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

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’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.

HipsterChick: Did you hear me, or am I wasting my time with you? Your face took a total beating from that boomerang. It’s going to make my job more difficult.

Jack: Hello? Please help me. I’m done. Just put an end to this.

HipsterChick: That was such a lame thing to say. Just hold still, man.

Jack: Hold still? Where am I? Who are you? Oww!!

HipsterChick: I said hold still. Whole Foods is closed so if you knock over my organic coffee and tofu salad, I’ll walk.

Jack: Oww. What was that? Who are you?

HipsterChick: That was me finishing the “e”, and if you don’t hold still, the next letter will look even worse. My peeps call me MC Ink, but my real name is Uphir. Stop moving.

Jack: I just spent forever getting out of quicksand. I was bit by a snake. My nose was broken. I don’t feel well. Owww! Hey. What the hell was that?

HipsterChick:  That was the “l”. It’s like so funny that you said “hell”. It gets me every time one of you says that. “What the Hell”. Do you have any idea how dumb you sound? The next thing you’ll say is that you like Coldplay.

Jack: What’s Coldplay?

HipsterChick: Forget it. Now, I need to dot the “i”, so if you move, it’ll look like another “l”, and that won’t make sense.

Jack: What won’t make sense? What are the letters? Why is my forehead stinging? I just want to be left alone. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I’ve done terrible things.

HipsterChick: Don’t apologize to me, I love what you did. You’re keeping me in business, pal , and after this I should be able to get a sweet new pair of skinny jeans and some new cans for my DJ show tonight. Now hold tight while I get the “h” done. No squirming.

Jack: Are you giving me a tattoo?

HipsterChick: No, I’m standing here, dipping this device in ink, and then I’m baking cookies on your forehead. Yes, I’m giving you a tattoo.

Jack: Why?

HipsterChick: You’ll see. Just hold tight. It’s your final eternity, Jack, so it’s important that we get this right. The “p” is going to hurt a bit. Here it goes.

Jack: Oww. Shit. Are you serious? This is my final eternity? What does that mean?

HipsterChick: It means that you are going to have some freedom, Jack. The Boss worked out a deal with that fancy guy in the sky – these things happen every now and then. But these deals come with a price – and that’s what I’m working on.

Jack: What? You mean I’m going back to earth? Really?

HipsterChick: Jack, you’re a few prongs shy of a trident, aren’t you? No, you’re not going to earth. Hold tight, here’s the “o”.

Jack: Ahh.

HipsterChick: You’ve being given a Get Out of Hell card. I guess The Boss thought you were too annoying for us –and you have the option of going to heaven with all of the other losers if you want. But, we’re giving you a going away present – something that will show everyone what you’ve been up to. The rest is up to you.

Jack: That’s great. I can’t believe it. I’m finally getting out of here.

HipsterChick: Yeah, I can’t believe it either. I thought you were down here for good, but stranger things have happened – like the time I hosted a totally sweet dance party in my basement and everyone ended up wearing the same pair of skinny jeans and the same t-shirt. We’re all so original, so what are the odds of that?!!!!

Jack: I don’t know what you’re saying, but I’ll take it. I’m ready. Oww!

HipsterChick: You’re not ready. That was the “d”. Two letters left.

Jack: So what are you spelling? So far, it spells “elihpod”. Is that some sort of hell word?

HipsterChick: Yeah, it’s a hell word. We have words from hell. No, you idiot. But, you surprised me, Jack, I didn’t think you could keep track of the letters. It’s not the best work I’ve ever done, but it’s sweet. It reminds me of the 16^th tattoo I got on my ankle. And, here’s another “e”. One more letter, the capital “P” and we’re done. Hold still…..and….there we go.

Jack: elihpodeP? What the hell is that?

HipsterChick: It’s you, Jack. Don’t you know? Oh….wait….I forgot, you need a mirror. Let me swing your chair around, buddy.

Jack: It says “Pedophile”. What? Oh, no. You didn’t. I’m going to have to wear this on my head forever?

HipsterChick: That’s the deal. But, what you get in return is your freedom. If you ask me, it’s an easy price to pay – but I guess I’m not factoring in your time with Belieber14, TrucknBranMan, AlexCupcheck, and AussieYobbo.  Apparently you learned some things about what you’ve done to so many innocent children – apparently you learned enough to get The Boss to broker a deal – he never keeps peeps around once they’ve learned something.  We only like empty souls here (well….that and skinny jeans, bumper stickers, tattoos, turntables, and indie rock).

Jack: Ok. I understand. I will continue my eternity with my past tattoo’d to my forehead for everyone to see. I can manage that as long as it’s not down here.

HipsterChick: That settles it, dude. Now I can enjoy my organic tofu-soy salad. My work is done. You’re out of my hands. The Boss has spoken, and you’re a free man. But, if you even slip, don’t forget that The Boss can broker another deal, and I hope he does. If you come back I can teach you so much about music and ink you up some more.

Jack: Thank you, Uphir. You have no idea how…

HipsterChick: Shut up. Get out.

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.

As I became more and more aware of the cycle of friendships, I became more and more hesitant to make great friends and then desert them twenty four months later. It was exhausting and hollowing. But, it was a necessary evil, and I always wanted to be liked, so I pressed on in every new environment and worked towards a new group of friends.

One pattern that I noticed in every new setting was that I would always start slow – observing who was cool and who wasn’t – and I would adjust accordingly. I often ate by myself at lunch – close enough to the cool kids so that I could hear what they were saying, but not too close as to creep anybody out. Then, I would befriend a few people from the cool lunch table who sat next to me in class. I would then prove myself on the soccer field, or in the gymnasium, and get a few more people talking to me – and then, suddenly, I would find myself on the inside – with more friends than I had time for. This pattern was eerily similar wherever we moved – it was my socialization Modus Operandi. Observe. Listen. Test the water. Prove myself when the time was right – and then voila – one day I would catch myself sitting in the lunchroom, at the cool table, surrounded by friends – and I would acknowledge that I had finally breached the lunchroom force field.

I was driving my van today, steering the long stretch from one side of town to the other, when I caught myself thinking – my mind was racing again. But, this time it was different. Instead of catching myself pondering my past, the abuse, or my anger – I caught myself pondering an important question: Why did water polo not have horses? Why doesn’t it have a single thing to do with polo? Skiing has skis, as does water skiing. Aerobics has music, as does water aerobics. But, what’s the deal with water polo? I guess I understand why they don’t ride horses in the water – that would be awkward television – but where were the mallets? The sweet hats?  I guess there is a ball in each sport (of much different sizes) – but water polo is far more like soccer than polo. Why didn’t they call it water soccer?

Instead of being perplexed why my mind was wasting its scant power to ponder the ironic world of water sports, I was excited. I was elated to catch myself thinking about something that had nothing to do with my recovery. Minutes later, I caught myself again – wondering why everyone’s cell phone voicemail is the same: first, an explanation that because they didn’t answer, they were unable to answer the phone, followed by a list of explicit instructions on how to leave a voicemail for them – as if callers would be confused when they heard the beep.

This may seem unimportant, but to me it’s groundbreaking. It was my moment at lunch when I realized that I was surrounded by more friends than I knew what to do with.  I have really progressed. Today I realized that I have breached some sort of recovery force field – I caught a tangible glimpse – and it is something I hope I will never forget.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a conversation with a friend who had just parted ways with her boyfriend of several years. Her sadness was difficult for me to witness.  I could feel her unnecessary self-doubt, her loss. As we talked, and as the tears slowly welled up in her eyes when she described the hurt and disappointment, I drifted back to my years wading through the euphoria and madness of single life. I felt awful for her. She was stripped of her usual confidence and optimism. 

Since I’m a veteran of botched relationships, commitment challenges, and the post-break-up sadness swamp, I knew I could provide some perspective and maybe even a little wisdom.  I started to offer support and guidance, but then I caught myself. She didn’t ask for that.  I realized that what I had learned in my single days would offer nothing – my reminders of her value, and my hints toward the positive road ahead would change nothing. She needed to sort her way through this stage – and she just needed to let it out and have someone listen and nod. She had slipped, as we all do, and she simply needed an arm to reach for.

For me, the process of recovery from childhood sexual abuse reminds me of the single life and the impending break-ups – the deep feelings of loss and loneliness, self-doubt, shame, and disappointment. Granted, the circumstances and degree of these feelings are far different, but the cycle of recovery is similar.

At first, we are completely lost. We grasp for anything we can hold onto – any little positive feeling of support or reunion we can find. We are disoriented – walking in the dark – bumping into everything. Somewhere along the way though, we improve, but, we usually don’t notice. Others may, but we still feel lost and alone. We continue on, gathering support from those around us, slowly finding our footing. Then, one week, we feel something start to change. A few months later, we feel better. Then, for no obvious reason, we’re fine. We’re confident, striding through life again.

I don’t know where I am in that cycle of recovery, but I feel different. I feel more positive. I feel like I understand people better – I look at situations differently. When I see a homeless person, I don’t immediately think of a reason why I don’t have spare change. Instead, I wonder when they slipped, how they slipped, and why there wasn’t someone next to them to keep them up. I find myself leaning on people, sometimes when they don’t even know I’m leaning. I don’t need people, specifically those who don’t know exactly what I’m going through, to shine optimism in my direction – to me that feels as natural as an NPR sports update. Just as my friend wasn’t asking for my solutions in her period of grief, I merely look to grab a little support here and there – and a nod can be enough.

 The other day I heard a story on the radio that caught my attention. Apparently, Disneyworld had been embroiled in some controversy regarding their famous ride “It’s a Small World”. For the past several years, there have been all sorts of maintenance problems with the joyful ride. The boats that carry passengers throughout the ride was jamming more and more often on the track – delaying the ride and causing public uproar. After months of inspection, the staff concluded that the track wasn’t designed for the weight of the boats and the maintenance crew was forced to reconfigure the track to better support the cargo. Eventually, once the problem was fixed, the public outcry diminished. But, the ordeal has led some to one conclusion: it’s not such a small world after all.

All irony aside, it amazed me that fingers were pointed towards Disneyworld for not correctly building and maintaining the ride, when in fact, it was the passengers who were not maintaining a reasonable collective weight. But, the track was fixed, Disneyworld apologized for the inconvenience, and all things are back to normal at America’s wonderland.

The sad truth is that Americans are overweight, a fact that a large percentage of society is not willing to accept or remedy. It’s much more comfortable to conclude that Disneyworld failed to run a properly engineered, safe operation.

The Oprah Winfrey show recently aired a two-part series highlighting male survivors of sexual abuse. Two hundred male survivors of sexual abuse were in attendance, announcing their traumatic pasts on national television for the first time. It was an incredibly powerful series that Oprah herself said may be the show that she is most proud of in her twenty five years of television.

On the show, Oprah discussed the wide range of destructive behavior that survivors and their loved ones are left with and she brought to light the little societal acceptance for these victims and their families.

One of the survivors interviewed made a point that struck me as ironic. He said that so many male survivors of sexual abuse keep their secret to themselves for fear that society will label them a potential pedophile. I thought about this for a while, wondering if I ever felt this fear. It dawned on me that I did. I was always somewhat uncomfortable around children – being so careful not to play with them too much – or get too close. I remember being so scared to tell my sister about my abuse because I couldn’t bear the thought that she would judge me around her children. It made me sick to think about it – and it made me hesitate for years before telling her about my haunted past.

Here I was holding this painful secret to myself, watching it slowly eat me up inside year after year, partly because I was afraid of being judged, or suspected, or considered a threat, when the people that should be watched closely are the ones who weren’t talking about their abuse –the ones who surrounded themselves with children, grooming them, while earning the trust of parents. Luckily for me, my sister knew me well, and never suspected that I was a threat to her children, but that doesn’t mean that my fear was unfounded.

For thirty years, I have picked up on our society’s subtle clues and suggestions that boys who were sexually abused often grow up to be pedophiles. Statistically, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes, a large percentage of pedophiles were abused as children, but that doesn’t mean that the inverse is true. In fact, a very small percentage of boys who were abused grow up to be pedophiles, with so many abuse survivors growing up to be very empathetic, nurturing, wonderful parents and role models for children.

Even now, after I have told my story publicly, I find myself watching a parent to see if they clench their child’s hand a little tighter when I’m around. I pray that I don’t have people watching me a little closer than others – and it affects my actions. I feel myself withdraw around children out of respect for a parent’s fears.

Just as overweight passengers find it easier to point their finger towards Disneyworld than face the ugly truth, society finds it easier to warn their children about someone with a shattered past, than educate and watch their children closely around the kind soccer coach, the charismatic priest, or the dedicated boy scout leader.

Finding the real truth requires learning about a very uncomfortable subject and talking about it openly and honestly. Sometimes the answer is something we don’t want to hear – but we need to set aside our busy lives, set aside our fears, and be strong enough to open our eyes and ears. It may help provide some freedom to those who deserve it.

I’m still in the second phase. My anger is still focused towards my parents. The good news is that I’m no longer mad at myself, the bad news is that I have yet to transition the anger towards the truly guilty party. Jack.

I suspect that this phase is especially difficult on my parents and our entire family. In an effort to respect our family’s privacy as we go through this difficult time, sorting out our anger and dealing with the pain that will surface, I am going to stop publishing my posts for a while.

This isn’t because my parents have censored me. They, to their immense credit, have encouraged me to continue with the blog as long as it serves my recovery and the recovery of others.  I’m doing this because I feel like it’s the right thing to do for my recovery right now. I have felt it was right to limit the details of what was happening in recent posts, and that serves nobody. I need to write the ugly things that I am feeling and I don’t think I should do that publicly.  I need to focus on me right now.

I feel bad for this blanket thank you, because it doesn’t even begin to capture my appreciation and respect for the individuals who have supported me through this process, but thank you all for being there with me through this. I am forever indebted.

I hope to be bloggin’ it up again soon enough.  Until then, go easy on the Brancakes. TTYL!!!

But, today was different. Today, from the second I saw Eva in her doorway, I could tell something had changed. I didn’t know what. I grabbed her hand and walked her towards the van as I always do. When I asked how she was doing, she replied “Not so good, Chris”, her voice unsound. Her hair looked different, her posture had changed. It wasn’t the same Eva I’ve been so close to.

We drove to the senior center and I tried to keep the conversation going, but it was clear that she was out of energy. She slumped in her chair. Her hands shook. I got the chills as I drove.

I dropped Eva off and told the site manager that she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t really want to talk about it with the site manager, and I watched her slowly walk towards her favorite chair.

I drove back to work to prepare the food for Monday.

When I picked her up about four hours later, it looked as though she had aged even more. She told me she felt awful. I asked what was wrong and she said she didn’t know – just that she had very little energy and just felt bad. Fearing the worst, I told her again how much she has helped me in my recovery. She always reminded me how little time we have here on earth – and how we should live and love and forgive as much as we can. I told her that she reminded me how important it was for me to reconnect with my parents and heal our past. I hated not seeing them. We’re all getting older and I hated not being close to them. She liked hearing that. She said “We’ll it’s good to know I’ve been kept alive for something good”. I kept talking, trying to cram every little thing I could think to tell her into our ten minute drive back to her house.  Her head seemed like it was slumped towards the window, her lips quivered.

We got to her house and parked the car. I helped her out of the van and got the mail out of the mailbox like she always wanted me to do. I held her hand and walked her into the house, slower than we had walked in the morning. I put her things down, and took her sunglasses off. She didn’t have the strength to remove them.

I gave her a big hug. I told her I loved her. Without hesitation, she told me she loved me too. She turned and walked towards her son-in-law. I had a golf ball in my throat. I watched her walk for a second and then left the house, got in my van, and drove back to work.

I don’t know if I’ll see my friend Eva again, but I know that in her six months with me, she has helped me as much as anyone I’ve ever known. I think she only knows a fraction of that, but that’s fine with her.

One thing that’s become front and center in the world of football this season, is the subject of concussions. For years, players have been knocking their brains from one side of their skulls to another. I was one of them. When I was a senior in high school, I played on kickoff return team. I was the guy in the front of the “wedge”, the  orchestrated chevron of players who protected the kickoff returner once he caught the kickoff. My helmet met a very large man from T.C. Williams High School one night. He remembers much more than I do. For the rest of the game, I followed my friend Ryan around asking him what sport we were playing. But, after shaking off the cobwebs, I was back out there the following Monday. Not a single trainer checked me out.

This is how it used to go. Rather than worry about the long term impacts, we all dismissed concussions and used our immediate comeback to show how tough we were. Our teammates respected our grit. Our brains did not.

But, this season, the NFL is under some serious pressure now that there is medical evidence showing how destructive repeated concussions can be.  Some studies have linked concussions to ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. The media is all over it. Rules are starting to change and players are being watched more closely.

Today I was cruising along in my pimped out Ford F-350 cargo van (with optional Overdrive), listening to my favorite sports radio show, The Dan Patrick Show. It was a good show, as usual, and it included an interview with former NFL linebacker Chad Brown. He called the show to explain to Dan what it was like having recieved repeated concussions – it was clear how important it was for him to tell his story.  His story was shocking. The emotional roller coaster that he’s been on, most likely due to over a dozen concussions throughout his football career. He and his wife are moving along, but they’re scared by his recent emotional instability and are worried it will lead to something worse.

As I listened to the interview I made an interesting connection. Everything he was saying about concussions and the lack of medical statistics and research on its affects was staggering. How can we be this far along in neuroscience without knowing more about concussions? It dawned on me that this is the exact frustration that I have with mental health. Everyone sweeps it under the rug – and there is very little societal support for those who have mental health problems. Not only that – but both of these issues, mental health and sports concussion research, involve our most prized organ – our brain. How can this information, with so many children, our children, competing in these contact sports – and with so many adolescents and adults suffering from severe mental health challenges be so downgraded?

I think it trickles down to the same thing. We are all afraid to pay attention to the things that take us away from our enjoyable lives. Talking about mental health is not fun. Nobody likes doing it – but if we do, we can save so many incredible, but off-track people.  Similarly, football is what makes me happy in the Fall – so many of us get goose bumps at the first kickoff – yet, so few of us are willing to dial back this excitement for the safety of the players entertaining us.  It’s as though we’re using them for our gain. No salary is worth that. 

I don’t have an answer to any of this, but I do see the parallel here – and it’s likely tied to the human condition. The good news is that we’re just starting to move forward. And if the NFL can move in Darwinian fashion as it relates to mental health and concussions, I think it’s time for the rest of us to force ourselves to change.

I realized that as I’m going through this recovery process – my family is supporting me,  but not in the way that I was hoping they would. They are very caring people, to say the least, but that doesn’t help me much. What I was hoping they would do is join me in my recovery – rather than cheering from the sidelines, I was hoping they would get down in the trenches with me and figure out why the past was the way it was – and why our family is the way it is. As great as every person in my family is individually – as a collective group we operate in an unhealthy way – and I want us to figure that out since it is so linked to my abuse.  I could have been more clear about what I needed from them – but maybe in the back of my head I was hoping they could do it without me having to ask. My idealist side was driving that.  My sister suggested that I communicate this better to my parents – that maybe I tell them exactly what I needed. Until that point, I guess I didn’t know exactly what I needed – but now it was clear as day. As I hung up the phone with my sister – I was angry and feeling guilty. I was a bad son.

Twenty minutes later I hit send on an email to my parents, asking them to join me in my recovery by finding a therapist in town to talk about what they’re going through and our family past and present.  I knew I was asking a lot. Our family isn’t exactly therapy-friendly. And, I was asking my parents to step far out of their comfort zone to push away their frustrations with me and take a closer look at themselves.

As I exchanged pleasantries with my therapist, I knew what this session would be centered around. One of the things I really like and respect about my therapist is that she lets me lead the process. Not every therapist does that, and it takes someone with confidence and humility to let a patient guide them in their assistance.  So, I launched into the conversation that I had with my sister and the email that I sent to my parents with no response.  

We talked for a while about what I was feeling – and we again drifted to the core of my anger. It was that day that I became truly alone. I told her how my family doesn’t like to use Jack’s name. He’s referred to as “the evil one” or “J”. While I understand why they’ve erased his name from their vocabulary, it sends me right back to that day -the  day we removed his name for good. I was deserted, with no way to talk about what I was going through. We had buried Jack and his name, any chance of my getting help was erased.

I talked about my guilt for writing publicly about my story. She stopped me there. She wanted to focus on that. After twisting through the topic, we came to the conclusion that I was publicizing my recovery to right a previous wrong. I was finding so much relief in telling the entire world – it was making up for our family burying Jack. It was essential to my recovery. Just as important, was my need to use his name. I want to write his name as much as possible – it’s a way for me to prove that this did happen – I was molested – and my perpetrator was real, and his name was Jack.

At some point in this conversation, as I talked through my anger – the vibrating EMDR paddles in the palms of my hands – I must have squeezed the left paddle too hard and I broke it. It made a strange noise and then stopped vibrating all together. My therapist and I had a good laugh – I guess I was pissed.

We ended the session by talking about the likelihood that my parents may not respond to my email. I knew it was possible – and she wanted to make sure I understood why they wouldn’t want to do what I asked. She made a very good case for some people simply not being strong enough to go that far into their own issues. She explained that it was a self-preservation thing – an ego state issue – and that I shouldn’t see their inability to do what I asked as a reflection of my parents love for me. I told her I understood. I left her office and headed home – feeling better and less guilty.

That night, I opened my email and found a response from my parents. They said that they would be willing to drive to Richmond once a week and see a family therapist. They even attached a list of potential therapists. Out of nowhere I started crying. This wasn’t the manly version of crying – the slow stream of a few tears that slide down the cheek. It was the nine year old kid, emotional meltdown type of crying – a shuddering of my core. My wife stood there, her arms around me, in front of my computer and cried with me. It took me about fifteen minutes to pull myself together. I guess it was important to me.

Since Thursday, my optimism has skyrocketed. I feel like I am going to get through this – and my family is willing to do whatever it takes to right the previous wrong. Like compounding interest, my optimism allows me to feel good about my hopes of recovery, which then makes me feel good about everything else. It’s the opposite of the downward spiral and it’s a much more enjoyable ride.

The Hot Tuna was our new ship. The dimly lit bar was at a busy intersection just off the sandy beaches of Virginia Beach. It was far away from the boardwalk – in a more locally-favored section of the beach. It was where most of the Navy Officers hung out back then since most of us lived a few blocks away along the water.

The Hot Tuna lived up to its name. It wreaked of sweat, booze, and singles. It was where one, if interested, could easily start up a conversation with a middle school teacher or librarian, and dance away the night in front of the stage where a live band played the perfect spit-swapping music.

That summer was filled with a lot of laughs. We played pranks on the other squadrons. We stole one squadron’s school bus. We snuck up on the roof of the hangar and painted ridiculous things that only aircrew could see as they entered the break and came in for a landing. It was one of those perfect summers.

What made it more fun, was that we had a recent ROTC graduate join our squadron as he waited to start flight school. The Navy “stashes” people with units in order to fill their time until their spot opens up in flight school. Ensign Swanner was our stash. The meek, nervous, Ensign Swanner was well in over his head hanging out with all of us salty Lieutenants who just lived together for half a year in the Arabian Gulf. So, we had a good time trying to loosen him up and help him relax – unfortunately for Swanner, it was usually at his expense.

One night, we came to the conclusion that the only thing that would help Swanner relax was a dose of The Hot Tuna. Swanner, who had recently broken up with his long-time girlfriend, wasn’t at the top of his game – he needed a night out to get his mind off of his college sweetheart.

A group of us walked into “The Tuna” and headed to the bar for a drink. Swanner looked shorter all of the sudden. He whispered to me that he wasn’t very good with women, an unnecessary piece of info as I watched him stare at his shoes. I told him it was alright. I said that he shouldn’t expect to just get back into the dating game – that it takes a little time to figure out how to be single again. He relaxed a little. Then he asked me if I would help him out. Being the most junior, and one of the single Officers in the squadron, it was only logical that I be Swanner’s wingman.

Feeling pretty comfortable after having logged ten thousand hours at The Hot Tuna that summer, I told him to follow me. I said that I would find two girls that we could talk to, and he might feel more comfortable with me there instead of going it alone. The main piece of advice I had for Swanner as we trolled around the bar, was that he should ask open-ended questions about the women we talked to. Don’t talk about yourself – they don’t care right now – just focus on them and let them do the talking. He understood.

Within a few minutes we found two single women that met his approval. We walked up together and I said something that started the conversation. Within about five minutes, we were rolling – all enjoying a conversation – and letting the women do the talking. Swanner seemed nervous, but since he wasn’t talking much, it was going fine.

Suddenly, one of the women said that they needed to use the restroom – and that they’d be right back. They left, and Swanner immediately showed his excitement. He was very proud of his social interaction. I was proud of him as well.  

But, I made sure that he grounded himself. I told him that there was a pretty good chance that the women weren’t coming back. It was a common egress technique that I was well aware of. If they don’t really like you, they’ll find away to excuse themselves and then five minutes later you’ll find them talking to someone else in a dark corner. No big deal – the single game takes a thick skin. He immediately looked down at the floor – I could tell he felt betrayed and was sliding back to square one.

Just as we started to look elsewhere, the two ladies returned, bubbly and refreshed after their conversation in the restroom. We were both caught off-guard.  There was an awkward silence – the first of its kind for our foursome. I could see panic setting in behind Swanner’s eyes – and, with panic often comes poor judgment. He began to talk. I almost interrupted him, but figured I’d let him continue on. What came out of his mouth was as horrific as any question that the singles community has ever heard:

“Did you go number one or number two?”

My eyes widened. There was a pregnant pause. Swanner looked at me like the cat that just ate the canary. The women looked disgusted. Within four seconds it was all over – they were gone.

I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in my life. The cruel single life has its moments that make it all worth it.

The last few weeks have been heavy to say the least. It’s been the hardest part of my recovery so far. So, this week, I’ve been forcing myself to think about the funny moments I’ve had in my life. There have been so many. I’ve always liked being around fun, funny people – humor makes me relax.  As a result, my awkward life has actually been a blast. I forget about that sometimes. I’ve had so many experiences and hung out with so many good people – and laughed so hard so many times – that I have to consider myself extremely lucky. Ensign Swanner’s question from hell was just one of so many things that I’ve been thinking about and laughing about this week. It’s important to force myself to do that I think.