As a survivor of child molestation it’s strange to listen to others try to digest the recent unpalatable situations unfolding in the news. Judgement and scorn for the abuser. Pity and protective stances offered towards the victims. I listen in silence as my good ol’ boy coworkers discuss their anger at the alleged abuser. My own feelings have been obfuscated by years of denying the impact it had on me, until now.
I was listening to an episode of This American Life with an intensely personal story where a man talked openly about his aborted plan to murder his childhood abuser. The story was actually about his slow reaction to the entire ordeal, how it was so many years later that he faced and forgave his abuser. How forgiveness is actually possible.
I stood there, awestruck in my own kitchen. I was baking for an office Thanksgiving lunch. I listened as he described his journey into fatherhood and the guilt he carried from having read the statistics on how most abusers had themselves been abused. He said he began to watch himself and his every thought around children, vowing that he would kill himself if ever he exhibited signs of becoming sexually attracted to children. In that moment, listening to someone eloquently describe a familiar mental process, the cold and dark that surrounded me in the despair of thinking that I would never have the family that I so desperately long for – all of that – began to lift.
In hearing his words I realized I was not alone in carrying this weight of guilt. This burden of self justification. I had been living as if I had a scarlet letter on my chest. I had this idea that I had to be at all times “above reproach” when spending any time around children. Knowing that I’m a homosexual I redoubled this obsessive thinking. I worried about what could be growing in the dark. I have a strong urge to be a father one day and that pull nags at me inwardly with another darker, sinister voice that says “nobody’s ever going to trust you around children.” I wondered if they should.
My abuser was the son of friends of my parents. He was my babysitter. He was sixteen when I was eight. He got drunk on my fathers homemade wine. He introduced me to things that I shouldn’t have been experiencing for many years. He gave me attention though, something I didn’t grow up with. I mistook his attention for love and affection. I was crushed when he never wanted to see or talk to me again. I grew up a confused mess of entangled emotions regarding sex and attention.
I eventually became sexually active around fifteen. I found men much older than I on the bulletin board systems before the advent of the internet. I gave myself to them freely wanting attention and affection. I was very confused about what was a “trick” and what was a boyfriend, or what dating actually should have looked like. I used to think the only reason I was confused about dating was that I couldn’t date openly in High School like other kids.
I soon started hanging around at pool parties hosted by older men that supplied a nice venue and plenty of booze. I desperately needed the attention and I found it easier to continue this lifestyle if I wasn’t sober. Eventually, like many gay men, I found crystal meth. My love affair with drugs lasted only a short few years before I sought help. After a few false starts I finally grasped sobriety and started enjoying life. I’m a member of a twelve step program and I attend regularly. My life is happy and wonderful today.
For a time I volunteered in the Sunday School at a local church. Whenever trips to the restroom for the little ones came up I would freak out. I said it was because I was the youngest in my family, because I’ve never even baby-sat before. The truth is I was panicked and I didn’t know how to just be normal in those situations. What if something weird happened and there was a misunderstanding with a parent? I don’t know what I thought would happen, fear isn’t rational. The pressure of this obsessive thinking was like a dark undercurrent on the otherwise happy and joyful time I spent volunteering with the children. I honestly am not, nor have I ever been sexually interested in children.
I was exploring the possibility of eventual fatherhood. I was in a relationship and things weren’t going very well for my partner, at the time. Stability and fatherhood seemed out of reach. Teaching in the children’s church quieted the ticking of my internal clock. I feared that I was getting further and further behind as all my relatives were already raising children, having families. I was going to be left alone.
One of the little boys at church, a twin adopted from somewhere in Eastern Europe was the most precious, adorable little guy. He was very affectionate and some days pretty clingy. He would hold onto me and demand I carried him around on my hip. One day he kissed my cheek and said “I love you.” I was worried that somehow this was wrong, and it shouldn’t be happening. I realize now that this was an innocent thing that little children often do.
In reviewing how this event has shaped the course of my life, I’m able to finally become to some degree angry about it. I have previously not allowed myself to admit this affected me. I’ve even been concerned that people might think this event somehow turned me gay. I don’t think this event could have changed my core sexuality identity. Studies show it isn’t related to homosexuality.
The man in the story on public radio has a wife and family now. He met and faced his abuser and forgave him. My abuser died quietly of a congenital heart defect before I could even think about facing or talking to him. I know this doesn’t limit my ability to heal. I can write letters to him anyway, and visit his grave to talk it out. I know I have options today and that silence isn’t one of them. I hope speaking up like this might help someone else as much as hearing the story on NPR helped me.
