Every child who grows up in a military family knows what it feels like to be on the outside looking in. You spend two years at a school, just long enough to gather some close friends and make a name for yourself, before you are sent back to the starting line at a new school, in a new state, with an entirely new set of social challenges. It’s frustrating to say the least – especially when you’re shy like I was - slow to open up and show people what I was all about.

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.

I’m a guy who falls when nobody is looking. I can trip on anything. I can even trip on nothing, usually pulling a small muscle I never knew I had, and then walking it off pretending like nothing happened. I’m also a guy who falls when everyone is looking. I can dismount an escalator as if I’m wearing ice skates – grabbing a perfect stranger for support before apologizing for the accidental grope. Man, what’s wrong with this escalator? Sorry. Thanks.

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.

“Every time we turn our heads the other way when we see the law flouted, when we tolerate what we know to be wrong, when we close our eyes and ears to the corrupt because we are too busy or too frightened, when we fail to speak up and speak out, we strike a blow against freedom and decency and justice.”                                                                                            ~ Robert F. Kennedy

 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 read somewhere once that when a childhood sexual abuse survivor goes through the recovery process, their anger transitions as they recover. The anger transitions from being directed towards themselves, to then being directed towards the people who should have protected them from the abuse, and then, if applicable, it is finally directed towards the perpetrator.

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!!!

I pulled my van up to Eva’s house this morning, right on time. I was eager to see my close friend. For the last six months, I haven’t been able to get to Wednesday without thinking about Eva, hoping she was doing alright and looking forward to seeing her on the upcoming Friday. I always enjoyed our conversations. I told her everything, and she didn’t blink an eye – always returning serve as quickly as it came at her, with compassion and humor all at once. At ninety two, she’s as sharp as anyone I talk to throughout my day. She reminds me of my Grandma, and my wife’s grandparents – still as witty and clever as ever.

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.

Ah, alas. Fall is finally….falling. This summer felt like the time I rented the movie Ishtar. Hot, slow, and not funny. But, finally, the new television seasons are beginning, my jeans are back in my dresser, and football season is upon us. To be honest, those first two things don’t really matter to me – I just didn’t want to sound like a football dork.

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.