage was a release. I had held it inside for a long time, feeling that if I let go I might kill someone. When I confessed that to my best friend, David, he said, "You're more than 50 years old and you haven't killed anyone yet." That was a marvelous release for me.

Sometimes I need to be angry, but I also need to know what I'm disturbed about.

Why Then?

Why did I suddenly open up about my sexual assault at age 51? (And I've since learned that many men don't deal with their rapes until they're in their late 30s to early 50s.) I fit that pattern.

Perhaps it's because we reach a level of maturity that we no longer have to be afraid; maybe we're tired of being tortured with flashbacks and recurring dreams.

Early in my healing journey, I heard others speak about feeling safe. That's probably the best answer for me: I felt safe enough to open up to my wife and my best friend. Because they were safe—and expressed their loving support—that gave me the courage to speak out to others.

No matter when we open up and no matter how painful, it seems to be because of one of two reasons: We feel safe or we can't take the pain any longer. Or perhaps it's a combination.

And those of us who have taken the step of telling others are the ones who truly find acceptance, understanding, and love.