I’ve been forging my way through therapy for almost two years now. I’ve been writing about sexual abuse for even longer. Since most new visitors to this site have a difficult time reading in reverse-chronological order, much less understanding what this blog is about, and because I have more to say, I decided to write a book. I decided that a long time ago, and now it’s finally ready.  If you’re interested, please check out Nice To Meet Me.

If you like what you read, please help me by sharing the book on Facebook, on Twitter, or by carrier pigeon.

The book is dedicated to all of you who helped me stay strong in my broken places. Thank you all.

Chris

A gut-wrenching week for sports, for football, and for Penn State University.  But, this story is not about sports. It’s definitely not about football. It’s not even about Penn State. This story is about a changing of the guard. It’s about evolution. It’s about a generation drawing a line. It’s about looking into the eyes of these eight children, and those who will sadly be named later, and telling them that we will support them forever. It’s about promising that we will not let this happen again, but if it does, those with knowledge will be extinguished and those victims will be respected. It’s about teaching our children. It’s about an end to the Good ‘Ole Boys. It’s about a moral audible. This is the time to take what these pitiful men at Penn State have created, and educate as the institution they represent was founded to educate.

Life is like a good suspense film. As soon as you think you have things figured out, just as you unravel the mystery and whisper your theory to the person next to you- you find out that you had things wrong.  This is most often the case when evaluating the people we meet in life -we categorize people instantly, rather than pushing through their exterior and getting to know them on a personal level. I’m guilty. I’ve always conveniently bucketed personalities – if for no other reason than because it made things easier for me. But, just as I would start feeling brilliant for having everyone figured out, every few months throughout my life, someone would surprise me and turn my bucket upside down. The bully who pushed me around in gym class, the annoying girl who only cared about criticizing others, the quiet guy dressed in black with the nose ring – one of them would somehow, usually by accident, show me that there was a lot more to their uninviting exterior. It was always a pleasant surprise – and a lesson learned. But, what I didn’t expect to learn at the age of thirty-seven, is that one of the people I had wrong – was me.  

At this point I’ve lost count of my months in recovery, not because I don’t care about how I’m doing, but because the timeline doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve stopped over-analyzing every therapy session, every bad day, every setback, and I’ve learned to be very comfortable with where I am. It’s where I am and nothing will change that. I’ve learned to relax and smile again.

Consequently, Jack isn’t much more than a name to me now. Jack is four letters that are assigned to a part of my past, and that’s all. About three months ago, after returning from work, I made a snap decision to grab my car keys and drive the ninety minutes up Interstate 95 to Arlington National Cemetery. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I was ready to re-visit the pile of dirt that pushed me into this self-discovery. I had no big speech planned. I had no expectations.

I parked my car in the visitor lot, strolled to the information desk, and told the clerk which grave I was visiting. Within ten minutes I was strolling up to a quiet section of the military graveyard, underneath an oak tree. Jack’s gravesite. It was a beautiful day. I stood there and just stared at the ivory-colored tombstone. Part of his headstone was broken – from what looked like a lawn mower incident – I smiled.  I didn’t say much. I didn’t feel much. I just stood there and looked down on his plot. I was surprised at how little it mattered – how little this section of grass meant to me.  After about ten minutes, I left. It was uneventful. I walked confidently back to my car, started it up, and drove home.

I had this incredible sense of relief as I drove. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the fact that I was uninspired, or unaffected, was empowering. It was a non-event – which was the biggest event of all. We buried Jack in Arlington Cemetery when I was fourteen years old – soon after, my family and I buried the memories of Jack – and now, twenty three years later, I had buried Jack once and for all.

Since that day in Arlington, I have taken incredible strides in my recovery. I haven’t been burdened by the raw anger towards my past, my family, my loss of innocence. I have resumed my relationship with my parents – and in doing so, I have been reminded how important it is to have them in my life.  I have found hobbies that I didn’t know mattered to me. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a lot of work to do – but I understand where I’ve been and I like where I’m headed.  My self-constructed exterior has been unraveled and my own bucket overturned. I like who I see underneath. It’s nice to meet me.

I am the moment he forgot his ex girlfriend’s name.  I am the first step out of a wheelchair. I am a deep breath. I am pushing the stick forward and applying full right rudder. I am twelve steps. I am staring in the mirror, watching the corner of my mouth curl. I am his first tears about what he saw in Kandahar. I am control-alt-delete.  I am the blood pumping through the veins of a man standing in his kitchen, telling his family he finally received an offer. I am eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. I am Representative Gabrielle Giffords. I am driving an 0-2 slider with a runner on third and two outs. I am the decision to be honest with myself. I am shifting my weight to my back foot to keep the tip out of the water. I am no longer playing catch and release with my meals. I am feeling the things I thought were forever lost. I am recovery.

If you are reading this post, please click on the title of this entry before reading. This will allow you to read the entry and then click “share” it at the end. When you click “share”, a small Facebook icon will appear, and it will allow you to immediately post it to your Facebook profile.  I can already sense your hesitation, trust me. Will people think I was abused if I share this? Will I offend someone? Will I stir up something unnecessarily? Will I invade someone’s privacy? The answer is no. Progress demands boldness. Unlike currently incurable diseases like Cancer, Autism, Parkinson’s, ALS, and Multiple Sclerosis, the Sexual Abuse of Children already has a cure: us. The more we talk, share, and communicate – the more we as a society take a stand against childhood sexual abuse – the faster we will eradicate this disease. So, please, don’t hesitate, embrace boldness and share this story.

I’ve been documenting my recovery from sexual abuse as a child for almost a year now. It hasn’t been easy, but I am slowly making well my body and mind – a challenge that so many of you reading this are familiar with. The statistics are horrifying. One out of every four women in the U.S. knows this challenge. One out of every six men.

Last week, one of these men, Bill Zeller, a brilliant, successful computer science graduate student at Princeton University, put an abrupt end to his challenge. He wrote a 4,000 word letter sharing his darkness of a sexually abusive childhood for the first time, he posted it on Facebook, and then minutes later, he hung himself.  Rather than summarize his story, I have included his letter here. He requested that the letter be disseminated in its entirety, so that others can learn from his story in his succinct and powerful voice.

If you read the letter, it will change you forever. You will understand his darkness and feel some of his pain, if only for a brief minute. You will better understand how hollow life can be for a victim of childhood sexual abuse.

If only Bill would have found a way out of his darkness, he would still be with us. If only there was a way for him to feel less alone, he would still be with us. If only our society freely talked about sexual abuse, not in taboo whispers, but in bold, compassionate, charged proclamations, Bill would still be with us. But, we don’t feel comfortable doing that. We hesitate, and then we play it safe.

I played it safe for over twenty years. It was all I could do at the time. I didn’t have the tools or the surroundings I needed. I didn’t have enough people letting me know that it was alright to have been abused – that it wasn’t my fault. So, my darkness grew and grew as I flaunted a successful personal and professional life. I was maneuvering my way forward, tethered to a disease that nobody wanted to recognize, especially myself.

Strangely, I was incredibly lucky. I had a family who loved me. I had positive role models. I had great friends who loved to laugh with me. I was gifted and I succeeded at everything I put my mind to. But the disease would grab me tight at times. When it did, I would take it out on myself for not being stronger. I had no idea it wasn’t my inadequacy.  Then, without warning, I would go into remission. I would feel better. This cycle continued, with every period of sickness being worse than the last – my insides were shutting down.

In my late twenties, after fifteen years of punishing myself for my past, I started thinking about how to make the pain stop. The use of chemicals was only a temporary escape. I had more and more thoughts of how to pull it off, mostly fleeting, but my most common thought was staging a car accident. This way, I wouldn’t let anyone down. It would simply be a terrible accident. I would finally be able to take a deep breath and relax.

I haven’t written much about the suicidal thoughts I had before I started my recovery. I think because I was afraid I would scare people, or unnecessarily have them worried about my current mental state. But, after reading Bill Zeller’s letter, I realized that I was hiding an important piece of my story – the part that reveals the depth of pain that sexual abuse can instill.  Maybe it was more than that – maybe it was because I don’t like to think that I was in such a shallow state – it’s hard to go back there and feel what I felt. It feels like so long ago.

In the past twelve months I have learned so much about myself, my innocence, and how I deserve to be happy. I have started to feel like “the old Chris” again. It’s awkward, frightening and extraordinary at the same time. If only everyone who is suffering from the affects of childhood sexual abuse could feel what I am feeling.  If only those who gave up could have found someone to share with.

Bill Zeller was one of twenty five million men in the U.S. who are currently fighting the affects of sexual abuse. His story, while tragic and terribly sad, is a portal to the cure. We are the cure. Please share.

One challenge resting in the pile of challenges I face is to improve my ability to deliver compliments, whether to myself or to others. I’m very hard on myself, and it carries over to my expectations of others, especially those closest to me. This doesn’t mean that I don’t think great things of other people – in fact, I admire so many people for a wide range of reasons – but it’s the expression of my admiration or respect or love that I struggle with. Consequently, this post is long overdue.

At barely 110 pounds, my wife Ellen is the strongest person I know. No matter how many times we veer off course, she grabs me and keeps me next to her as we find our way again, usually with a smile on her face. Subconsciously, I must have known that she could do this years ago when I bucked my trend of running from relationships and followed my gut, trip after trip, to Chicago to see her.

For the first year and a half of our marriage, Ellen has been asked to accept a different version of a honeymoon phase. She has grown accustomed to returning home from ten-plus hours at a high-stress job, walking in the living room, and finding me in bad shape – either in need of support, or in need of detachment. This was cryptic to say the least. Sometimes I would be drunk, trying to numb the pain. Other times I would be silent, avoiding reality altogether. Many mistakes have been made by both of us – there is no book on how to be a good spouse in this situation. We just had to do our best and rely on our love and respect for one another. It was Ellen who always found a way to get us back on course as a team.

This aspect continually goes unnoticed or unmentioned when we hear about the impacts of sexual abuse. There is an incredible strain on the people who love a survivor – specifically on a spouse. They are pulled deep into the abyss, whether they are ready or not, and they are asked to navigate their way with very little guidance.

This isn’t easy. And in our case, it required Ellen to seek counseling – learning more about my recovery process and about how it was severely impacting her. This was one way I saw her strength. She pushed aside her fears and walked into therapy because our relationship was more important. Seeing her do that made me feel stronger – and it has kept me moving in the right direction.

Recovery from childhood sexual abuse is an emotional roller coaster for a family, and it takes a unique person like Ellen to navigate the ride so gracefully. Luckily for me, she is my wife. She is amazing. I love you, Ellen.