2 days after my last blog entry, October 31 2012, I attempted suicide by combining alcohol, large amounts of candy, straight up granulated as well brown sugar (I'm diabetic) and an overdose of prescription drugs. It didn't work. Obviously.
A few days later I was in another psych ward. 4th time in 1-1/2 years.
Since then, I've pretty much leveled out with regards to my mental/behavioral health issues. A combination of medication (which took quite awhile to get the "right cocktail"), therapy, getting back involved in a local church, local ministries including Christian 12 Step Celebrate Recovery... and I'm closer to functional, maybe even employable soon. Hopefully.
I still get set off by triggers; but I'm learning to recognize and avoid them. Looking back, I can see how some of my habits have changed allowing for much more healthy coping mechanisms than I was previously relying upon.
It ain't over yet; but it's better.
I want to reach out to my mother one last time. She's almost 84. I don't think I'll ever to be able to go back home, now that I've publicly outed my abusers. Not even for my Mom's funeral. Especially not for my Mom's funeral. I really don't want to see "them" and I'm sure they don't want to see me. So I plan to send a letter to my Mom with pictures of my kids and me and my wife, and that will probably be it. All done. Over. Another example of how childhood sexual abuse has damaged my life, my relationships.
As I just wrote, it's better; but it ain't over yet.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Monday, October 29, 2012
Darkness
My mind is dark tonight
I'm angry
Do I have a right?
I'm alone
What else is new
No power
No power to change my past
No power to change my present
No power to change my future
Do I surrender to destiny?
Does suicide prove free will?
Doesn't free will mean that I have a choice?
I have the power to harm myself
I have the power to kill myself
Or at least to try
I have power over me in the immediate
I have limited power over myself
But I don't always have control
My mind is dark tonight
I feel defeated
Is it too late?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Part Eleven - Living a Cursed Life
I was 17 years old when I entered college. I had moved out of state, perhaps subconsciously because I needed to get as far away from the source of my damaging sexual abuse as possible. Then again, perhaps not.
I wanted to go "wherever God was calling me" and certain that calling was into full-time ministry, I wanted a college that would not only educate but also mentor me in my spiritual growth. Living hours from home and out of State was just an added bonus.
Within the first couple of weeks as a Freshman, I met another young man who shared with me that he had been sexually abused as a boy. I opened up to him about my abuse. He was actually the first peer with whom I shared my story. Like me, he had been compromised by an older male and was conflicted about his sexuality and gender identification. We became roommates and over time he developed a crush on me. Actually, he was crushing both on me and on my (very first ever) girlfriend at the same time. Like I said, he was conflicted. When I announced I intended to marry my girlfriend, he threatened suicide, saying that "now he could never 'have' either of us". Shortly thereafter, he took to spending his nights in other male student rooms and bragging the next day about his homosexual activities, whether true or not. Regardless, that whole experience didn't help me in my own gender identification struggles. Was I really gay and that's why he was attracted to me? Was I simply in denial about my sexuality? Add to that the question which haunted me for decades: did my being abused as a boy by another male MAKE me gay??
Anyway, for the first time in my life I had a girlfriend. A REAL girlfriend! And I wanted nearly more than anything else to claim my manhood and confirm my gender identity. I was studying Christian ministry in a denomination in which homosexuals were an abomination at a college which expelled students without mercy who dared come out of the closet. I feared if I was gay I could never be a pastor, never to be able to worship, never receive the sacraments again and would most certainly be damned to a life...temporal and eternal...apart from God. Homosexuality was the unforgivable sin and I feared, through no fault of my own, I might have been stuck with that sin. Damned for all time.
As I've written before: I really do sympathize with LGBTQ women and men over their spiritual, emotional, psychological and sociological struggles. I know how it feels to question "what in God's name am I?" and fear that being true to myself could...would probably...would surely... land me in hell. It's hard enough being "different" in a secular society which won't accept you...even more so when you add the pressure of fitting into a religious environment. But enough about that.
I met my first girlfriend, and I asked her to marry me, and she said "yes"...so I wound up marrying my first and only girlfriend. I'm still married, I still love her; but with hindsight I realize part of my motivation to get find a girlfriend and get married was my need to prove to myself that I was straight as well as get over the abuse and mature into being a real man.
I didn't want to enter the marriage with secrets, so I worked up the nerve to tell my fiance about my brother; but I didn't tell about my sister. It was hard enough telling her about my brother and my fears that I might be gay, etc. I guess I felt I could blame my brother for what he did to me; but I wasn't so sure about what happened between me and my sister and I wanted to preserve the illusion of my virginity (I didn't consider male on male sex to be true coitus). So I told my wife and trusted her to keep one of my biggest, most precious (albeit dark) secrets to herself. I told her, and I trusted her.
Fast forward 2 years and in preparation for our wedding, my fiance and I find ourselves meeting with a pastor for pre-marital counseling; which to large degree is focused on the mechanics of the wedding ceremony. I had chosen to include certain family members in the wedding party; but strongly objected to my big brother from taking part. He could come to the wedding. He just couldn't be a groomsmen or anything like that. The pastor pressed me for my reasons why...and I held onto my secrets, only telling him that my oldest brother was mean to me when I was growing up. The pastor again pressed me, this time telling me I needed to forgive my brother and not bring these hard feelings with me into my new life as a married man. Eventually I gave in, still not giving up my secrets; but I gave in to the pressure, "forgave" my brother and gave him a role in the wedding ceremony.
About 5 or 6 years later, after the pastor had moved on to another congregation, my wife and I happened to be passing through his neck of the woods and stopped in to visit him. In a moment of privacy, just the 2 of us alone, I got up the courage to tell our old pastor the real reason I did not want my brother being part of my wedding. I say I got up the courage; but that doesn't seem to express just how difficult it was to reveal my secrets...to reveal this very damaged, very hurting part of my soul...my psyche. I told him what happened and I told him why I so strongly resented my brother. The pastor replied with "I know. [She] told me that years ago." I was crushed. With only a few words, he dismissed years of psychological, emotional and spiritual pain. It still hurts today, writing about it. Crushed. Devastated. Re-victimized. That son of a gun knew all along. When he told me I needed to forgive my brother and include him in my wedding party, he knew my brother was a rapist...MY rapist. I felt betrayed: both by my wife as well as by that pastor.
A similar event would happen nearly 2 decades later when, after finally gathering the courage to tell my mother-in-law about the loss of my childhood and resulting sexual confusion, she also brushed it away with "I knew that. [your wife] told me that a long time ago."
It wasn't just discovering that my wife had broken my trust; but more so that these 2 people could minimize something which I hated but was so much a part of me...that they dismiss it so easily without even offering any comfort or sympathy. Just a cold "I knew that". It took a lot out of me just to gather the courage to mentally revisit my past and reveal my deepest, darkest secret...and to have that secret trampled and treated as if it meant nothing had a devastating affect on my psyche. The 2nd time, with my mother-in-law, actually played a part in my first weeklong vacation in the Psych Ward.
I realize that people say and do things out of ignorance, and that there was no malicious intent on the part of that pastor or my wife's mother; but it doesn't change the effect their acknowledgement and dismissal of my past had on me. But I'm getting repetitive, aren't I?
I guess the point is that these 2 experiences gave me even more reason to keep my secrets to myself rather than talk about them, especially with people who had no clue just how damaging child sexual abuse has on the survivor even into adulthood. In the future, I won't so readily cast my pearls before swine (Matthew 7:6).
Within the first couple of weeks as a Freshman, I met another young man who shared with me that he had been sexually abused as a boy. I opened up to him about my abuse. He was actually the first peer with whom I shared my story. Like me, he had been compromised by an older male and was conflicted about his sexuality and gender identification. We became roommates and over time he developed a crush on me. Actually, he was crushing both on me and on my (very first ever) girlfriend at the same time. Like I said, he was conflicted. When I announced I intended to marry my girlfriend, he threatened suicide, saying that "now he could never 'have' either of us". Shortly thereafter, he took to spending his nights in other male student rooms and bragging the next day about his homosexual activities, whether true or not. Regardless, that whole experience didn't help me in my own gender identification struggles. Was I really gay and that's why he was attracted to me? Was I simply in denial about my sexuality? Add to that the question which haunted me for decades: did my being abused as a boy by another male MAKE me gay??
Anyway, for the first time in my life I had a girlfriend. A REAL girlfriend! And I wanted nearly more than anything else to claim my manhood and confirm my gender identity. I was studying Christian ministry in a denomination in which homosexuals were an abomination at a college which expelled students without mercy who dared come out of the closet. I feared if I was gay I could never be a pastor, never to be able to worship, never receive the sacraments again and would most certainly be damned to a life...temporal and eternal...apart from God. Homosexuality was the unforgivable sin and I feared, through no fault of my own, I might have been stuck with that sin. Damned for all time.
As I've written before: I really do sympathize with LGBTQ women and men over their spiritual, emotional, psychological and sociological struggles. I know how it feels to question "what in God's name am I?" and fear that being true to myself could...would probably...would surely... land me in hell. It's hard enough being "different" in a secular society which won't accept you...even more so when you add the pressure of fitting into a religious environment. But enough about that.
I met my first girlfriend, and I asked her to marry me, and she said "yes"...so I wound up marrying my first and only girlfriend. I'm still married, I still love her; but with hindsight I realize part of my motivation to get find a girlfriend and get married was my need to prove to myself that I was straight as well as get over the abuse and mature into being a real man.
I didn't want to enter the marriage with secrets, so I worked up the nerve to tell my fiance about my brother; but I didn't tell about my sister. It was hard enough telling her about my brother and my fears that I might be gay, etc. I guess I felt I could blame my brother for what he did to me; but I wasn't so sure about what happened between me and my sister and I wanted to preserve the illusion of my virginity (I didn't consider male on male sex to be true coitus). So I told my wife and trusted her to keep one of my biggest, most precious (albeit dark) secrets to herself. I told her, and I trusted her.
Fast forward 2 years and in preparation for our wedding, my fiance and I find ourselves meeting with a pastor for pre-marital counseling; which to large degree is focused on the mechanics of the wedding ceremony. I had chosen to include certain family members in the wedding party; but strongly objected to my big brother from taking part. He could come to the wedding. He just couldn't be a groomsmen or anything like that. The pastor pressed me for my reasons why...and I held onto my secrets, only telling him that my oldest brother was mean to me when I was growing up. The pastor again pressed me, this time telling me I needed to forgive my brother and not bring these hard feelings with me into my new life as a married man. Eventually I gave in, still not giving up my secrets; but I gave in to the pressure, "forgave" my brother and gave him a role in the wedding ceremony.
About 5 or 6 years later, after the pastor had moved on to another congregation, my wife and I happened to be passing through his neck of the woods and stopped in to visit him. In a moment of privacy, just the 2 of us alone, I got up the courage to tell our old pastor the real reason I did not want my brother being part of my wedding. I say I got up the courage; but that doesn't seem to express just how difficult it was to reveal my secrets...to reveal this very damaged, very hurting part of my soul...my psyche. I told him what happened and I told him why I so strongly resented my brother. The pastor replied with "I know. [She] told me that years ago." I was crushed. With only a few words, he dismissed years of psychological, emotional and spiritual pain. It still hurts today, writing about it. Crushed. Devastated. Re-victimized. That son of a gun knew all along. When he told me I needed to forgive my brother and include him in my wedding party, he knew my brother was a rapist...MY rapist. I felt betrayed: both by my wife as well as by that pastor.
A similar event would happen nearly 2 decades later when, after finally gathering the courage to tell my mother-in-law about the loss of my childhood and resulting sexual confusion, she also brushed it away with "I knew that. [your wife] told me that a long time ago."
It wasn't just discovering that my wife had broken my trust; but more so that these 2 people could minimize something which I hated but was so much a part of me...that they dismiss it so easily without even offering any comfort or sympathy. Just a cold "I knew that". It took a lot out of me just to gather the courage to mentally revisit my past and reveal my deepest, darkest secret...and to have that secret trampled and treated as if it meant nothing had a devastating affect on my psyche. The 2nd time, with my mother-in-law, actually played a part in my first weeklong vacation in the Psych Ward.
I realize that people say and do things out of ignorance, and that there was no malicious intent on the part of that pastor or my wife's mother; but it doesn't change the effect their acknowledgement and dismissal of my past had on me. But I'm getting repetitive, aren't I?
I guess the point is that these 2 experiences gave me even more reason to keep my secrets to myself rather than talk about them, especially with people who had no clue just how damaging child sexual abuse has on the survivor even into adulthood. In the future, I won't so readily cast my pearls before swine (Matthew 7:6).
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Back to My Story
Sorry for the long break; but I've been struggling a lot with depression, anxiety and my PTSD these past few months and simply haven't had much interest in doing anything other than feeding off of my own personal darkness. Not a good thing.
Before I pick back up on where I left off, I want to follow up on my last post titled "Intermission"...
About 1 week after I sent that letter to my mom and my abusers telling all that happened to me and how it has affected me, I received a reply from my mother. In her letter, she stated that she missed me and shared how lonely she is in her old age. She sent me some pictures of her dogs and her camping trailer; but not one single mention of what happened to me. And not one single sentence mentioning my abusers by name. Funny thing is that she mentioned my other brother by name and had a few, choice, negative things to say about him...but nothing about my abusers...not a single word about what happened to me and my co-victim in her house, under her roof, during her and my Dad's watch.
On the other hand, she didn't deny any of what I claimed happened to me either. So at least I have that going for me, right?
I have yet to reply to her letter and don't know if I ever shall; but having spilled my guts to my family, I don't feel I will ever be able to return to my home town...not for a wedding, a baptism, family reunion or even a family funeral. I am currently in exile. By my own actions I have placed myself into exile, never again to return "home".
And this makes me sad in ways I cannot put into words. So I'll just stop here.
Before I pick back up on where I left off, I want to follow up on my last post titled "Intermission"...
About 1 week after I sent that letter to my mom and my abusers telling all that happened to me and how it has affected me, I received a reply from my mother. In her letter, she stated that she missed me and shared how lonely she is in her old age. She sent me some pictures of her dogs and her camping trailer; but not one single mention of what happened to me. And not one single sentence mentioning my abusers by name. Funny thing is that she mentioned my other brother by name and had a few, choice, negative things to say about him...but nothing about my abusers...not a single word about what happened to me and my co-victim in her house, under her roof, during her and my Dad's watch.
On the other hand, she didn't deny any of what I claimed happened to me either. So at least I have that going for me, right?
I have yet to reply to her letter and don't know if I ever shall; but having spilled my guts to my family, I don't feel I will ever be able to return to my home town...not for a wedding, a baptism, family reunion or even a family funeral. I am currently in exile. By my own actions I have placed myself into exile, never again to return "home".
And this makes me sad in ways I cannot put into words. So I'll just stop here.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Intermission
I'm temporarily stepping out of my chronological recounting of the abuse to share with you a new milestone in my recovery. Last week, following over 40 years of secrets, I mailed a letter to my mother and cc'd it to my abuser. This was a huge step for me, in that for the first time since I suffered the abuse, I have finally told my mother what happened under her roof, and while it may not be face-to-face, it is also the first time I have confronted my abuser as well.
I penned these words shortly after mailing the letters, summing up my immediate emotional and spiritual impressions upon sealing those envelopes:
I penned these words shortly after mailing the letters, summing up my immediate emotional and spiritual impressions upon sealing those envelopes:
"As I come to accept the damage of childhood rape, so much I'd previously seen as my own personal failure, the outworkings of a cruel and demanding God or simply my predetermined God-damned destiny was none of these at all. Crippled by the abuse, I had little chance of ever meeting my unrealistically high expectations. Mysteriously enough, this epiphany frees me to worship, not curse, my Creator - my Saviour - my God."
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Part X - Damaged Goods
I just got out of the psych ward again, having been there almost a year ago previously to the date...or actually, to the Season.
The first time I was put in lockdown, I went home on Palm Sunday. This 2nd time, I came home two days before Palm Sunday. I assume that's a coincidence; but who knows? Either way, the effects of the trauma inflicted upon me as a child continue to wreak havoc with my self-esteem, self-worth, self-image and self-control.
SUICIDE: I never actually made the attempt; but both times I self-admitted to the ER with suicidal ideations & self harm consisting of me carving words into my own flesh.
I hated myself. Hated what I had become. What the hell had I become?
One of the things I have become is a re-victimized victim, or a victim of my own re-victimization. I both long to be free of my victimhood; yet find a strange sense of comfort in remaining a victim. At least as a victim, I more or less know what to expect. Self-fulfilling prophecy. That's what you can expect if you always anticipate someone is going to victimize you. I'm not talking some crazy paranoia here, although, having been admitted to the psych ward twice, I guess I am a bit crazy...but it's not I believe everybody is out to get me; but rather that I don't have a chance and I am destined to fail.
As I continue my own study on the continuing effects of childhood sexual abuse, I find that my behavior is not all that abnormal...at least not for survivors. The cutting, the suicidal ideation (and often successful suicide attempts), the excessive self-criticism coming from a felt need to say, think, do, live every second of my life as close to perfection as possible, the guilt, the shame and the suppressed anger and rage. All of this has been pushed down inside of me and it is being carried on the shoulders of "little Gary" ...my child-self who is still trapped inside this hulking, overweight adult frame.
I'm on psychiatric medication and currently seeing 2 therapists and a psychiatrist for my PTSD, Depression, Anxiety and Panic disorders. I am awaiting approval of Disability through the Social Security office...not because I don't want to work and certainly not because I can live without an income; but because, right now, I'm too much of a basket case to put in a consistent block of hours every week. Just consider this blog: I started writing this entry within a few days of being released from the hospital and I am just finishing it now...3 weeks later??
I hope to not be so foolish or careless to blame all of my problems as an adult on the abuse; but I continue to learn every single day just how much of my current behavior is somehow linked to my past..is somehow connected in one way or another to the abuse and my continued and failed coping mechanisms for dealing with that abuse.
I want to believe that it can and it does get better; but right now I'm just moving forward in faith, hoping that some day at least some of this will make sense and I will finally be free of the secrets and the sickness of my childhood (or lack thereof).
- DAMAGED
- FAILURE
- BROKEN
- WORTHLESS
- EPIC FAIL
I hated myself. Hated what I had become. What the hell had I become?
One of the things I have become is a re-victimized victim, or a victim of my own re-victimization. I both long to be free of my victimhood; yet find a strange sense of comfort in remaining a victim. At least as a victim, I more or less know what to expect. Self-fulfilling prophecy. That's what you can expect if you always anticipate someone is going to victimize you. I'm not talking some crazy paranoia here, although, having been admitted to the psych ward twice, I guess I am a bit crazy...but it's not I believe everybody is out to get me; but rather that I don't have a chance and I am destined to fail.
As I continue my own study on the continuing effects of childhood sexual abuse, I find that my behavior is not all that abnormal...at least not for survivors. The cutting, the suicidal ideation (and often successful suicide attempts), the excessive self-criticism coming from a felt need to say, think, do, live every second of my life as close to perfection as possible, the guilt, the shame and the suppressed anger and rage. All of this has been pushed down inside of me and it is being carried on the shoulders of "little Gary" ...my child-self who is still trapped inside this hulking, overweight adult frame.
I'm on psychiatric medication and currently seeing 2 therapists and a psychiatrist for my PTSD, Depression, Anxiety and Panic disorders. I am awaiting approval of Disability through the Social Security office...not because I don't want to work and certainly not because I can live without an income; but because, right now, I'm too much of a basket case to put in a consistent block of hours every week. Just consider this blog: I started writing this entry within a few days of being released from the hospital and I am just finishing it now...3 weeks later??
I hope to not be so foolish or careless to blame all of my problems as an adult on the abuse; but I continue to learn every single day just how much of my current behavior is somehow linked to my past..is somehow connected in one way or another to the abuse and my continued and failed coping mechanisms for dealing with that abuse.
I want to believe that it can and it does get better; but right now I'm just moving forward in faith, hoping that some day at least some of this will make sense and I will finally be free of the secrets and the sickness of my childhood (or lack thereof).
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Part 9 - Gay, Straight or Something Completely "Other"?
For every male survivor of childhood sexual abuse, you will hear a story unique to that individual. Although we all seem to have quite a few side-effects in common, our different cultural, social and economic environments affect how we reacted and acted out in response to the abuse.
One of the side effects very commonly experienced by men, especially when the abuse was perpetrated upon them by another male, is a sense of gender confusion. I wish I had known how "normal" my feelings were back when I was still a kid. It would have saved me a great deal of grief, to say the least, because for me, the question of gender identity tormented me for most of my childhood and continued to haunt me as an adult heterosexual male, even after years of marriage and raising children.
At the time the abuse began, I'd like to think I was just a typical little boy. To the best of my memory, I was average size and weight and looked and acted just like the other boys in my school and neighborhood. I don't remember when the bullying started other than it was before the 5th grade. I know that, because that's when I began to intentionally overeat. It sounds sound both funny and foolish now; but at the time, I was tired of getting picked on and beat up and had the idea that if I was bigger than my tormentors, they would leave me alone. The irony was that, although I stopped being physically beat up at school, I found myself now being ridiculed for being FAT. When I entered Junior High School, it went from being teased about being fat to being teased about having "baby titties". Yeah, that was one of my nicknames: BT, as in Baby Titties.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Growing up in the Midwest during the 70s, it was common for boys to tease one another with words like fag, faggot, femme, queer, girl. I got called those words a lot. It started with Gary the Fairy and proceeded to Gary the Fruit, Gary the Fag or simply Faggot. I was not a homosexual then or now; but those were the words used to taunt me. As I've already written, I was bullied as a kid. I got beat up a lot: in the home by my abuser, in my neighborhood by the kids across the street and on the school playground. Kids who get bullied get a reputation for being weak. Expressions like "fruit", "fairy", "femme" or "faggot" implied that a boy was weak...weak like a girl. Considering that I got beat up by girls as well as boys, I guess I must have been really, really weak.
The teasing continued even after the physical bullying ground to a halt. It actually got worse for awhile, the teasing that is, in 5th and 6th grade when I failed to impress with my lack of athletic abilities. I remember being lined up to be picked for teams and me being one of the last...me being the kid nobody wanted. I was weak and I was a freak. I remember competing for the President's Physical Fitness Award and how badly I failed. My Gym Teacher made a point of telling his other classes they couldn't do worse than Gary. I could only do 3 sit ups at that time. In the eyes of my peers and even my teacher, I was weak and I was a loser.
So at this time, I'm being teased with words like "faggot", "fruit" and "gay", I'm no athlete, I'm shy and a bit nerdy and my biggest brother is anally raping me at home. What conclusion would you reach if you were me? I was about 6 years old when the abuse started, with little understanding of gender roles other than boys became Daddies and girls became Mommies; but by the time the abuse came to a halt I was mired in phrases, accusations and the realization that I did not measure up to the ideal of manliness perpetuated in that culture. Was I gay? Did these kids know what was happening to me behind closed doors? Could they see right through me? Was it that obvious to everyone else but me?
As I already shared, upon entering Jr High I got saddled with the nickname BT or Baby Titties. Partly due to my new-found obesity; but also a genetic trait inherited by quite a few of the males in my family regardless of body fat. The official medical term is gynecomastia; but it's more commonly known as man-boobs. I didn't know either of those terms when I was a kid, and I didn't know any other boys with my same problem. All I know is that when I came home crying about my condition, I was told it was spoken of in my Dad's side of the family as a "curse" and there was nothing I could do about it. My mother told me that by the way, not my father. I don't remember him ever speaking about it.
So picture me as a teenager being called a "girl" by the other boys, a failure as an athlete and consequently having little interest in sports, weak and easily beat up, having been sexually abused by an older male for a period of years and then having continued for a brief time by my own choice with my fellow victim. I had baby titties. My parents had told me for as long as I could remember that they had wanted me to be a girl since they already had 1 girl and 2 boys. I had all kinds of thoughts, most of them completely non-rational but at the time serious as all get out and deeply troubling to me. I didn't know if I was gay. Looking back, I'm sure I wasn't; but at that time I wasn't sure. I questioned if maybe I was a freak of nature, like a hermaphrodite. No disrespect towards people who truly are born with both sets of sexual organs; but at that time I really didn't understand the term, I just knew it meant half man/half woman. Jr High to High School we're talking the late 70s here and talk shows about sex change operations with people saying they were born the wrong gender had become very popular. Was that me? Was I born the wrong gender? Was I half boy and half girl? Did my parents wish that I be born a girl come partially true? Was I a man with breasts? Did I have female hormones inside of me battling the male hormones for dominance?
I feel so stupid writing this now; but these thoughts dogged me for years. I really didn't know what I was. All I knew was that I was not normal. For a couple of reasons, I made great efforts to at least publicly identify myself as heterosexual; but on the inside I was never 100% certain. Looking back, I realize a lot of my difficulty was due to unreasonable stereotypes. My father joked about homosexuals and hippies. Believe it or not, there's a connection there. Dad was a redneck, and proud of it. He always made fun of hippie guys with their long hair, questioned if they were really men since they looked like ladies from behind and he loved making fun of homosexual men, talking with a high-pitched voice and a lisp. My father impressed upon me the difference between a real man and a faggot. The problem for me was that in my mind, I didn't measure up to the stereotypical real man...so I must have been a faggot or something "other".
But back to those stereotypes and how they messed with my mind for so many years. The stereotypical homosexual, in my mind, was effeminate, spoke with a lisp, tended to be weak (limp wristed), preferred Fine Arts over sports, enjoyed doing things considered woman's work (like cooking), didn't date girls, were always somewhat "queer" (in the sense of being eccentric), tended to be artistic, etc.
When I was in 1st grade, I went to speech therapy to correct a lisp. I was not athletic and sports bored me. I preferred to read a book rather than watch football. I was weak and easily bullied. I leaned towards being artistic without ever actually being an artist: I was a musician, I acted, I wrote plays and poetry. I enjoyed cooking and liked to help my mom in the kitchen. I didn't date girls and I was a bit on the weird side. On top of that, I had experienced gay sex both as a victim as well as by my own choice (with my fellow victim). With all the kids in my neighborhood and school teasing me, saying that I was gay...while I earnestly tried to reject that label, I kept struggling with whether or not it was the truth. I know. I know. I'm beating a dead horse here. I've already pretty much stated the exact same thing 2 or 3 times above. It's just, the reality is that the roots run deep and it has taken a very, very long time to reconcile my self-image with the Truth. Thank God I've got some really terrific GAY friends who have helped me work through this. And I do mean THANK GOD!
Reading about the propensity of men sexually abused as boys who struggle with questions of gender identity helped me a lot. Also, realizing that the "gay sex" I experienced as a young boy wasn't really gay sex at all. It was much more like prison rape than anything else. The older boy who sexually abused me did not then or now self-identify as homosexual. He used heterosexual pornography to inspire himself, even though gay porn was available (or in the very least, Playgirl magazine which could be bought over the counter). HE WAS NOT GAY...so him imposing himself sexually upon me does not, in itself, make me gay.
A friend of mine explained it to me this way: "When you're at the beach, who's butt are you looking at? Hers or his?" That may be a bit simplistic; but at least as far as my own self-identity goes, I have always and only been sexually attracted to females. Regardless of how one defines homosexuality (born that way, a choice, or something else), I have always been heterosexual in my desires. Always. The struggle over my sexual identity was in my head, not in my loins. But being that it was, indeed, in my head; I have suffered mentally, emotionally and spiritually greatly. Very greatly.
Again, I thank God for my good friends who happen to be gay. Having struggled for years...decades!...wondering if I was in denial about my own sexuality/gender identity, I find myself emotionally and spiritually connected to my gay friends. I know the pain of being regarded as "queer" ...of not fitting a worn out, broken stereotype of masculinity. I also recognize that the homosexual stereotype is equally worn out & broken. By now, I suspect most of us realize a lot of gay men don't fit the gay stereotype (Rock Hudson anyone?) I'm still waiting for the rest of the world to recognize that a lot of straight men also don't fit the typical, macho, heterosexual stereotype. The stereotypes have failed have done a lot of damage along the way...as those of us who've been through it know all too well.
So while not every male survivor has had the same experience I had growing up, with myself questioning my manhood all along the way...nevertheless, it is not uncommon for adult men to struggle with questions about their gender identity. I read a professional, psychological article about this a few months ago stating that straight survivors often question if they are gay and survivors who identify and have primarily same-sex attractions struggle with questioning if they are really gay or if they're really straight and the sexual abuse made them gay.
I'm not going to get into the argument of what makes someone gay or straight. Right now, I feel there are far more important issues at hand, and as a Christ-follower (i.e. Christian), I have no interest in condemning to hell men and woman whose struggle is eerily to similar to mine. I thought I was gay, and finally concluded that I was not. I've got friends who have concluded that they are gay, and have struggled with that for their whole lives. It's a very painful struggle. At one time I would have written this as "I feared that I was gay"...but now, I realize that "I feared that I would never know what I was". As such, I don't write this as a treatise on homosexuality; but to spell out some of the psychological damage suffered by male survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Survivors of abuse, straight or gay, feel like freaks, outcasts, unacceptable, aliens, untouchable, unforgivable, marked, branded and hopelessly out of place in a world of black and grays which foolishly argues about shades of white.
One of the side effects very commonly experienced by men, especially when the abuse was perpetrated upon them by another male, is a sense of gender confusion. I wish I had known how "normal" my feelings were back when I was still a kid. It would have saved me a great deal of grief, to say the least, because for me, the question of gender identity tormented me for most of my childhood and continued to haunt me as an adult heterosexual male, even after years of marriage and raising children.
At the time the abuse began, I'd like to think I was just a typical little boy. To the best of my memory, I was average size and weight and looked and acted just like the other boys in my school and neighborhood. I don't remember when the bullying started other than it was before the 5th grade. I know that, because that's when I began to intentionally overeat. It sounds sound both funny and foolish now; but at the time, I was tired of getting picked on and beat up and had the idea that if I was bigger than my tormentors, they would leave me alone. The irony was that, although I stopped being physically beat up at school, I found myself now being ridiculed for being FAT. When I entered Junior High School, it went from being teased about being fat to being teased about having "baby titties". Yeah, that was one of my nicknames: BT, as in Baby Titties.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Growing up in the Midwest during the 70s, it was common for boys to tease one another with words like fag, faggot, femme, queer, girl. I got called those words a lot. It started with Gary the Fairy and proceeded to Gary the Fruit, Gary the Fag or simply Faggot. I was not a homosexual then or now; but those were the words used to taunt me. As I've already written, I was bullied as a kid. I got beat up a lot: in the home by my abuser, in my neighborhood by the kids across the street and on the school playground. Kids who get bullied get a reputation for being weak. Expressions like "fruit", "fairy", "femme" or "faggot" implied that a boy was weak...weak like a girl. Considering that I got beat up by girls as well as boys, I guess I must have been really, really weak.
So at this time, I'm being teased with words like "faggot", "fruit" and "gay", I'm no athlete, I'm shy and a bit nerdy and my biggest brother is anally raping me at home. What conclusion would you reach if you were me? I was about 6 years old when the abuse started, with little understanding of gender roles other than boys became Daddies and girls became Mommies; but by the time the abuse came to a halt I was mired in phrases, accusations and the realization that I did not measure up to the ideal of manliness perpetuated in that culture. Was I gay? Did these kids know what was happening to me behind closed doors? Could they see right through me? Was it that obvious to everyone else but me?
As I already shared, upon entering Jr High I got saddled with the nickname BT or Baby Titties. Partly due to my new-found obesity; but also a genetic trait inherited by quite a few of the males in my family regardless of body fat. The official medical term is gynecomastia; but it's more commonly known as man-boobs. I didn't know either of those terms when I was a kid, and I didn't know any other boys with my same problem. All I know is that when I came home crying about my condition, I was told it was spoken of in my Dad's side of the family as a "curse" and there was nothing I could do about it. My mother told me that by the way, not my father. I don't remember him ever speaking about it.
So picture me as a teenager being called a "girl" by the other boys, a failure as an athlete and consequently having little interest in sports, weak and easily beat up, having been sexually abused by an older male for a period of years and then having continued for a brief time by my own choice with my fellow victim. I had baby titties. My parents had told me for as long as I could remember that they had wanted me to be a girl since they already had 1 girl and 2 boys. I had all kinds of thoughts, most of them completely non-rational but at the time serious as all get out and deeply troubling to me. I didn't know if I was gay. Looking back, I'm sure I wasn't; but at that time I wasn't sure. I questioned if maybe I was a freak of nature, like a hermaphrodite. No disrespect towards people who truly are born with both sets of sexual organs; but at that time I really didn't understand the term, I just knew it meant half man/half woman. Jr High to High School we're talking the late 70s here and talk shows about sex change operations with people saying they were born the wrong gender had become very popular. Was that me? Was I born the wrong gender? Was I half boy and half girl? Did my parents wish that I be born a girl come partially true? Was I a man with breasts? Did I have female hormones inside of me battling the male hormones for dominance?
 |
| "I wish my brother George were here" |
But back to those stereotypes and how they messed with my mind for so many years. The stereotypical homosexual, in my mind, was effeminate, spoke with a lisp, tended to be weak (limp wristed), preferred Fine Arts over sports, enjoyed doing things considered woman's work (like cooking), didn't date girls, were always somewhat "queer" (in the sense of being eccentric), tended to be artistic, etc.
When I was in 1st grade, I went to speech therapy to correct a lisp. I was not athletic and sports bored me. I preferred to read a book rather than watch football. I was weak and easily bullied. I leaned towards being artistic without ever actually being an artist: I was a musician, I acted, I wrote plays and poetry. I enjoyed cooking and liked to help my mom in the kitchen. I didn't date girls and I was a bit on the weird side. On top of that, I had experienced gay sex both as a victim as well as by my own choice (with my fellow victim). With all the kids in my neighborhood and school teasing me, saying that I was gay...while I earnestly tried to reject that label, I kept struggling with whether or not it was the truth. I know. I know. I'm beating a dead horse here. I've already pretty much stated the exact same thing 2 or 3 times above. It's just, the reality is that the roots run deep and it has taken a very, very long time to reconcile my self-image with the Truth. Thank God I've got some really terrific GAY friends who have helped me work through this. And I do mean THANK GOD!
Reading about the propensity of men sexually abused as boys who struggle with questions of gender identity helped me a lot. Also, realizing that the "gay sex" I experienced as a young boy wasn't really gay sex at all. It was much more like prison rape than anything else. The older boy who sexually abused me did not then or now self-identify as homosexual. He used heterosexual pornography to inspire himself, even though gay porn was available (or in the very least, Playgirl magazine which could be bought over the counter). HE WAS NOT GAY...so him imposing himself sexually upon me does not, in itself, make me gay.
A friend of mine explained it to me this way: "When you're at the beach, who's butt are you looking at? Hers or his?" That may be a bit simplistic; but at least as far as my own self-identity goes, I have always and only been sexually attracted to females. Regardless of how one defines homosexuality (born that way, a choice, or something else), I have always been heterosexual in my desires. Always. The struggle over my sexual identity was in my head, not in my loins. But being that it was, indeed, in my head; I have suffered mentally, emotionally and spiritually greatly. Very greatly.
 |
| Rock Hudson was QUEER?? |
So while not every male survivor has had the same experience I had growing up, with myself questioning my manhood all along the way...nevertheless, it is not uncommon for adult men to struggle with questions about their gender identity. I read a professional, psychological article about this a few months ago stating that straight survivors often question if they are gay and survivors who identify and have primarily same-sex attractions struggle with questioning if they are really gay or if they're really straight and the sexual abuse made them gay.
I'm not going to get into the argument of what makes someone gay or straight. Right now, I feel there are far more important issues at hand, and as a Christ-follower (i.e. Christian), I have no interest in condemning to hell men and woman whose struggle is eerily to similar to mine. I thought I was gay, and finally concluded that I was not. I've got friends who have concluded that they are gay, and have struggled with that for their whole lives. It's a very painful struggle. At one time I would have written this as "I feared that I was gay"...but now, I realize that "I feared that I would never know what I was". As such, I don't write this as a treatise on homosexuality; but to spell out some of the psychological damage suffered by male survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Survivors of abuse, straight or gay, feel like freaks, outcasts, unacceptable, aliens, untouchable, unforgivable, marked, branded and hopelessly out of place in a world of black and grays which foolishly argues about shades of white.
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