Overcoming Sexual Abuse » shame

Male Childhood Sexual Abuse: Suffering in Silence

Guest Contributions — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:27:36 +0000

by Gordon DeLand

I have been silenced, me and my trouble.

I first silenced myself in shame, not even knowing exactly why, but somehow… it was wrong, what had just happened. And I knew it. I looked for a friend but got something else. The trust I had put in him had been violated, shattered. I was pretty sure it was wrong, but there was no one to ask without shaming myself for “not knowing better” It was just a vague feeling then, but it needed a private answer and there was no one to ask. So I silenced The Question. Thus The Silence began.

Then my abuser said, “Don’t tell.” We both knew what had happened. But both of us—my abuser and I— had The Question. But it was a hard question, hard to figure out what the question really was, too hard to figure out the answer alone, and it was too shameful to ask anyone else about. So my abuser told me what he told himself: “Just shut up about this—tell no one.”

Finally, I felt so much shame and guilt that I finally did go ask. I asked someone in charge of me, asked The Question, or what I thought was the question: Was it okay doing that? But when I asked, they did not know the answer, and more than that, they were shocked at the very asking of The Question and the questions that The Question brought up. I was told to be silent. Or that I was wrong, it couldn’t have happened, could it? Or at very least, be very quiet about it now.

So, there! I knew I was right. What I had done was something bad! Now I knew. What a relief! Except that, now, I was bad. Asking the Question had proved that. And now it was my responsibility to maintain The Silence about the bad thing I had done. Telling would not help, I knew that now for sure. And telling more people now—any other people—would also be bad, just like my abuser said it would be. The abuser was right. I was wrong. And I was the bad one for trying to tell. Bad, stupid me. And The Silence got stronger.

But there was hope: I could be a good boy, a big boy, by keeping The Secret and The Silence.

And life went on. The abuse went on, too, although we didn’t call it that. We were friends. Nothing violent or hurtful. Just Special Friends. There were times in between abuse when I could forget and just be a good, big boy and do my duty to not tell. Then more abuse and again I was a good quiet, obedient boy for my abuser, even though I knew that, somehow, pretty sure, less sure, that this was bad. And The Silence grew again.

Then the day came that Someone Else found out about us and the abuse stopped. No more being good for my abuser even if it was wrong and even if I was bad for doing it. The Someone Else who found out made us stop. They told, but they didn’t keep telling because it was nasty, dirty and bad. And no one wanted to hear that. And soon everyone forgot about the whole thing. Everyone but me.

And two things happened. First, I didn’t get to be with my abuser anymore, and the sudden, complete separation from the only one I dared be close with made me think maybe this would happen to anybody I got close to. Second, there were some new rules. First New Rule: No getting close to anyone sexually. Maybe when I was older, or married, they said. But not now. So I figured, no friends allowed (what other way of being close was there?).

I was told boys don’t do that kind of stuff with boys. It was nasty, dirty and bad. So, Second New Rule, one I thought up all by myself: Since boys don’t do that, and since I did do that, I was not really a boy. Not a girl, for sure. But not a boy. BOYS don’t do what I did. So…I wasn’t sure what I was, but not a boy or girl. And whatever I was, I was nasty, dirty and bad.

Also, I was told boys don’t do that kind of stuff with boys. It was nasty, dirty and bad. So, Second New Rule, one I thought up all by myself: Since boys don’t do that, and since I did do that, I was not really a boy. Not a girl, for sure. But not a boy. Boys don’t do what I did. So…I wasn’t sure what I was, but not a boy or girl. And whatever I was, I was nasty, dirty and bad. And The Silence and the shame and guilt and confusion grew.

Steadily, slowly, they expanded as I got older and my own world expanded. My guilt and shame were always there for me, familiar, comfortable. And they and the confusion always expanded to fill whatever new experiences I had, experiences that made me grow up and out of childhood. Grow up into…what? Good question. Into what? Manhood? I knew I was different because I had not been a boy. So, now, how could I be a man? Not a girl, not a woman, for sure. But what, then? Very confusing. And no one to ask. So I kept silent. And The Question still remained.

And besides, I should be able to answer all these questions for myself by now, for god sake! I’m an adult! And who cares anyway? It was a long time ago. The other guy is dead now, even. Forget it. Shut up. Keep silent. Please.

“Please, please, please! Just SHUTUPaboutit! For god sake just shut up!” That’s what I kept telling myself.

But as an adult, the day came that someone found out about me. What I thought I had hidden so well, for so long, all came out.

It happened a little at a time at first and then more and more, faster and faster. This person kept finding out things about me. They found out that it was me who had been abused, not the other guy. They found out that it wasn’t something I asked for—it was plain, simple Male Childhood Sexual Abuse. And they found out that it wasn’t my fault, that I was a victim. And then they did the one thing they promised never to do: They told The Secret. They told on me. They told the worst possible person they could tell, too. They told ME.

Yes, the person who told, was the same person being told on. I told on me, to me. I quit lying to myself and told myself The Truth. I quit lying about the abuse, that it didn’t happen, that it didn’t matter, that it couldn’t have been me that it happened to, that it was all my fault, that I asked for it. I quit lying that I was the nasty, dirty bad not-boy who was responsible for it all.

And in the end, I listened to myself. And I believed.

Now that you’ve heard my experience and thoughts about this, I’d love to hear yours. Please comment below and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments so you can continue to partake in the discussion.

It has been only the last six years that Gordon DeLand has actively addressed the fact that he is, indeed, a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. In that time, one of his main passions has become writing about his journey of healing and helping others who are on that same journey. Gordon is a semi-retired “jack-of-all-trades” ranging from pastor to plumber and resides outside of Dallas, Texas.

The Secret About My Abuse I Was Too Ashamed To Tell

Guest Contributions — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 17:40:16 +0000

by Jennifer Stuck

When I first started opening up about my childhood sexual abuse, I felt like I was carrying a deep dark secret that made me different from other survivors. It was the part of my story I always skipped over when talking about my abuse—something I could barely admit to myself, let alone anyone else. It was the fact that my body responded to the sexual abuse I received as a young child.

When my abuse first began, he would perform oral sex on me (when I had no idea what that was or that it was wrong) and then he would tell me I had to do the same for him. Every time I didn’t want to do one of the disgusting things he requested, he reminded me that he had done the thing that felt good to me, so I had to return the favor.

I learned to hate myself and my body, and I blamed myself for the abuse. I thought I must have just been an over sexual kid and brought it on myself.

But in reality, I never asked to be sexually stimulated, or for the “responsibility” he placed on me of pleasuring him in return. The fact is, the human body is made to respond to sexual stimulation, and my body was designed just like adult —with one important difference. As a child, I was supposed to be allowed to go through a natural process of maturating and discovering sexuality on my own. Unfortunately, my abuser interfered with that process.

Thankfully, now I know that although they are rarely talked about, sexual stimulation and even orgasm are extremely common during rape and abuse, and it doesn’t mean that I wanted it or enjoyed it and it didn’t make my abuse any less traumatic. Through my healing, I’ve come to see how my abuser manipulated my body as a way to manipulate my mind and keep me submissive to his abuse.

Now as an adult I can clearly see that it wasn’t my fault that I was abused, or that my body responded to the abuse. And since opening up about my experience, I’ve found that I’m far from alone. I for one won’t stay silent anymore. I don’t have to be ashamed about my abuse and I won’t keep it secret ever again.

Does this resonate with you? Please join in by leaving your thoughts and feelings about this topic and don’t forget to subscribe to the comments.

Jennifer Stuck is whole-heartedly pursuing physical and emotional health and is determined to heal the wounds of her childhood sexual abuse. She loves to write, especially poetry. She is currently studying for a career in Physical Therapy. When she isn’t in school Jennifer is at home spending time with her two beautiful daughters.

Child-on-Child Sexual Abuse: It’s No Game

Guest Contributions — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 15:54:51 +0000

by Jennifer Stuck

Still to this day, anytime I hear the phrases “playing doctor” or “show-and-tell,” I feel a shiver run down my spine. Only recently have I realized that this is because my mother used those phrases to make light of my abuse from an older neighbor boy. She would even speak to other people casually about it right in front of me, like it was no big deal, saying things like, “I caught Jenny playing doctor with the neighbor boy again.”

I think using playful terms like those helped ease her own guilty conscience for not protecting me. If I was just “playing doctor” she could tell herself it was normal childhood exploring instead of seeing the reality that I was being sexually abused by an older child. When she said those things, it only added to the shame already felt about my abuse; it made me feel like I wanted to climb down inside myself to hide from the world so nobody could see how bad I was.

There are some instances where normal, healthy children may touch themselves innocently or may be curious about the anatomy of another child. However, what the neighbor boy did to me was so much more than normal childhood exploring. He taught me to perform sexual acts, forced me to do things with other children for him to watch, and degraded me in horrible ways. He even urinated on me as part of my abuse, like a dog marking its territory.

When a child acts out sexually on another child the way my abuser hurt me, that means he or she experienced some type of abuse themselves. That of course doesn’t make it okay for them to hurt and abuse another child, and it didn’t make it okay for my abuser to hurt me. The truth is, all abuse is damaging, and abuse from one child to another is just as damaging as abuse from an adult to a child.

When my mother failed to see the seriousness of the situation and called my abuse things like “playing doctor” or “show-and-tell”, then scolded me for allowing those things to be done to me, she put all the blame on me and none on the abuser. It made me feel like I had done something wrong. Instead of protecting me and keeping this older, more aggressive child out of our home, she told me not to LET it happen again. That was a responsibility I shouldn’t have had to carry at that young age, and it was something that kept me from reaching out for help for many years.

Those terms were also highly confusing to me. At the age my abuse began, I had no idea what sex was or that what was being done to me was wrong. All I knew was, parts of it made me feel really icky, parts of it felt good, and my abuser told me I would get in trouble if I told anyone. Then when my mother found me being abused and I DID get in trouble, and nothing happened to my abuser, that sent the message to me that my abuser’s lies were all true.

Had my family only understood how damaging child-on-child abuse is, maybe they would have stepped in. Maybe they would have kept my abuser away. Or maybe they just didn’t care enough to protect me. I’ll probably never know for sure. But one thing I do know is, now as an adult with children of my own, it’s extremely important for me to spread the word about how damaging child-on-child sexual abuse really is. It’s no game, and it’s nothing to be made light of.

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I Never Believed That I’m Beautiful

Guest Contributions — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 08:20:08 +0000

by Linda Pittman

People used to tell me I was pretty but I never believed it. I always felt like they had an ulterior motive. I thought they said those things so that they could use me or because they pitied me or were being kind. I was wary, suspicious, and distant.

I did not like to look at my body. I did not know how to pick clothes or hairstyles that would make me look good. No matter how I dressed or did my hair, it didn’t make much difference.

I was too skinny, too awkward, I did not measure up to the people I admired—the ones with self-confidence, the beautiful people, the ones who did not have a dirty, ugly secret like mine. I kept the real me hidden away from the world. If they knew the real me they would be so repulsed so I became a person I thought they wanted to see.

I realized a while back that my oldest daughter looks a lot like I did when I was younger. I put my daughter’s pictures and my pictures side-by-side to compare our looks at different ages. We almost look like twins. She is absolutely beautiful. Why is it that I can see her as beautiful, yet not see myself that way?

It is sad to realize that the way I pictured myself was so distorted by all the feelings of shame and self-loathing from childhood sexual abuse. I learned to sabotage myself just like the important people in my life had done to me. I believed I did not matter, that I was a placeholder in my family, the youngest child. The tagalong kid. The afterthought. The invisible one.

I built up my courage to explore other possibilities. I began to believe the messages of hope and acceptance that wiped away the shame and guilt. It wasn’t my fault; I am not dirty or shameful. I was a victim of horrible shameless people who never saw me. There were many people who manipulated and used me and fed me lies, for their own selfishness. I had accepted their view and I only saw what they saw in me. Even when I told my secret, people reacted with revulsion. I interpreted their revulsion, as I was repulsive.

But I was separate from what happened to me. The things they did to me were ugly and now I can see the ugliness came from them. I am a really beautiful person, inside and out. I am the beautiful person that my husband says I am and my children look up to and my friends cherish. I can look at me and know I am beautiful! Yippee!

Having experienced healing from sexual, physical and verbal abuse, Linda Pittman has found joy in encouraging others in their healing journey and tells people that it’s never too late to start. She’s been married to her husband for twenty-one years and has four adult children.

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My Healing Journey: Stumbling and Getting Back Up

Christina Enevoldsen — Sun, 12 Jun 2011 16:45:59 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

As the co-founder of an organization that deals with healing from abuse, I’m supposed to be very enthusiastic about healing. I’m the one who yells “Hooray!” for those small victories and I spur on the weary survivor.

Most of the time, I love that. I do it whole-heartedly. But what happens when I’m the weary survivor? What if I think that the healing process sucks and I just want to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head? What if I don’t want to hear another thing about sexual abuse or family betrayal or the effects of trauma or self care or anything that reminds me of such evil in the world or the constant struggle to overcome it?

That’s what happened recently. After experiencing the usual rough beginning that most survivors talk about, I’d been feeling really good for the past year or more. I’ve had an occasional minor bump, but I took it all in stride. I thought the healing path would be smooth for the rest of my journey.

I’ve lost my footing a time or two. I used to have a tendency to want to go faster than I was ready for. I was driven to “get normal” as quickly as possible. I was impatient to get to the next part of healing since I thought I was pathetic to be so messed up. It didn’t matter that I always thought that I’d feel better at the next “healing level” but never did. It was never good enough.

But I dealt with that. I’ve accepted that there are some things about me that might be a little “off”, but I SURVIVED years of living with a sexual predator at the most vulnerable time in my life—my childhood—and I was all by myself with my pain. I think being a little “off” in some areas is a normal response to what I experienced. Those aren’t character flaws or a signs of weakness. Actually, they’re a sign of a struggle—a struggle to survive another day. I picked up some “weird” ways of coping, but damn it, I’m alive to tell about it. And I’m not ashamed of my quirks; I’m proud that I was creative and resourceful and did whatever I had to in order to get through it. And I am getting through it.

I watched a movie about a man who was trapped in a crevice while hiking in a remote area. He had the choice of dying or cutting off his arm to free himself and he chose to live. Do I think he’s a freak for missing an arm? No, I admire his courage and ability to face that choice and do what was necessary to live. He’s a hero. So I can’t look at the one-armed man one way and myself another way. So now I know I’m strong.

But I do have weaknesses and that’s okay too. The abusive system that I grew up with and continued in for many years taught me that weakness meant death because only strong people are valuable and worthy of life. Only people who earn their way are deserving of love and approval. So I despised my weakness and my entire existence seemed dedicated to covering it up. That fear drove me to work and work and do and do and my healing was powered by that same fear of not performing well enough.

I’ve had a lot of people who have been very supportive of my healing journey. Even though they’ve never asked me “How much longer?”, I used to be afraid they were wondering that. I feared not recovering quickly enough to fit their schedule. They admired my determination and perseverance, but how long would that last? Would their admiration turn to disgust? I figured they’d grow tired of cheering me on and then reject me for being weak the same way the dysfunctional people had before.

But I’m not in that system anymore. I don’t let others determine my value since I know the truth about me now. I have the same worth as the most emotionally healthy person or someone who has never been touched by the things I have. I’m just as important if I’m weak or strong, sick or well. For those who disagree, they are deceived by the same abusive system of inequality that I used to be in and I don’t need their fickle support. But no matter how I’m treated, I’m important and valuable. I love myself—weak or strong. Those fears aren’t chasing me through my healing anymore.

So I’ve had my healing struggles. I’ve tripped a few times but nothing knocked me down.

That was until just recently. As I look back, I don’t even remember the issue or memory that triggered it. That’s funny considering all the fuss it caused. Whatever it was, it was painful—and with the pain came anger. I’ve been angry about all of this before. I’ve been angry that issues come up without my control and at inconvenient times (when else is there? When IS a convenient time? If I DID have total control over when something surfaces, I’d choose NEVER!!)

I’ve been angry about the injustice of the evil tentacles of abuse invading every part of my life without respect for any boundaries. The effects seem just as invasive as the abuse.

I thought I passed the most treacherous parts of this journey. I thought I should have “earned” an easier time. After my rough early life and abusive twenty one year marriage and how bravely I’d faced the healing process thus far, I thought I deserved to float on clouds for the rest of my life. I wanted to scream, “When will it be bleepity-bleep OVER?”

Even if I couldn’t be finished now, I wanted to know WHEN I would be finished. I felt desperate to know where I was on the healing map–some chart that said, “You are here” with a red arrow so I could see how far I’ve come and how far I still had to go.

I felt as though all of my progress meant nothing—that all my hard work only yielded temporary results. In my emotional state, I discounted any progress since it fell short of where I wanted to be or expected to be. I saw all I still had to face instead of how far I’d come.

So I cried and shouted and pouted for a few days. I complained to the people closest to me. I cried some more and then I examined what caused my breakdown.

I realized that I still thought of this healing journey as a temporary thing. I thought there would be a definitive end to dealing with the majority of my issues—like checking out of rehab. After that, I thought minor issues might pop up again periodically that would be easy to face. I told people that I considered recovery a life-long journey, but I didn’t really believe that like I thought I did. My expectations collided with my reality and I was devastated.

But now I’ve finally made peace with the journey. It’s not the healing process that I got angry about or angry with. I was actually angry that I was abused in the first place—that I was denied a happy, healthy childhood and my adult life is a fight to overcome the effects. My anger toward the healing is like anger toward a doctor trying to put me back together after a physical trauma.

I’ve faced many cycles of anger about my abuse and every time I go through that cycle again, I’m accepting on a deeper level that it DID happen, which helps me with my two choices: To give in to the effects or to keep overcoming. So I keep overcoming. And I get more and more of my life back all the time.

Where am I in this journey and how much longer is it? I don’t think that’s relevant to me anymore. I don’t think there is any way to know where I am in the healing process anymore than there is to know how long I’ll live. Healing is a lifetime commitment the same way all growth is so I’ll keep healing as long as I’m alive. I’m healthy and whole even if I’m still working on issues. I am excited to get up most mornings, I’m optimistic about my future, I’m surrounded by healthy people, and I’m good at taking care of myself. I love myself and I love my life. So it’s not the life I could have had if this never happened, but it’s a great life anyway.

Christina Enevoldsen is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Christina’s passions are writing and speaking about her own journey of healing from abuse and inspiring people toward wholeness. She and her husband live in Los Angeles and share three children and four grandchildren.

[read Christina's story here]

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Rebuilding My Boundaries After Abuse

Guest Contributions — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 20:23:19 +0000

by Linda Pittman

Throughout my healing journey from childhood sexual abuse, I have heard a lot about the need for “healthy boundaries”. How do I know if my boundaries are healthy? What are they and how do I measure mine? How do my boundaries compare with someone who has not been sexually abused? These were baffling ideas and questions.

As a child, I could not defend myself against abuse from a bigger and stronger adult. If I tried to defend myself, I was punished more or overpowered. So I learned to submit in hopes that it would be less painful. My physical boundaries were breached over and over. My submission was a coping mechanism to help me through each act of abuse. I learned to allow others to do what they wanted and began to believe that I had no rights over my body. My mental and spiritual boundaries were also breached because the shame of my abuser was transferred to me (I was bad) and I was not being “good” as defined by my church. Over and above my beliefs, I felt the bad inside of me. I had no say in those areas.

Even after I told about my abuse and I was no longer available to my abuser, I had no one to teach me that I had rights over my body— that it was okay to say no. As a consequence, I faced many sexual situations that I did not wish to participate in, but felt I had no choice but to do what the other person wanted. That response had been conditioned in me for many years and I knew no better. I felt even more guilt and shame since it seemed no one had forced me to do those things. I became pregnant when I was seventeen.

The first time my fiancée grabbed my arms and shoved me during an argument, my reaction was perfectly normal; I became angry and wanted to leave and never see him again. Good, right? Except that my mother let him in against my wishes because he brought me flowers and candy and seemed truly sorry. She could have helped me by saying that no physical force against me was acceptable. I trusted her judgment since she was my mother and I was sure that she would not steer me wrong.

Years later, I found out that she knew about my abuse and did not protect me or my siblings. Now, instead of standing up for me, she urged me to give him another chance. He got plenty of other chances during our fourteen and a half years marriage. When I ran out of chances to offer him, it was only to protect my children and not myself.

Why did I think my children deserved to be protected but I didn’t? I was constantly yelled at, belittled, bullied and punished for what I did and did not do. I was told I was worthless and that no one would want me. I was the sweet, compliant person who thought more highly of everyone else. My self worth could only be measured by his or her attention and compliments. If I received a compliment, I did not believe it; they were just being nice and I didn’t believe I deserved to be treated so nicely. They must have been saying those things out of pity or else they were nicer people than me. I avoided being close to anyone as I struggled to keep myself safe.

So where did the change take place and how did that come about for me? A few years, a lot of dysfunctional relationships and horrible choices later, I learned that it was “normal” for me to say yes to bad situations. As a child, I really didn’t have much choice. If I was corrected or manipulated into saying yes when I tried to say no, then I learned to ignore my comfort. If I took the abuser’s behavior into myself, I learned to say yes to controlling, abusive and unloving behavior. I also learned to feel guilty about saying no, so I was manipulated into saying yes. These were boundaries that were not formed correctly in me. Is it any wonder that others who came along were able to do the same to me?

I saw the goodness in me and how others had trampled over this goodness and treated me so badly when I had given them everything good—even better than I gave myself.

I got in touch with my anger at being abused and betrayed over and over. I realized that my abuse was not my fault, unlike what my abusers told me and led me to believe. In seeing one of my children victimized, I saw myself as a child for the first time. I also saw my abusive spouse for what he was and not with the excuses I made for him all the time. I saw the goodness in me and how others had trampled over this goodness and treated me so badly when I had given them everything good—even better than I gave myself. I saw myself deserving better and actually wanting better. I had worth and a good heart. Healthy people said the things that I had been feeling inside and helped me believe in me by validating my feelings, thoughts and values.

I had to start off setting boundaries timidly but I did start and a lot of the boundaries were set as a result of my feelings. I was able to see when someone was trying to manipulate me. My discomfort told me the truth. I learned to trust my “gut feelings” more and more. As I did these things, I was learning to set my personal boundaries.

I learned the signals that indicate a need to set my boundaries.

Did I feel discomfort or pain?
Did I continue to stay around others that made me feel uncomfortable?
Did I feel that by saying no I would disappoint someone?
Did I feel bad about saying no?
Did I say yes when I felt inside I wanted to say no?
Did I say yes to something that went against my true beliefs and feelings?
Did I say yes because I was afraid they would leave me/ reject me?

I learned that boundaries are not just physical such as “Do not get too close to me”. Boundaries are emotional such as, “I refuse to allow myself to be upset by you”. Boundaries are also spiritual or mental such as, “You can’t tell me how to think or what to say or believe”.

In an uncomfortable or painful situation, I learned to say, “No, I don’t like that and won’t tolerate that.” People are not mind-readers and I had to speak up. I left bad and uncomfortable situations. I learned to say what I wanted and if the answer was no, it was okay because that was what made me feel safe and comfortable. Even when others tried to talk me into a situation that I did not like, I said no and felt okay about it. In abusive or disrespectful behavior from another, I left if they did not stop when I said no. Each no got easier and easier.

People still try to cross my boundaries often, but it is my responsibility to keep them. My boundaries are necessary to my safety and peace of mind. Yeah, my feelings are important to me and DON’T try to talk me out of them. It is a learning process and I’ve still got a lot to learn about myself. But I am so much better at protecting me. And I’m worth it.

Related Posts:
The Fear of Being Re-victimized

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My Support System Is Led By Me

Guest Contributions — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 16:54:46 +0000

by Jennifer Stuck

It’s a natural human instinct to crave companionship. I will always need other people. It’s healthy to have people I can turn to when I’m having a hard time—friends I enjoy being around and having fun with. However, when the need for others outweighs my sense of self it becomes a problem. Nobody can be there for me all the time. Even the most dedicated friend can’t help with everything. I’m the only one who can be there anytime I need it, day or night, to comfort and entertain myself.

Unfortunately, my abusers wanted to make me dependant on them. If I needed them, they would have easy access to me and I would be less likely to speak out about the abuse. Also, at their core, all abusers are needy people. They came to us to fill their disgusting physical and emotional needs. Therefore, many of us learned to form unhealthy, needy relationships. To make matters worse, we often cling to the wrong people in our current relationships, which leads to further abuse and disappointment. The abuse taught us from an early age to accept love however it was offered.

The cycle that I noticed in my life was I used to find one person who I felt comfortable with and I would become extremely attached to that person. The problem was, I was being drawn to what I was familiar with—unhealthy, abusive people. I would put all my trust into them and inevitably get hurt.

In the past, the healthier a person was, the less comfortable I felt around them. I thought that there was no way a healthy person could love and accept me if unhealthy people didn’t. Because of my fear of rejection, the only people I would fully open up to were unhealthy people, which kept me from making trustworthy, supportive friends. I continued to cling to the wrong people and get hurt. It took me a long time to realize that it was a cycle created by my abuse.

Instead of coming to the conclusion that I had put trust in the wrong person, I believed that there was some terrible flaw about me that made me unlovable. There must be something about me that made it impossible for someone to love me once they really got to know me.

Ever sense I was four years old and my family found me being abused, when their normally loving faces turned cold, I thought that I had to hide what was happening to me. Even more than that, I thought I needed to hide who I was. I thought people only liked the fake me and the masks I put up, but not the real me underneath. It never occurred to me that I trusted in the wrong people and that there might be something wrong with them. I could only blame myself for not being good enough to be loved.

Not only was I clinging to the wrong people, I was making them my first and only support system, clinging to one unhealthy person at a time expecting them to fill all my emotional needs. By depending so much on other people I was setting myself up for disappointment. No one person could fill all of my needs, especially if I wasn’t filling my own first.

Now I’ve learned that I need a multi-person support system headed by myself. I am the first person I go to for comfort, I can make myself feel better, and I can have fun and laugh on my own. By depending on myself first, I eliminate the need to cling to unhealthy people. If I’m not desperate for love and support I can be choosier about who I invite into my life and I don’t need to look for love from unhealthy, abusive people. I can love myself.

Related Links: My Fear of Being Alone

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My Sexual Abuse Invaded My Marriage

Guest Contributions — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 16:38:27 +0000

by Linda Pittman

When I first met my husband, I was keeping a big secret—the story of my childhood sexual abuse. I couldn’t tell him until I felt safe and sure of his love—if that was possible. He is a good man, gentle, kind, intensely loyal and trustworthy. Sometimes it is still hard to believe that I have such a wonderful spouse.

My husband responded to my history with the expected concern but he really did not understand the impact that this secret would have on him:

• I would need constant reassurance of his love. No matter how many times he would declare it, I could never believe it.
• No matter how hard he worked at the relationship, I was too afraid to let the intimacy happen.
• There would be others who would share our bed, my former abusers and my wounded child in my adult body.
• This adult child inside of me would not know how to control my feelings or my body and sometimes not even be present in my body.
• He would not know what an unworthy, shameful and dirty person he really married. (This is how I really felt.)

I couldn’t let my husband know everything because he would probably reject me if he really knew the real me. I needed him and wanted him so badly. I couldn’t be dishonest; I just would leave out some stuff—it wouldn’t matter—it was in the past anyway.

My sexual abuse does matter and has had such a great impact on all my relationships—especially my marriage. I realized that my husband would not be able to stay with me unless I got help and worked on recovering—serious recovering.

My first husband was physically and mentally abusive, making the damage to me even worse. He needed to leave because he was not healthy for my children and me. As a victim of childhood sexual abuse, I had a tendency to choose abusive, manipulative and controlling partners since I had not experienced any healing from my childhood sexual abuse. During my first marriage, I could only acknowledge that the abuse had happened to me.

I had to learn to drop the fairytale “happily ever after” crap and realize that all marriages are hard work. As an abuse survivor my second marriage would be even harder work, but it could work. I owed it to myself, and my spouse, to do the healing work.

I was sexually promiscuous and aggressive while in our courtship as a way of hiding, but the business of real closeness presented itself to me now. I couldn’t continue using the excuse of what happened to me as a way to hide from a sexual relationship or emotional intimacy. I truly cared about my husband and I needed to be honest with him. My marriage needed this to survive.

I went to therapy for myself and involved my husband later, to help him understand the impact this had on me, and to teach him how to help me. I even found counselors who worked on a sliding scale basis.

I became aware of the lack of intimacy in our relationship because we had settled into an “all or nothing” way of relating to each other. We got together to have sex but we were not taking the time to talk, touch and just be close without sex. We did not talk about joint goals and how to get to them together. We did not have that deep intimacy that we needed to strengthen our relationship.

I began to feel resentful of this “all or nothing” thing and I realized one day that it felt just like the way my abuser treated me. My abuser never wanted to have anything to do with me unless it was sexual. What a wake up call that was to realize that my husband was nothing like my abuser but I was relating to him as if he was.

I knew that all my talking about my abuse was not enough. I needed help to learn how to relate to my husband and I had to learn how to change my perception of him. I went for individual therapy because I realized that the problem was mine, and that he could not fix the damage from the abuse—only I could do that.

I became aware that my husband was not able to know how I felt because I could not say or show how I was feeling. I wore a mask that had been in place for years to keep others away and to keep me safe. This mask made me feel less vulnerable. If I didn’t show others my true feelings, I couldn’t be hurt so easily.

The trouble was I also did not know my own true feelings. I had learned to “feel” the way others thought I should feel or what I thought was expected of me. My feelings had not mattered for so long. I had buried them so deeply that they were hidden from me as well. I could not let down the wall to trust him or myself.

I realized that to let down the wall between us and to trust him was to take a big risk. I learned all the head knowledge of my abuse not being my fault but I hadn’t accepted it nor had I learned to love and accept my body or me either.

My past taught me that I couldn’t trust anyone. My parents had betrayed me and so I couldn’t trust them. My first husband was abusive to me and had broken my trust again. I stayed behind that wall because I was afraid to trust my current husband fully. This inability to trust my husband would forever limit our relationship to a superficial level unless I dealt with it. The one thing I wanted was to be able to love and trust deeply, and I was the one who kept the wall up.

I went to group therapy for incest survivors, which helped me to go back into my childhood and to heal the child inside myself. I had to look at the ugly reality of what was done to me and how I had adapted to survive. There were memories that I had to look at that were terrible, but I was able to look at them as an adult. I was no longer that helpless child. I also had to get over the shame I felt and the shame of looking at my body.

At the end of the group therapy my husband was given the opportunity to learn about how the abuse had affected my relationships and me. He was able to tell me once again how much he loved me and if I would allow myself to trust him, he would work on giving me the things I needed from him. I had to commit myself to this agreement too.

I also learned that it was up to me to let him know what I needed and wanted and how to communicate by talking in feeling statements. I had to say things like, “I feel scared”; “I need you to just hold me”; “I do not like that”. I finally felt safe enough to trust him.

From time to time, we fell back into patterns where we were not practicing this communication of needs and I would have to stop and talk about my feelings. Sometimes life’s problems would cause us to focus more on them than on us. In the bedroom, I had to learn to tell my husband what I wanted and didn’t want without feeling guilty about my feelings or needs. I had to stop worrying about what he needed and wanted all the time and concentrate on my feelings. I had to do this slowly with little steps, as I felt comfortable to move forward. I learned to let him look at my body and feel safe.

We practiced lots of touching, talking and holding each other that was non-sexual. That was what I needed to build the intimacy in our relationship. I learned that intimacy is not just sexual, but involves the sharing of my whole self with another. This building of intimacy was a necessary thing for me in order to be able to fully trust him and to be more open in sexual intimacy.

I found that my husband really cared about what I wanted and needed. His love and caring was genuine, I just needed to believe it. When we were going to be sexual we had to talk about it beforehand, plan it, and anticipate it. We moved slowly at a pace I could be comfortable with. With each little risk I took, I became less and less fearful of being hurt. I learned that sex is a two-sided encounter, not just what he wanted but my wants also.

I had to learn to experience the thoughts of the abuse and my former abusive marriage and to not allow them to interfere with what was going on in the bedroom with my current husband. When those thoughts and feelings came, I needed to look around me and remember where I was and whom I was with. I gave myself permission to start over with my current husband, to learn a new and better way to be sexual, than what I had learned before.

If my husband had not been willing to be right there with me, I would have had to look carefully at the relationship like I did with my first husband to decide what was best for me. My marriage benefited so much; opening up the communication and my relationship and it gave me the best chance at a solid foundation of trust. There are only two people in our bedroom now, my spouse and me.

I found that to begin to heal my relationship with my husband, I had to start with me first. The most important thing I have learned is that as a survivor, I had to learn to know my feelings and myself. I had to accept myself and then begin to unravel all the false things I learned so that I could begin to heal.

It is hard work to get past all the ways I hid from myself and get rid the untruths I believed. Being honest with myself was the hardest of all because I spent years doing just the opposite. I found it is necessary to really have an identity apart from my abuse, it is there inside me and only persistence would help me find it.

Developing trust has been difficult but trust is mandatory for me in my relationships. I deserve to be happy, but it is up to me to choose happiness. Happiness comes from the inside of me and can come out when I feel safe, and can learn to trust. I have learned how to keep myself safe and to trust again. It is the most wonderful feeling in the world!

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Why Was I Abused?

Christina Enevoldsen — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 15:26:30 +0000

Christina Enevoldsen

by Christina Enevoldsen

Just a note: Sometimes I believe things because they are true; other times I believe things because an alternate truth would be painful. One of the indications that I’m invested in a particular belief as a coping method is that I defend that ‘truth’ as though my life is threatened. When I notice inordinately strong emotions about a point of view, I ask myself: “What purpose does this belief serve in my life?”; “Do I NEED to believe this?”; “What if it isn’t true?—then what does that imply?”’ “How did I come to believe this?”

My intention in writing this isn’t to convince anyone to come to the same conclusions I have. This issue isn’t just about this issue. I could have written this about many things stored in my belief system.

When I was about eight or nine years old, my mom told me that the bad things in my life were because I was meant to do great things. “Special” people had to go through special training. They had to endure hardships—more than “ordinary” people. They had to experience shame and degradation so they wouldn’t be puffed up in pride. They had to experience pain so they could learn compassion for others. They had to be broken so they could become stronger in those broken places.

It’s something she said on several occasions and it appealed to me. The abuse told me I was worthless, but my mom redefined it: The abuse wasn’t an indication that I was nothing; it was an indication that I was special. My mom had some kind of “higher wisdom” that provided a reason for my pain. I wasn’t suffering without cause; there was something noble about my abuse. I wasn’t a victim; I was a hero.

I learned from an early age to call it something else other than the violent and traumatic death of my innocence. My father also redefined my abuse. He told me that we were “having special time”. He said the abuse was love. I preferred his version since the alternative was that I was living with a monster and that my father abandoned me and his fatherly role.

I was terrified of abandonment—not only from my father, but from God. I thought the only possibilities were that God was either involved—and the abuse was meant as a good thing—or that he completely abandoned me. I preferred a God who passively or actively participated in abuse to one who abandoned me.

Believing those things when I was a powerless child helped me to cope so I could and would want to survive. But they weren’t the truth. The abuse gave me false messages about myself and to believe that my abuse was part of some bigger plan was to pile more lies on top of lies.

I wasn’t born to suffer just so others would be spared or comforted. My abuse wasn’t “worth it” just because I’m helping others now. The abuse devalued me, but I couldn’t earn my worth through being a savior to others. I had to deal with my shame instead of covering it with noble deeds.

I wasn’t selected by God or the universe to be abused. My abuse wasn’t about me; my abuser didn’t even see me as a person, but rather as an object. Masking my pain with grandiose ideas didn’t heal me. I was treated as though my existence didn’t matter except as an instrument of pleasure. I had to look at the ways the abuse told me that my existence didn’t matter and that I was only an insignificant object. Confronting those lies released me from the need to see myself as more important the “regular” people. I’m at peace knowing my true value instead of needing to have a “special” position.

My abuser wasn’t an innocent pawn in the universe’s hands. He had a choice. He wasn’t serving some divine purpose or serving me. He was a nasty self-serving pervert. I had to acknowledge and express the pain that my dad gave me attention to serve himself, even if it meant destroying his daughter. Believing that we are all just helpless participants in the hands of Fate prevented me from resisting more abuse. That belief robbed me of protective anger and of my boundaries. As long as I believed that it was all planned, I remained a powerless victim.

Even if I ended up being a strong, healthy, happy, compassionate person who helps people, my abuser gets no credit for that. The saying, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is a lie. The abuse didn’t make me stronger. The abuse left me in a weakened state and it was only because I’ve worked on my healing for years that I’m functioning now and in a position to offer hope to others. Good didn’t come out of the abuse; good came from the overcoming of it. I don’t know who I would have been if I’d never been abused, but I know how many of my resources have been spent rebuilding my own life and I wonder how much more productive I might have been if I hadn’t needed to do that.

Some people point to the work I do now and say, “See, without your abuse you wouldn’t be doing what you love so much.” But my life isn’t defined by the sexual abuse or any other type of abuse. I consider my purpose to inspire and encourage people to be who they were created to be so they can find fulfillment and discover their own unique place in the world. Healing from sexual abuse is necessary to do all those things. If I hadn’t been abused, I would still be doing something similar to what I’m doing now—helping people get to where they want to be.

I was born with the gifts that equip me to inspire and encourage others. My abuser didn’t give them to me. They are ME. They are part of my uniqueness. No experience—good or bad—can change who I am.

Why was I abused? Because people have a free will and some people make horrible choices. But knowing or not knowing the reason why doesn’t settle anything or change the past. I still have healing work to do and I’m determined to continue.

[read Christina's story here]

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Dating After Sexual Abuse: Is This Love?

Bethany Ruck — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 19:09:31 +0000

by Bethany Ruck

When my last boyfriend and I began dating, we would see each other once a week. The in between times were filled with hour-long telephone calls before bed, a lot of getting to know you time and even more of the sickening, “No, I miss you more” fluff. One night the conversation led to just the right place, where I could tell him about my childhood sexual abuse. I remember prefacing it with a warning that I had something very serious to say; then I told him. He didn’t seem to have much of a reaction, so I assumed that he didn’t feel comfortable asking questions. Okay, change of subject. I guess he didn’t want to talk about it, so I went about the rest of the phone call as normal. The topic of sexual abuse didn’t come up again until much later in the relationship.

A year down the road, when I decided that I wanted to report my father for sexually abusing me, I sat my boyfriend down and told him my intentions. Our relationship had turned significantly more serious by that time, so I wanted his support. Instead of support, I was met with an attack. “If I would have known you were sexually abused I never would have dated you.” he said. I was shocked! I never fathomed that he would react like that, especially since I specifically remember telling him about the sexual abuse a year prior. The relationship soon ended, but not without further hurt.

Looking back I walked into that relationship with blinders on. I so desperately wanted to be loved, that I was willing to deny the warning signs along the way in exchange for some cheap replacement for love. I thought I took the right precautions. I told my boyfriend about my abuse at an appropriate time, but my failure to recognize key warning signs in a relationship led me right back into abuse.

Someone I date has the potential to be a partner for life – one of the core members of my support system. It is imperative to my healing that this be someone who is qualified to date me. I’m not saying he has to have a Ph.D. But there are certain warning sings that should never be overlooked. The following are qualities I now look for in those I date.

Comfortable with Emotion
Crying is healthy. It’s an expression of emotions. Something yucky on the inside is trying to come out, so let it! My boyfriend did not see it this way. Instead of letting me cry he would yell at me, telling me to stop. We were living together at the time, so when I needed a good cry I never had a safe place to do it. I couldn’t express my emotions because he was always there. Finding a partner who is comfortable expressing their own emotion and hearing mine is a prerequisite for a healthy foundation.

Supportive of My Healing
Healing from sexual abuse is not a quick fix. It’s a long road with bumps, low visibility and a whole bunch of people trying to cut you off. Embarking on that journey without a healthy support system is impossible. With my last boyfriend, I wasn’t looking for someone to hold my hand through the healing process. I just wanted someone to say every once in a while, “You can do it! Great job. Keep going!” Instead of being my cheerleader, I got torn down for my efforts. He only saw how my past abuse affected him, instead of how beneficial healing was to both of us.

Isn’t Abusive
I know this sounds so obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s so often overlooked. I thought I knew how to recognize abusive behavior. All I had to look for was someone who didn’t molest children or didn’t give me that creepy feeling, right? WRONG! Perpetrators generally have patterns of abuse that span over several areas. In my case, my boyfriend used his words against me, manipulating and playing on my weaknesses. Every time the relationship turned south he would tell me that a few days prior he had been shopping for engagement rings, in hopes that I would see what a grand gesture of love he was trying to make. In one fight I remember being referred to as “damaged goods” because of the abuse I had no control over.

In the end, I didn’t get what I wanted out of this relationship. Instead of love, I got rejection. I firmly believe that love is an action, not some gushy feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when that special someone comes near. He told me all the things I wanted to hear, but his actions showed me that he was more concerned with himself than with loving me.

I wish I would have seen clearly going into that relationship, but I’m now better equipped to do so in the future.

Bethany Ruck is cofounder of Overcoming Sexual Abuse, an online resource for male and female abuse survivors looking for practical answers and tools for healing. Besides helping abuse survivors see the beauty within themselves, she enhances the beauty of others as a professional make-up artist and has worked in television, film and print.

[read Bethany's story here]

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