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I remember one specific incident in my childhood that set the stage for much that followed. At the age of about 5, my father accused me of stealing a nickel from my mother’s dresser. My punishment was to pack all my belongings, as meager as they were, into a box , then my father threw me out of the house and told me not to return. That single incident has been the backbone of my insecurity and anxiety throughout life. I am now 66 years old.
I always knew there was something “different” about me. I rationalized it as independence, strength, courage and smarts beyond my age. Looking back from today, I know it was fear, insensitivity and rage. When I say “insensitivity” I mean that I had no feelings. Even today it is hard to think about the fact that I have trouble feeling/accepting love, warmth, and affection. I look past beauty, kindness or generosity; they rarely crossed my path. I have, sadly, lived a life deep within myself, sharing only small snippets in those rare moments of letting my guards down. But the walls were never down long enough for permanent change to take place. In spite of a career many might envy, I had no self-esteem and no self-respect. My work was a place to hide.
It was not until I saw the expose’ of the abusive behavior of Fr. James Porter, that I understood the real source of my trauma. I had experienced horrific nightmares most of my life. I simply wrote it off as something everyone experienced. Then, while lying on a bed watching the news report on Porter and his arrest, the reality of my “nightmare” became crystal clear. That moment was the unfortunate first step on a path through hell. Until that moment, I had rationalized my problems with alcohol, relationships and trusting in a thousand different ways. Somehow, that instant became a defining moment for me. Through extensive counseling, I came to understand that I had been molested by at least six different men. The six included local priests, Boy Scout leader, family friends and strangers. When I wouldn’t perform, they simply called my mother and told her I was not being a “good boy”. She threatened to tell my father if I didn’t do what I was told, and the story of the 5 year old above did the rest. It was like I had a big sign on my head announcing my vulnerability. It could easily be many more predators, I just decided I could not take the pain of discovery any longer and I had to start recovering. Maybe some day I will feel a need to revisit the rest of that disgusting pit. The things I was forced to do, and that were done to me, were despicable beyond words. There are no decent people who want to hear my life story. Even today, if I dare tell it, it frequently changes the relationships negatively and forever. Every time A bit of success would come my way, I would shrink in horror, thinking they would find out or, worse, already knew. I was a victim in every sense of the word.
I don’t have words to describe the personal flaws and compensation mechanisms I have developed. There is no limit to the sadness I feel for all the time of my life that was lost in evil.
The strange part is that I wasn’t ever alone. I know now, that everyone in my family and my extended family knew-and did nothing. My parents knew-and did nothing. I should have suspected something when, in my early 50s I was having thyroid problems and my mother insisted over and over that I needed to be tested for AIDS. Maybe for a moment the guilt that was eating her from the inside was trying to do the right thing.
When I was 12, I experienced an additional event that further confused and complicated my life. On one bright summer afternoon, someone, I simply cannot see the face, held me down, while a close female friend raped me. The men had stolen my innocence and the woman had stolen the wonder and beauty of romantic love. From that moment on, relationships were about sex, not about feelings, love or romance. The partner was just someone to be cajoled and manipulated.
Since my discovery in the early nineties, I have been able to put many long hours and painful times into counseling. Over time the counseling has generated a lot of benefits. I have gone from a person with absolutely no boundaries to one who respects others and, most importantly himself. I have been able to build a few, not many, male friends and this has been a positive blessing in my life. I finally have opened my heart to art, fresh air and kind people.
Probably a support group for survivors of child sexual abuse has given me the greatest leap forward in healing. While I spoke openly about all my experiences, in detail, with counselors, I never really said any of it out loud outside the office. Through the support group, I finally discovered that I was certainly not alone. The stories have stunned me and the pain and suffering I hear and see are heart rending. Speaking out in that group has helped me to find my voice. I have a new sense of outrage and anger, as I see the epidemic of victims and the perpetrators pretty much getting off free. But that outrage and anger is now focused on a drive to take action and participate in programs that give children age appropriate training and that educate parents about the risks and ways to minimize those risks, without encasing their child in a bubble. I am committed to breaking the silence and showing others, struggling to break the silence and start a healing process, that there can be life and happiness, even after abuse. One of the most healing experiences of my life was sitting in that group for the first time with absolute strangers and saying simply “I am a survivor of child sexual abuse” followed by my story. It was cathartic, it was cleansing. The effect has not worn off. I thank God for that group and that moment.
I remember one specific incident in my childhood that set the stage for much that followed. At the age of about 5, my father accused me of stealing a nickel from my mother’s dresser. My punishment was to pack all my belongings, as meager as they were, into a box , then my father threw me out of the house and told me not to return. That single incident has been the backbone of my insecurity and anxiety throughout life. I am now 66 years old.
I always knew there was something “different” about me. I rationalized it as independence, strength, courage and smarts beyond my age. Looking back from today, I know it was fear, insensitivity and rage. When I say “insensitivity” I mean that I had no feelings. Even today it is hard to think about the fact that I have trouble feeling/accepting love, warmth, and affection. I look past beauty, kindness or generosity; they rarely crossed my path. I have, sadly, lived a life deep within myself, sharing only small snippets in those rare moments of letting my guards down. But the walls were never down long enough for permanent change to take place. In spite of a career many might envy, I had no self-esteem and no self-respect. My work was a place to hide.
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Stories of Hope
