Overcoming Adversity Blog

Feb 14, Radio Interview About Male Sexual Abuse

Sun, 14 Feb 2010 20:46:07 GMT

I was recently interviewed on Voices of Hope about my being a veteran of male sexual abuse.

Sep 17, A Swedish Lullaby

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 01:16:10 GMT

My wifes parents have been married about sixty years. During the past few years, their love for one another and their inter-dependence has really shone through. For instance, in the last year they owned a car, my mother-in-law, although suffering from dementia, could still drive it, but could not navigate. My father-in-law could not drive, but still could navigate. Together as a team they were able to remain mobile. My father-in-laws health has been declining these past few years. Recently, my father-in-law lay in his death bed in their apartment doing the hard work of dying. Sedated, and somewhat delirious, he was agitated and was swatting some imaginary thing in front of him. Nothing seemed to calm him. Even though my mother-in-law has virtually no short term memory and cannot remember what happened only minutes ago, something inside of her knew what to do. My mother-in-law sat by his bed, took hold of his hand, and sang to him a Swedish lullaby his own immigrant mother used to sing to him as a baby. He immediately calmed down and fell asleep. My father-in-law died peacefully an hour or so later. God bless them, both.

Aug 15, My Son, James.

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 17:03:50 GMT

Recently, my son, James celebrated his twenty-first birthday. James was a cute, bright, precocious little boy. We called him Jamie until he was about nine or ten years old. Upon return from school one day, he announced that henceforth he was to be called James. For a time, it was hard to comply with this new requirement. He had always been our shy, bright, handsome, little boy. Our Jamie. But, the young man, James, was just beginning to emerge on that particular day so long ago. A few years later, our not-so-little boy explored and finally traversed his teenage years. They were, at times, turbulent years. James had to cut his mothers apron strings and he had to forge his identity in opposition to me, his father. Sometimes James and I were face to face, man to emerging young man, butting heads together. These were stressful times, but we both endured and grew. As hard as these moments were, I insisted on staying with the encounter, even though every fiber of my body wanted to flee the conflict. I knew my son needed to struggle. I knew he needed to grow. I knew he needed a father-son relationship and not peer relationship with me. In contrast to this, my father, who was an idealistic, faithful, strong, laconic, hard working, disciplined man, could not bear interpersonal conflict. He would state his case, sometimes lay down the law, but he would withdraw from an argument. He was by no means a coward. Nevertheless, for some reason, for him, withdrawal was the necessary and proper course. But, that course, however necessary and proper for him, left me wanting. With regard to conflict with my father, I neither had a father-son relationship or a peer relationship. To fill that void, for years I sought a father figure in my mentors. Our Jamie has grown into a strong, well grounded, young man. I am so proud of the man he is, and is becoming. I feel blessed to be his father and by his being my son. Happy Birthday, James!

May 20, "Oh the River is Wide. I Shall Not Cross O'er."

Wed, 20 May 2009 17:23:20 GMT

How often in life do we yearn to cross over to the other side of some barrier. Geographically, rivers can be insurmountable boundaries stopping us from crossing over to the other side. Think about some of the rivers that stopped your progress, but you somehow were able to swim, ford, or sail across. In childhood, we looked around at our older brothers and sisters, or playmates who could ride a bicycle, while we could only manage a tricycle. We eventually tried to ride a bicycle, perhaps with the assist of training wheels, or the steady hand of our mother or father. We tried and failed, tried and failed. Then, in an instant, we got it! We understood! We triumphed! As teen-agers or young adults, we heard of the joys of sexuality with a true love. Yet, until that time we actually experienced that joy within the commitment of a loving relationship, we did not really understand. We really did not really know, despite all the advertisements, the movies, the songs, the magazines, the television sit-coms, and the boasts of the locker room. As adults, my wife and I often remark about our mind-set B.C. and A.C.------before children and after children. Before the birth of our two children, we could not possibly know or understand what life would be like as parents. After the birth of our children, and after the many joys and sorrows of rearing our children, my wife and I wonder, How did we ever live without them? As older adults, many of us receive a diagnosis of a life-threatening disease. Prior to the diagnosis, we spend time as freely as we use water in watering our lawns. At least here in Minnesota, the water is cheap and seemingly abundant. After a diagnosis, time becomes precious. Each of these events is a watershed in our lives. Each is a river, the crossing of which brings us to a new world, a new world of understanding and awareness. On the bank of which river are you standing in your life?

May 13, "Oh, Dad. You are so paranoid!"

Wed, 13 May 2009 18:34:22 GMT

Oh, Dad. You are so paranoid! my daughter has often told me. Roughly paraphrasing an old joke, Am I really paranoid? Or, are others actually out to get me? Survivors of sexual abuse often have significant trust issues. Certainly, over the years, I have had difficult times trusting others. Rather than trusting others, I have tended to structure my life such that I do not depend upon others, apart from my wife. Also, due to my professional training as a lawyer, I assume the other party will perform in any given circumstance to his benefit and to my detriment. My daughters and my dodging bullets several years ago in Amsterdam did not make me any more trusting of the world. Given this background, my wife and I recently said good-bye to our now seventeen year old daughter as she flew off to, of all places, Amsterdam, the Netherlands, for a months vacation. In the weeks leading up to her departure, I tried to instruct her and warn her about such possibilities as pick-pockets and other assorted tricksters or criminals who would easily see she was an American tourist and might therefore target her in some way. Mostly, she would just roll her eyes in that typical teen-aged fashion in response to my warnings. She would give me a reluctant acknowledgment signifying less that she understood and agreed with my sage advice than a begrudging, Yes, Dad. I know. Youve told me a thousand times already. As she left for the airport, I gave her a big hug. I told her I loved her and I was proud of her. I wished her an enjoyable trip. But, I held my tongue, holding back the urge to instruct her any further about evil in this world. Some things, she will have to learn for herself. As a parent, I have to let her.

Mar 26, Surviving an Attempted Murder Was a Gift

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 13:12:56 GMT

Five years ago today, my then twelve-year-old daughter and I were nearly killed while vacationing in Amsterdam when we stumbled upon an armed gangland kidnapping in progress. (I describe this event elsewhere in the website.) As intense and deeply disturbing as the incident was, I now consider it to be a great blessing. It forced me to face my own mortality. As a consequence, it helped me appreciate each day since. It motivated me to make some positive changes in my life. Looking back over your life, were there difficult or terribly challenging times which looked insurmountable or unbearable to you? Did the struggle and the challenge to you ultimately lead to a better life for you?

Feb 1, Submission or Subjugation?

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 17:44:34 GMT

Recently, my wife, our daughter and I attended a Buddhist ceremony at the Zen Center of Syracuse Hoen-ji in New York state. Our twenty-year-old son has been studying and practicing Zen Buddhism for a few years, now. He was introduced to Buddhism as a junior in high school by a girlfriend. Now, as a junior in college in up-state New York, he decided to formally commit himself to Buddhism by taking certain vows. It was not analogous to a Christian ordination as a minister. Rather, it appeared to me as though he was being commissioned as a lay minister of sorts. As I watched the ceremony in which my son vowed fealty to Buddhism, I was struck by, and troubled by his willing, if not eager, submission to the process. For my son, submission to something larger than himself was a choice which, presumably, would give him greater freedom. For me, submission is more problematic. When I was a teen-ager I submitted to Steve, the man who molested me. My submission led to my subjugation. My submission confined me and led to my enslavement at Steve's hands. Expansion and freedom for my son; containment and imprisonment for me. This really nagged me during the ceremony and afterwards. I knew I was missing something, but I could not put my finger on it for several days after I returned to Minnesota. Finally, it dawned upon me. My son was an adult, willingly consenting to the act of submission. As a twelve-year-old in 1963, I was yet a child, incapable of giving consent to Steve's subjugation and domination of me. Over the years, I have cast off many links of the chains that bound me. It is fair to say, I have cast off most of those chains. But, every now and then, I discover yet another link in some remaining chain that, with joyful but labored effort, I cast aside.

Dec 4, Dys-thy-mi-a, Dys-thy-mi-a, Dys-thy-mi-a all the way! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 18:39:26 GMT

My parents best friend, Steve, began molesting me during the summer of 1963. During the Christmas season of 1963 when I was twelve years old, I first encountered what was to be an annual Christmas tradition for me, depression. Many people experience the holiday blues for a variety of reasons unrelated to child molestation. Some of the reasons include lack of exercise, too little exposure to sunlight resulting in seasonal affective disorder, struggles with all the delicious food and consequent weight gain, and struggles of too much shopping needing to be done and not enough cash or credit to quench our desire for more and more things. For me, depression arose largely from my being molested, and my not knowing how to deal with the ongoing molestation. This was juxtaposed with the fact that Steve showered me and my family with Christmas gifts. Steve played the part of the generous family friend. Early in my relationship with Steve, I was able to compartmentalize and isolate the molestation and domination issues from other aspects of my life. As the years went by, however, it became gradually more clear to me that it was all a great fraudulent show to lull my parents to sleep and to buy my silence. Looking back over these years, it is clear that my ongoing depression which ebbed and flowed between dysthymia and clinical depression was, in part, due to my struggle with the cognitive dissonance between my inner life and the Christmas festivities which masked it with good cheer. If you have had similar struggles, I hope you will find a way to resolve them so that you can finally believe it when you say or hear, Merry Christmas.

Nov 6, Tom Arnold's Childhood Sexual Abuse

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 20:25:14 GMT

Actor Tom Arnold has announced that he was sexually abused as a child. www.momlogic.com/2008/11/tom_arnold_reveals_sexual_abus.php I regret that he is one of millions of adult men who were sexually abused as children, but I am grateful that he has spoken out about it. In doing so, he helps shed light on a large societal problem. Something like one-in-six or one-in-seven men were molested as children. Most, if they were anything like me and so many other men, keep the secret of their abuse within them. In an effort to conform to the macho-men "big boys don't cry" stereotype, so many of us suffer in silence. Sometimes we go to our deathbeds without mentioning our abuse history. Sometimes, we go until some major life event forces us to face up to our childhood abuse. I was fortunate enough to go completely public about my abuse when I was in my early thirties. It lifted a great weight from my shoulders. But, it did not spare me from having to continually process what happened to me, and how I might go on living day-to-day. Although I have had the love and support of my wife in this matter all these years, it was not until I and our daughter were nearly killed while witnessing a gangland kidnapping a few years ago that I had a conversion moment. As a result of this, and with the help of an excellent therapist, I was able to largely resolve many childhood abuse issues. Now, in my late fifties, I enjoy life largely free of the emotional and psychological baggage of my childhood abuse. I even try to spread the word to help free so many enslaved men. Thanks, Tom Arnold, for your example.

Aug 22, The Cicada's Song

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 16:18:21 GMT

Perhaps because we have had drought conditions in our area this year, the chorus of cicadas has been delayed until today. When I hear the song of the cicada, I am reminded of the birth of our son twenty years ago. The cicada and the birth of my son are important symbols in my life. The cicada lives most of its life underground. It then emerges from the ground, attaches itself to a tree and sheds its skin, spreads its wings after a time, and then flies to nearby trees to sing its song of love to other cicadas. They seek out one another, mate, and both die, the female having first cut holes in a trees bark into which she deposits her eggs. The cycle starts anew. In a sense, I was dead to the world from age twelve, when I was first molested, until years later as I emerged from the darkness of my life dominated by Steve, my parents best friend. Meeting and marrying my wife brought life and light into my world, yet I still was burdened by my association with Steve. More life and light came into my world as my love for my wife grew. Although there had been significant deaths to my relationship to Steve spread out over a decade, symbolically, that relationship came to an end in June, 1988 when a Minnesota jury awarded me a civil verdict against Steve in the amount of $1.27 million. The true flower upon the grave of that ended pathological relationship, however, was the birth of my son about two months later. Something died. All that is left is the abandoned shell of the cicada nymph attached to a nearby tree. Something better lived on to take its place. All about me, I hear the chorus of cicadas. I rejoice in what was lost, and what was gained.

Aug 21, Your Deep Dark Secrets, Part II.

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:46:27 GMT

Those of you who have remained silent, I hope you will find the courage to disclose your abuse history. You do not have to disclose to the whole world as I chose to do. But, you can start by disclosing in circumstances which the law protects you with the cloak of confidentiality. Tell your doctor, psychologist, or minister. If any of these react badly to your disclosure, find a new doctor, psychologist or minister who understands the issues surrounding childhood sexual abuse. You might also join a Twelve Step group such as Survivors of Incest Anonymous. If you are already a part of a group, disclose to the group or a member of the group. Join a web forum under an assumed name. Join in the discussion. An excellent forum can be found at www.malesurvivor.org. After taking these steps, and after gaining some confidence about the issue, tell your wife, your best friend, your brothers and sisters, your parents, and other relatives. Before doing this, you might get some of the following books to give you some ideas about how your disclosures can be done safely: Abused Boys by Mic Hunter Victims No Longer by Mike Lew Betrayed as Boys by Richard B. Gartner Making disclosures about your childhood sexual abuse history wont be a picnic. In fact, you will no doubt shed many tears in the process. Think of those tears as a new baptism in which the shame and the pain of your past can finally be washed away so that you can begin living a new life. You wont be able to wash away the fact of your abuse, but you can come to view it in a new light.

Aug 21, Your Deep Dark Secrets.

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:41:49 GMT

I was one of the first men in the nation to sue for damages arising from being sexually abused as a child. I was abused by Steve, a close friend of my parents. I started the lawsuit in January, 1984. It went to trial in 1988. A Minnesota jury awarded me a judgment of $1.27 million. I had my fifteen minutes of fame over the issue. Normally, the statute of limitations would have barred my lawsuit, except for the fact that in May, 1982 Steve attempted to blackmail me into remaining silent about his abusing me beginning in 1963. In order to prove the import of the blackmail to the court, I was allowed to prove all that had gone before it. Because I was dealing with a blackmailer, I knew I had two choices: 1.) continue to remain silent and be subject to more blackmail, or 2.) go completely public about what Steve had done to me. I chose to go public in a big way. Going public took a great deal of strength and courage, but the disclosure unburdened me--freed me-- from having to keep my deep, dark secrets hidden away. It allowed me to take a giant step away from Steves influence over my life. Over the years, Steves influence over my life has diminished. Even though he died in the early 1990s, I still allow memories of him to live in my mind, rent free. But, more and more, I have gone from victim to survivor to a person who has a history of childhood sexual abuse. For so many years, I have felt frustrated with other men who were abused as children. Here they are in their forties, fifties, or older, and they tell me privately they have not been able to tell their wives, their family, or their friends about what happened to them as children. I know these men are the tip of the iceberg, because, according to the FBI, one in seven men were molested before they reached adulthood. ONE IN SEVEN! My fellow survivors of sexual abuse, the longer you remain silent about the issue, the more troubles you will have in your life. These troubles will bubble to the surface in ways you cannot control. Life is full of troubles for everybody. But, those of you who try to bury your history of childhood sexual abuse without disclosing it to anyone are bound to endure a pack of troubles. Chief among these troubles is emotional and psychological withdrawal and isolation. But, the problem may surface as depression, suicidal thoughts, sadness, loneliness, poor interpersonal relations, unhealthy or unfulfilling sex lives, poor job performance, divorce, poor health, and any number of addictions. If you talk with a psychologist or a psychiatrist you will likely find that this is just the short list of long term effects of childhood sexual abuse.

Jul 10, The Promise of Living

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:56:54 GMT

As I write, I am sitting in our backyard at a small table beneath the shade of two maple trees which were mere saplings when we planted them twenty years ago. Grape vines cover our boundary fences. Our tomatoes are ripening in the July sun. The breeze is light and cool. An armada of cottony cumulus clouds lazily sail across the Midwestern sky. Although our backyard is rudimentary and not beautifully kept, it is far more verdant than when we moved into our home two decades ago. Nearby, our athletic, teen-aged daughter is teaching herself the basics of bicycle repair with instructional videos she found online. She intends to take a lengthy cross-country bicycle trip through rural Minnesota sometime during the next year and may need to make repairs along the way. When she sets out to do something, it will be done. As I sit and write I listen to an Aaron Copland piece on my MP-3 player entitled The Promised of Living from the Tender Land Suite. I find myself overcome with emotion and gratitude for my own promise of living. From time to time throughout the past four decades beginning when I was first molested as a thirteen year old boy, I so yearned for the promise of death. Yet, I somehow managed to lash myself to the mast of my own personal ship of state as I struggled against the siren song of suicide which sweetly beckoned me with false promises of relief from the agony of my depression. A few years ago, as if to challenge my lack of regard for life, my daughter faced death from a head injury sustained while skiing. For a time, the left side of her body was paralyzed, she could not hear out of her right ear, and the right side of her face looked as if she had suffered a stroke. Strong young woman that she was, and continues to be, she nevertheless said, Yes to life! In time and through her incredible determination she struggled back to a fully mobile and athletic teen-aged life. She still has some difficulty with some things, but it is not obvious to the casual observer. I am so grateful to God and to my daughter for her personal triumph and for her example. Today, in my late fifties, I finally join in embracing the promise of living. I say, Yes to life!

May 20, Unfolding Leaves

Tue, 20 May 2008 15:48:10 GMT

Recently, I have been struck by the miracle of leaves bursting out on trees and vines as they recover from the ravages of our Minnesota winter. Looking back at my childhood and Steves abuse of me, it is almost as though the bright and verdant summer of my youth died off---the vital sap of my emotional and psychological well being withdrew from the leaves and took refuge deep within my roots. The leaves turned, seemingly prematurely colored as a result. Finally, the leaves fell off the tree. I became dormant with a long, long winter and appeared dead. All of this was a protective measure to ensure my survival. And yet, spring returned and my vitality finally returned. For each of us survivors of sexual assault and sexual abuse we often need to retreat inwards. Sometimes, we may appear dead to the world in our depression, isolation, and self-absorption. But, with time and with guidance we can emerge from our protective dormant state to flower anew. I marvel at my life in my mid-fifties as I leave my dormant, depressed, and isolated self behind---and as I flower anew. The Middle English writer Chaucer described that process so beautifully--- When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower. I am, at long last, regenerating and coming into bloom.

Apr 14, How Much Are You Worth?

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 01:01:12 GMT

How much are you and I worth? No doubt, you immediately begin to think of your bank account, your investment portfolio, and your salary. Certainly we have all been trained to think along those lines. It is endemic to our practical and entrepreneurial culture. In America we are worth something only so long as we are useful to ourselves and to others. But, isnt there something more to our value within, or without, this parentheses in eternity within which we live? I have struggled with this question all my life. When I was a victim of childhood sexual abuse, the man who molested me measured his own feelings of self worth by all sorts of traditional means---materialistic means. No doubt he also measured his self worth by the number of boys he conquered and abused. He also seemed to measure his own self-worth based upon how much he could denigrate and control me. I have always measured my self worth by my success in my various roles. For many years, as a student, I measured my self worth by the grades I achieved and the degrees which I earned. A salesman might measure his self worth by how many sales he has made. A lawyer might measure his self worth by how many hours of work he has billed his firms clients or by how many court cases he has won. Some coaches are so driven to win that if you dont win a race or a game you are worth less, and therefore worthless, in their minds. But we cannot all be excellent students, stellar professionals, or Olympic athletes. So, in the performance of our roles, are we worthless when we dont achieve a perfect result? How can you maintain any sense of sanity if the answer to that question is Yes? I am only now, in my mid-fifties, beginning to find an answer to this spiritual dilemma. My personal perfection is simply, I am. No zero to ten scale is required. My personal imperfection lies in the performance of my various roles. I am a son. I am a father. I am a husband. I am a lawyer. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. At any point in my daily life, I might place my performance at various levels on a scale of zero to ten. For instance, sometimes I am a terrific father--a nine or a ten. Sometimes, I am not. The same is true for each of my other roles. If I am lacking at any time in the performance of my various roles, I can chose to take steps to improve my future performance of that role. Or, I may choose to no longer play a role at which I am no longer successful. But, in my being, I simply am. That existence, if I must measure it on a scale of zero to ten, is always a ten. It is not dependent upon winning or acquiring or achieving. I am.

Mar 24, Regaining My Voice

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 20:36:06 GMT

For years I had nightmares in which I was chased by an individual or by a mob of people bent on tormenting me, torturing me, and then killing me. At the dramatic high point of my nightmare, I would attempt to fight back and to yell at my oppressors. Routinely, mutism and paralysis overpowered me and prevented me from fighting back or yelling. Covered with a cold sweat, I would desperately moan and groan in my sleep and clumsily thrash about as I lay in my bed. My wife would awaken, shake me awake, and then hold me in her arms until I settled down. Once awake, I could not easily go back to sleep again. I would get up from bed and go to another room to sit in a rocking chair to reorient myself before returning to bed and to sleep. The other night, this scenario began to play itself out yet again. But, this time, as the bloodthirsty mob or the evil individual approached me in my nightmare, I sat bolt-upright my bed and roared like an Anglo-Saxon warrior going into battle. I then attacked my oppressor...and he vanished. My roar awakened my wife, but I told her how marvelously different my nightmare was this time. After more than four decades, in the dark of the night, I found my voice once again. I am so grateful.

Mar 9, Delayed Discovery Statute of Limitations Regarding Sexual Abuse

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 16:40:44 GMT

Recently, I testified again in front of the Minnesota Senate Judiciary Legislative Committee: "My name is Mark Douglass. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Nineteen years ago, I stood before this committee to urge the passage of Minnesota Statutes Section 541.073----the delayed discovery statute. I am an attorney, but I no longer practice law. Today, I am a speaker, an author, and an advocate for survivors of childhood sexual abuse. In particular---male survivors of sexual abuse. I recently published a memoir entitled, Flashbacks of Abuse, which details the lengthy and complex seduction, molestation, domination and control of me by my abuser--a man who dominated my life for two decades beginning when I was twelve years old--a man who was my parents' best friend. The main point of my book is that it took me years to realize and understand the effects of my sexual abuse. It took years to recover from my abuse--but recovery was possible. At my age, I have largely recovered. I still struggle with various issues from time to time. The psychological and therapeutic life and mind of a sexual abuse victim is like an onion. The outer layer is a paper thin layer which we present to the world. "I am okay." "I am strong." "I can cope." Underneath, however, the hidden layers are less confident, and often tragic. As with an onion, we survivors peel back the layers of our lives and we cry a lot. For sexual abuse victims, the layers of the onion are a whole host of presenting problems which mask the central core---depression and anger, alcoholism and addiction, inability to trust and struggles with authority, lack of boundaries and poor interpersonal relationships, emotional, physical and sexually acting out--and many, many other problems. For sexual abuse victims, the central core to this onion is the hardest to get at, the hardest to fathom, and the hardest to discover. Obviously to us, to non-victims, the central core is the sexual abuse, itself. Yet, most victims take a long time to discover this central core as the source of their problems. Sadly, many victims go to their deaths without breathing a word about their sexual abuse. In closing, the delayed discovery law I advocated nineteen years ago was, in my opinion, clear as the light of day. It embodied legislative wisdom. It recognized the special needs of victims of sexual abuse. Yet, well meaning judges on our appellate courts, interpreted that law such that it now resembles less the light of day, than the dark of night. They turned the meaning and the intent of the delayed discovery statute topsy-turvy. To remedy their error, I urge you to return Minnesota to light and to wisdom. I urge you to adopt todays bill and send it on for the full legislatures consideration."

Feb 20, It's Just Business!

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 15:40:19 GMT

The other day, I rented a 1987 movie entitled House of Games, starring Lindsay Crouse and Joe Montegna. If you remember The Sting from the previous decade, you will understand the basic premise. The subject is con-men--confidence men. In The Sting, the subject was presented as somewhat of a comedy. In House of Games, it is presented as a film noir, psychological drama. In this drama, an author-psychologist (Lindsay Crouse) seeks to understand the mind and motivations of a con-man, (Joe Montegna). They each take each other for a ride as the movie plays out. At one point in the movie the author-psychologist asks the con-man, Why do you do this? The con-man replies, words to the effect of, I gain the marks confidence. I give him confidence in me. In exchange, the mark gives me his money. It is just business. It is what I do. For many years, my recovery from childhood sexual abuse was blocked. I just couldnt fathom why Steve did what he did to me. I had a deep father hunger as the poet, Robert Bly terms it. I needed an adult male to take pride in me and my accomplishments. I needed Steve to love me like a father. Steve, readily feigned this role in order to gain my confidence, and then to molest me. As I broke away from Steve and as I lost confidence in him and his deceptions, I struggled with the depth of Steves depravity for more than a decade. I plaintively wondered, even after his death, How could you do this to me? How could you do this to so many other boys? How could you not care about all the damage you did I finally gained clarity on the issue when I finally realized, from Steves perspective--from the con-man's perspective, Its just business.

Feb 4, Steve's Threat of Blackmail

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 18:52:07 GMT

I feel sad that so many survivors of childhood sexual abuse cannot simply and matter-of-factly say, I am a survivor. or, This happened to me. When I give speeches about male sexual abuse, or simply, when I speak to a room full of men on any topic, statistically, I am confident that one out of six men in the room were molested before they reached adulthood. Now, granted, some may have only been fondled once or twice. Others may have been repeatedly raped. And still others would fall on a continuum between the two extremes. Yet, why are we men so damn silent and stoic about such abuse? Of course, who am I to say? I remained silent about my abuse from age twelve until my early thirties. I only vaguely began to understand the wrongfulness of what was done to me as I approached my thirtieth birthday. Even as I became aware of it, the brazen iniquity of it did not hit me until Mothers Day, 1982 when, in front of my wife, my parents, and a visiting aunt from out of town--Steve jokingly announced, I know so much about Mark, I could easily blackmail him! There was no could about it. He was blackmailing me by his assertive jesting announcement. He was trying to shut me up. But, I would not be shut up. Late that evening, I began in earnest to lay the groundwork for the full disclosure of my childhood abuse--first to my wife, then my family, and finally to the world. A year and a half later, I filed my lawsuit against Steve. It was one of the first such lawsuits in Minnesota, and in the nation. I was finally, in an incredibly significant way--Free! Yet, from the early 1980s, I still remained imprisoned. I still allowed Steve to live in my head and my heart, rent free. It wasnt until the last four years, or so, as I have recovered from PTSD arising from witnessing a gangland kidnapping, and narrowly escaping death, that I have really become free. Perhaps most of all, I gained freedom from writing--this blog, this website, and a memoir of my journey, Flashbacks of Abuse: How a machine gun toting sociopath freed me from the chains of my childhood. I hope you will begin your journey of freedom by simply telling someone close to you, I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Mark Douglass Speaker and Author

Dec 28, Season of Light or Season of Darkness?

Fri, 28 Dec 2007 19:33:08 GMT

We live in a culture in which we give, and we unconsciously expect comparable giving in return. If someone surprises us with a gift, we often feel burdened unless, and until, we can reciprocate with a gift of similar value. If someone gives us an expensive gift, we may feel burdened by the gift, depending upon who offers it. Sometimes, if the gift is out of proportion to our relationship with the bearer of the gift, we feel compelled to reject the gift. The man who molested me bore these calculations in mind as just another strategy in his constant efforts to seduce and molest. One of the ways in which the man who molested me kept me and others silent, as well as keeping our parents off balance, was by giving. Christmastime, as well as our individual birthday celebrations, provided acceptable cover for my molesters campaign of conquest. It took me many years--decades--to understand the conscious manipulation involved. I was first molested at age twelve. It continued on throughout my teen-aged and young adult years. Beginning at age thirteen, I began to regularly encounter depression at Christmastime. I am certain as to the coincidence. I am not completely certain as to the causation. There may have been an element of seasonal affective disorder contributing to my Christmastime blues and depression. Beginning in the early years of, and throughout our marriage, my wife and I sought and found creative ways in which to take the burden and the edge off the Christmas season. For instance, we decided to spread out our Christmas giving to each other and to our children over the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany. We thus avoided the mad rush prior to December 25th, the tornado of untied ribbons and torn wrapping paper, followed my the let down of December 26th. As I grew apart from and freed myself from the influences and, after his death, the memories of my molester, I no longer struggled with Christmastime bouts of depression. As a result, Christmastime has finally become for me a season of light rather than darkness.

Dec 17, The Recurrent Waves of Our Lives

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 21:36:14 GMT

When I was twelve years old, I was molested by a close family friend, who, for all practical purposes except blood, was my uncle. This, of course, was one of the single-most powerful events in my life. The abuse continued throughout my teen-aged years and into my early twenties. I remained silent about it until I was thirty years old. I didnt talk freely about it until I was in my early thirties. Over the years I sought therapy to help me resolve many issues surrounding this abuse. I felt I had largely resolved my issues. But, in the spring of 2004, witnessing and being victimized by a violent street crime brought a tidal wave of emotions and anxieties back to the surface of my life. With the help of a terrific therapist, I addressed these issues and, once again, thought I had resolved them. In fact, I did largely resolve them. But, while I was attending the Male Survivors Conference in New York City this past fall, I was reminded by new, but smaller waves surfacing in my life. One of the reasons I attended the conference was to lead a workshop about how the spring, 2004 street crime forced me to re-examine my past. I also attended other workshops. During one workshop, I volunteered to help the presenter during one class exercise. While helping him, I heard rapid gunfire through an open window of the classroom. I was disturbed by the gunfire. I was also disturbed by the lack of police response---no sirens. A while later, I heard another volley of gunfire. Again, I heard no police response. Yet, my mind needed to make sense of the gunfire. After much thought, I concluded that some construction was going on outside and next door. The gunfire I heard must have been a roofer firing some sort of pneumatic nailer. I regained my composure. But, the issue stayed with me, consciously and unconsciously. The roofer solution didnt seem satisfying. But, there did not seem to be any evidence a street crime similar to the one I had witnessed in 2004 had occurred. A couple months after the seminar, while I was driving down the road in our family car, the solution came to me. My mind had been processing this issue all this time. The mens conference was held at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Students at this college study to become police officers. Police officers need to be properly trained in the use of firearms. I had, indeed, heard gunfire--gunfire from a pistol range located in the same building as the classroom in which I had been sitting. A smaller wave, a ripple, had surfaced in my mind. To the degree our traumas remain unresolved, from time to time, they return to our lives in waves--until we resolve them.

Dec 6, At the Movies

Thu, 06 Dec 2007 17:09:32 GMT

While driving down the road a few weeks back, James Taylor came on the radio and sang the theme song to one of my favorite childhood movies, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. This is a story of a young man, a student of the law, played by Jimmy Stewart and his moving to a frontier town in the Old West that is corrupt and completely under the thumb of a bullying villain played by Lee Marvin. There is a third manly character played by John Wayne, who also has a side-kick played by Woody Strode. John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart love the same woman who is played by Vera Miles. (As a side note, the parallels between this movie and Star Wars are significant. The two movies would make an excellent double-feature.) The theme song brought tears to my eyes. On reflection, I liked the movie because I identified with the character played by Jimmy Stewart who moved from being meek and submissive to becoming a man. But, the movie also resonated with me in that Stewart stood all alone in the world in his fight against evil. On further reflection, I realized many of the movies I love have this same theme: High Noon with Gary Cooper, On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando, Serpico with Al Pacino, A Man for All Seasons with Paul Scofield, and Braveheart with Mel Gibson. The author, Gail Sheehy in her book Mens Passages points out that a mans greatest fear is of being dominated or humiliated, by a stronger man, in front of other men. In light of this fear, I wonder if many men watching these movies cheer when the hero finally triumphs over the villain. I wonder if we male survivors of sexual abuse cheer the loudest.

Nov 2, The Deer in the Headlights Look

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 20:39:05 GMT

For many years when I became desperately anxious about my childhood sexual abuse issues, my dysthymia, my major depression, or in response to a major weather pattern change, my eyes would water slightly and my face would tighten up. My wife, and after a few years, my attorney, began to recognize this change in my visage and demeanor. I eventually began to see in the bathroom mirror what they recognized. It was what is sometimes referred to as the "deer in the headlights" look--that moment when the deer recognizes that death by automotive collision is imminent. When I meet a survivor of childhood sexual abuse who has just come out of the closet about his abuse, I sometimes notice this same facial expression. I am glad and I am proud for them that they have gained a significant step in their journey of freedom. But, I sometimes feel sad for them, also. My sadness is that I know they have a lot of work yet to do in their own recovery. For myself, I thankfully realize and recognize, by comparison, I have come a long way in my own recovery. But I do not forget, I still have my own recovery to pursue on a day by day, ongoing basis. In my recovery, I am so thankful I am no longer locked in a tomb of silence about what happened to me as a teen-ager. I am so thankful I seldom have that once regular "deer in the headlights" look.

Nov 2, A Room Full of Men

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 00:05:56 GMT

Almost every time I walk into a room full of men, I wonder "Which of you was sexually abused as a child or as a teen-ager? Which of you was raped as an adult?" Statistically, I know the general estimate is that one out of six men was sexually abused during their childhood. Yet, as I enter a room full of men I feel as though I am the only survivor of childhood sexual abuse present. The last weekend of October I gave a workshop at the 2007 Male Survivor Conference at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. The workshop addressed my own recovery before and after almost being killed a few years ago when my daughter and I stumbled into the middle of a gangland kidnapping in progress. As noted elsewhere within this website, I have recently published a book entitled Flashbacks of Abuse: How a machine gun toting sociopath freed me from the chains of my childhood. At my workshop, at various other workshops, and at the general sessions, I found it amazingly comforting that I was surrounded by many men, both gay and straight, who had endured and survived adversities similar to my own.

Oct 14, A Pitchfork or a Spade? Choosing the Right Tool.

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 17:07:21 GMT

For many years after I went public with the facts of my abuse, I labored over the question, "Why?" Why did Steve molest me? Why did he pretend to be my friend and mentor? Why did he need to control me? Why was I susceptible to his abuse? Why didn't I speak up when the abuse started? Why did it take so many years for me to break away from his grasp? Why didn't my parents see what was going on? Why did they simply allow Steve to take such a big part of my life? Why didn't they do something. These why-questions nagged me. Sometimes, I wailed at the world and the universe with "Why? Why? Why? Why me? Why me? Why?" For years I questioned. There seemed to be no answers. Obviously, I could not get a reliable or truthful answer to "Why?" from Steve. To even ask him invited further abuse or mental anguish. His answer would have been various combinations of "You wanted it." "You deserved it." "You liked it." "You volunteered for it." Seeking answers from my parents led to disappointing answers also. In their own human failings they failed to protect me, their child. The simple and honest answer from my parents would have been, "Mark. We are sorry. We failed you. Please forgive us." The answer I got which failed to salve my wounds was, "Mark, we did the best we could as parents, with the tools and the knowledge we had at the time." My many years of "Why?" were years trying to excavate with the wrong tool--a pitchfork-- something deeply buried within me. The only thing I was able to do was to continually turn over the ground beneath me. Now, in my mid-fifties, I realized I chose the wrong tool. Questions were my tools. But, I formulated the wrong questions. I now ask, "Even though Steve did terrible things to me in order to sate his own needs and desires, how shall I now live? Also, what meaning do I now choose to hold about what happened to me? The inadvertent shift in forsaking "Why?" for "How shall I then live?" and "What meaning do I assign to past events?" has given me a measure of peace and control over what used to be a sea of torment. I have set aside the pitchfork in favor of the spade. With a spade, I have been able to get to the bottom of things. I now am able to be effective in my mental, psychological, and spiritual work. I re-framed the issues, and my world changed. I changed my opinion and the world changed. Mark Douglass Speaker and Author Flashbacks of Abuse: How a Machine Gun Toting Sociopath
Freed Me from the Chains of My Childhood.

Oct 2, Survivors of Sexual Abuse Like War Veterans?

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 21:40:43 GMT

On public television, I have been watching the Ken Burns' documentary about World War II entitled: War. Many of the war veterans that speak about their combat experiences have physical wounds that have healed and scarred over. They also had psychological scars which to some degree or another never quite healed. One veteran tears up explaining how a medic covered him up with his own body to protect him from an incoming artillery shell burst. The medic took the brunt of the explosion and died thus saving the veteran's life. Another veteran, a fighter pilot talks about how for five decades after the war he had nightmares about some of the German soldiers he shot and killed. Another veteran describes the D-Day landing beaches at Normandy covered with the corpses of young American soldiers. Each of these veterans, although they had their campaign medals, their purple heart awards, and their physical wounds and scars, still had unhealed wounds to their souls. When I think of us survivors of childhood sexual abuse, I sometimes wish we could have medals to show our childhood bravery. I wish we could proudly show our scars as we recount our noble martial deeds or simply the fact of our having survived. I wish we could put on our soldiers' uniforms to proudly show our neighbors on Independence Day tokens of our sacrifices. But, we survivors too often choose shame over personal pride in our survivorship. So we would probably leave the medals, the awards, and our soldiers' uniforms in our very private closets. Although we are probably not prone to such obvious public displays, perhaps we can each open up ourselves a little bit to our families, our spouses, a close friend, or an office colleague. Perhaps, our very private wounds can then begin to heal a bit and then to scar over instead of festering the remainder of our lives.

Sep 28, My Maturing Evangelism
About Male Sexual Abuse

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 21:32:39 GMT

I was first sexually abused at age twelve in 1963. The abuse continued two to three times a week throughout my teenage years, and even into my young adulthood. My abuser was a close family friend who came to dominate every aspect of my life. His control over me was complete. So much so, I didn't realize the extent of his control and merely looked upon him as a benevolent guide or mentor. In fact, he was a malevolent force in my life. I remained silent about my history of sexual abuse for over seventeen years before at about age thirty, I mustered enough courage to tell my first therapist. Within a couple years I was telling my wife, my family, and the world about my abuse when I started one of the first lawsuits in my state and probably the nation whereby a survivor of sexual abuse sued his molester. I became an evangelist, wanting to tell anyone and everybody. My evangelism has cooled over the years. I began to tell my story only some times. I joined a Rotary club about a year ago. I decided not to immediately rush to tell all to all. Today, at our weekly breakfast meeting a police officer was speaking about internet sexual predators of children. At a logical place in the meeting, I briefly disclosed my history and gave thanks that our society was now able to talk about such issues. What was so closeted in my life and in our society so many years ago could now be discussed in measured and reasonable terms. More importantly, my life was just a bit more integrated by my disclosure on my terms to my friends and colleagues. I feel content in my mature evangelism.

Aug 29, Suppression of My Anger, Part II

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 21:29:36 GMT

I have felt incredible anger and disappointment at my daughter's decision, even as I look back at my own teen-aged failures. Because I tend to keep the lid on my anger, for the past several days, I have felt a need to yell, yet I have, for the most part, stifled it. I have felt a need to cry, coupled with an incredible tightness in my throat. I have tried my best to hold back my tears. I have had difficulty sleeping. I have been avoidant of my daughter, for her youthful failure, and my wife, for her willingness to allow our daughter to just walk away from her commitments. Mostly, I have felt besieged by all the old feelings of helplessness and depression that dogged me for so many years. As a family we have been discussing this matter and we have been working out a solution. I discussed various solutions with my daughter and my wife. We agreed that our daughter could not simply silently walk away from the situation. We required her to write a formal note of withdrawal from the course to the online language supervisor. We also required our daughter to offer to reimburse the school district for the cost of the course. We insisted that by doing this she put formal closure to the matter, and that she pay the penalty of reimbursing the school district. All of this required negotiation, discussion, and conflict--none of which I liked doing. My father hated negotiation, discussion, and conflict. Probably that is why he never held me to task for the $25 or the work I had promised him. It is probably why he never again mentioned them. So, as I write this, I cry. I mourn the fact my father, by his silence and acquiescence to my failed commitments, in a way, treated my like a child when, as a teen-ager, I needed to be held to something approaching the standard required by the adult world into which I was growing. I also rejoice that I have been able to hang in there and have been able to forge a workable solution with my family whereby my daughter can begin to live up to the standards of the adult world into which she is emerging. I also, once again, realize the need for me to continue to forgive myself for my youthful failings.

Aug 29, Suppression of My Anger

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 20:58:00 GMT

When I was teen-ager, in June of 1965, my brother graduated from high school. Steve, my parents' closest friend, took my brother and me on a road trip from Minneapolis to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Teton National Monument. I was allowed to go, but I needed spending money. I asked my father for a loan of $25.00. (In 2007 dollars this would be over $150.) I had previously promised my father I would strip and sand the paint off from a porch addition of our house. My fee for this job was going to be $25. Because I really yearned to go on the trip with Steve and my brother, I asked my father to advance me the $25 against my promised work. He agreed to this proposal but only after securing my commitment to complete the job after I returned from the trip and before school started in the fall. I promised and repeatedly assured my father I would do as we agreed. I went on the trip. I spent the $25.00 during the trip. I came home. I worked on stripping and sanding the paint a few days here and there, but I never lived up to my obligation. My father ended up doing the work by himself. He never called me to task or reminded me of the $25 or my failure to complete the job. Over forty years later, I still feel deeply ashamed for my teen-aged failure to perform a simple contract as promised. I also feel ashamed because my father never mentioned my failure to me as he spent many summer evenings stripping and sanding the paint from the addition's clapboards. This past year, my teen-aged daughter enrolled in an online language course through our school district. The school district spent a couple hundred dollars in order to enroll my daughter in this course. My daughter is an excellent student, but somehow, the impersonal nature of the online learning. Throughout the year both my wife and I regularly reminded my daughter of her homework duties. She gave a half-hearted effort to keep up with the language assignments. But, ultimately, she fell way behind. I urged her to live up to her promised obligations. She felt I was nagging, but she promised me she would. The end of the summer is here. A new school year is about to start. She decided to drop the language course.

Jul 29, Thinking Makes it So.

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 14:00:17 GMT

In her book, "Predators, Pedophiles, Rapists, & Other Sex Offenders" Dr. Anna C. Salter comments on New Age philosophies which suggest the worldyour worldis a reflection of how one thinks. She is disturbed by the teachings of Dr. Wayne Dyer, Ramana Maharshi, and others which suggest mystery and suffering only exist in the mind. Dr. Salter asks, But how do I tell that to my clients who were raped and molested as children, those who have been victims of domestic violence, and most of all, those who have had children abducted or murdered? I, personally, am torn between the two poles of these positions. From my own experience as a childhood victim of sexual abuse, I agree with Dr. Salter. The world is a dangerous place. I am vigilant in the world. But, if I believe danger lurks behind every corner, how can I function in the world? Indeed, how can I function in my own home? If something terrible has happened to you as the result of another's intentional act, or simply by happenstance, how do you deal with it after the fact? You may not have had a choice about what happened to you, but you do have a choice about how you will process it and how you will integrate it into your life. Maybe this choice in the face of adversity is the only choice we have. Maybe it is the only way to remain free in and unfree world. Shakespeare wrote, For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Jun 27, Loss of Eden

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 14:18:15 GMT

A couple weeks ago, just as school let out for the summer, I attended a breakfast meeting which had about thirty colleagues in attendance. One woman brought along her twelve year old son. From time to time, I stole a glance at this twelve year old. I was overcome with sadness about a lost world. My lost world. This boy, still a boy, and only barely starting on his journey into manhood, was the same age as I was when I was first molested. I was struck by how young this boy was. And how young I must have been when I was first molested. I just couldn't get over how sick my molester was to be sexually attracted to such a youth. I also struggled with the loss of my childhood Eden. Emotion about my past has been bubbling to the surface of late. In another example of my own reminders of my lost Eden happened just the other day. When I was a boy between the ages of seven and twelve, my mother assigned me a small, ongoing chore. Our house had a long hedge of primroses along one of its borders. These roses bloomed abundantly and often throughout the summer, provided someone plucked the old blooms off the bushes. Trimming the old buds, also known as deadheading, prevented the rose bush from going to seed, and assured continued blooming throughout the summer. The other day, I was walking around a nearby city lake. After forty-five minutes of walking, and thinking about many things, including my childhood, I came across a primrose hedge along the walking path. Shocked back to the time before I was molested, I began to cry. I was surprised and moved by a powerful surge of emotion, nostalgia, and a sense of loss. I think, perhaps, I am in a new stage of healing. Because I am no longer keeping my lid on tight, I am experiencing more feelings in my life, more hope, and more optimism. I look forward to next year's primrose blooms.

Jun 9, Will You Become a Child Molester? Part II

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 13:23:31 GMT

Twenty years pass and the year is 1910. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1920. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1940. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. twenty years pass and the year is 1960. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1980. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 2000. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. What percentage of the world would have been molested by the year 2000? ONE HUNDRED PERCENT! Actually, the one hundred percent level would have been reached long before the year 2000. You see, the above example is simply powers of 10. You remember from high school math, 10 to first power, 10 to the second power, 10 to the third power, 10 to the fourth power, etc. 1800 would have been 10*10=100 1820 would have been 10*10*10=1,000 1840 would have been 10*10*10*10=10,000 1860 would have been 10*10*10*10*10=100,000 1880 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10=1,000,000 1900 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10=10,000,000 1920 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10=100,000,000 1940 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10=1,000,000,000 1960 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10=10,000,000,000 1980 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10=100,000,000,000 2000 would have been 10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10*10=1,000,000,000,000 The population of the world was estimated in1960 to be 2,981,959. Today, the population of the world is estimated to be 6,600,000. Somewhere between 1940 and 1960, the entire population of the earth would have been a victim of sexual abuse. Quite clearly, this is an absurdity. THERFORE IT IS A FALSE STATEMENT TO PREDICT: If you were molested as a child, you will become a child molester. BUT, IT IS A TRUE STATEMENT TO LOOK BACK AND CONCLUDE: If you are a child molester, it may not be surprising that you were molested as a child.

Jun 9, Will You Become a Child Molester?

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 13:17:35 GMT

When watching television news or reading the daily newspaper about a recently arrested and criminally charged child molester, sometimes the journalist will state that the abuser had, himself or herself, been molested as a child. If you were molested as a child, or if someone close to you was molested as a child, you might reach a false and damning conclusion about yourself or the person close to you. Many people do. Many people, including the very people we depend upon to give us the news, foolishly believe if a person was molested as a child, he will become a child molester--guaranteed! If you have done any reading about pedophiles, you will find that during a pedophile's lifetime, he or she will have molested many, many children. Sometimes, the self reporting done by pedophiles suggests scores, if not hundreds of child victims during a lifetime of molestation. If every one of those abused children grew up to become a child molester, because they were sexually abused, the world's entire population would be child molesters. You may doubt this argument, but let us work through it. First assume that up until, let us say, the year 1800, nobody had ever sexually abused any child in the entire history of mankind. Next, assume that a new generation of people comes along every twenty years. Next, assume one person, the first in mankind's history, molested, not scores, not hundreds, but only ten children in the year 1800. Assume further, the molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1820. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1840. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1860. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1880. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child. Twenty years pass and the year is 1900. Each of the ten molested children are now adults, and they molest ten children, each. Assume further, each molester died after molesting the tenth child.

Jun 6, Forgive the Unforgivable?

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 13:55:11 GMT

We childhood victims of sexual abuse need to journey along a lonely path. Over time and with the help of others, we become survivors of sexual abuse. If we continue on our path, and continue to heal and grow, we become people, who happened to have a personal history of sexual abuse. Certainly, our history is a part of us, but it does not have to define us, to the exclusion of all the other things we do and enjoy in this life. I know I went from silence on the issue--a silence of seventeen years, or so--to wanting to stand up and shout from the rooftops the horrid details of what had happened to me. I went from silence to wanting to speak the unspeakable, whether or not anybody else wanted to hear about it. Thank God, I have been blessed by an understanding wife this past quarter century. During most of this time, I have spoken about my abuse, processed my abuse, spoken some more from a slightly different viewpoint, further processed my abuse, and then spoken some more. My wife has lovingly listened to me. I have been incredibly blessed by her presence and her partnership. Currently, I am in a stage where having spoken the unspeakable, I have come to accept the unacceptable about what happened to me at Steve's hands. I am okay with this, but short bursts of anger do bubble to the surface from time to time. These slight, private, eruptions pose no danger to me or those about me. They do, however, remind me I still have some inner work to do in order to heal. I look forward to, what to me looks like, a third and final stage. I hope, soon, to be able to forgive the unforgivable. I am not there yet, but I see the lights of the promised land on the not-too-distant horizon.

May 29, Hate, Love, or Indifference?

Tue, 29 May 2007 15:10:45 GMT

For many years I was consumed by the fact Steve molested me. In doing so, he exhibited complete disregard for my welfare and well-being as a child. What kind of person could do that? In examining Steve's conduct towards me there is an unstated premise which I held from which I drew my outrage. The unstated premise was, If Steve had any humanity he would have cared more for my needs as a child than gratifying his sexual needs. Well, he didn't care more for my needs as a child. He had an overriding concern in his life-----sex addiction. This addiction, this need of his, trumped all other concerns. I am reluctant to say, he had an illness. This illness had a desire that was unquenchable. If you bristle at this, ask any alcoholic, Did you make plans and provision for your next drink? Ask any drug addict, Did you make plans and provisions for your next score? Ask them, When you were desperate, would you promise anything or do anything for that next drink or that next score? Ask them, In making plans and provisions, was the next drink or drug score more important than your relationships with other people? Steve was an addict. In his world, I was his drug. I was not human. I was a mere commodity. He assured me he cared for me more than anybody else could or would. These were false promises made in order to keep the commodity---me---available. He made numerous well tailored promises to many other teen-age boys. I see this now. When I look at things dispassionately, my outrage and my emotional entanglement with Steve (though he is long dead, now) is diminished. When somebody asks you, What is the opposite of love? and you answer, hate, you are mistaken. Hate means there is still an entanglement, a level of engagement. The opposite of love is indifference or disinterest. The opposite of love is no longer caring. When you no longer care, you are free from love and from hate. For a long time, I hated Steve. My hate allowed Steve to occupy space in my mind. These days, I am getting close to no longer caring about Steve. It has been over 40 years since Steve molested me for the first time. As a simple matter of public health, men like Steve should be tried, jailed and kept away from the objects of their fantasies and their desire. Cold, dispassionate justice is the answer. As for Steve, himself. The long dead Steve...... I no longer care. I am free.

May 17, Devil or Angel? Please Say Whichever You Are!

Thu, 17 May 2007 18:07:25 GMT

I was reviewing some old files of mine in our basement, trying to weed out old receipts, canceled checks, bank statements and other detritus of modern legal and economic life. I came across an old Minnesota Multi-Phasic Inventory (MMPI) report about Steve. I obtained a copy of this report over twenty years ago when I was in the process of suing Steve for his molesting me as a child. Steve, in cultivating me as one of his victims, skillfully held himself out to be a mature, moral adult who could be trusted and who really cared for me as a young man. In my youthful innocence, and in my need for love, affection and approval, I believed him. The report was quite telling: The results of the test taken by the subject are technically invalid because of extreme defensiveness and denial of shortcomings which borders on deliberate distortion. Subject tends to give socially approved answers about himself regarding self control and moral values; the results of the test should be interpreted with caution. This pattern of test responses is frequently associated, however, with socially immature and demanding individuals who have little to offer in the way of support and understanding to others and equally as little insight into their own functioning. An accurate picture of subject's personality and functioning is sufficiently concealed by his guardedness that a statement about possible sexual maladjustment cannot be made. There are no signs of an ongoing psychotic process. I would expect subject to be a highly manipulative individual with an elaborate system of rationalizations and denial for inappropriate behavior. I can almost hear Steve saying, Oh that test was such a joke. The questions in it were simply ridiculous. How can a test really measure the character of a man, anyway? You have known me for many years. You should trust your own good judgment. Besides, everybody knows most psychologist and psychiatrists go into that profession because they are half crazy in the first place! If only I had seen Steve's MMPI report in 1963. If only my parents had seen this MMPI report at anytime during my teens. If only we had seen and understood it's ramifications. Would we have acted upon it, or would we have been lulled to sleep by Steve's portrayal of it? I wonder. What was he? Sociopath? Psychopath? Viper? Scorpion?

May 16, If I Were a Real Man...., Part II

Wed, 16 May 2007 21:12:00 GMT

Many months of pain arising from an event which consumed less than two minutes of my life. Different events consumed twenty years of my life. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of a man who dominated my life some of the same issues arose. For years, when I have wanted to talk about what happened to me as a child, I found most people find the story too shocking and revolting. It upsets their own day-to-day false sense of security about themselves and about their children. More importantly, I have been hard upon myself. I have often thought, If I were any kind of real man, I would have.....recognized Steve's evil intentions sooner.....fought back......run away......sought help.....not let him have his way with me for so many years. The fact was, in 2004 I was up against a heavily armed sociopath who was working with several others. It would have been supreme foolishness for me to have attempted the Hollywood scenarios which went through my mind. I did the manly thing by forcing/ordering my 12 year old daughter to the ground and covering her up with my body in order to protect her from further gunfire. The fact was, in 1963 I was a 12 year old child, a bright but unsophisticated child who was up against a powerful, dangerous sociopath who was manipulative and deceitful. In my thirties, I did the manly thing by confronting Steve in a public trial and defeating him. I did this at a time when few people dared to believe the sexual abuse of boys was a significant public health problem. Today I do the manly thing today by not remaining silent about this issue.

May 16, If I Were a Real Man...

Wed, 16 May 2007 21:10:23 GMT

In March, 2004 while my daughter and I were traveling in Europe, we accidentally stumbled into the middle of a gangland kidnapping. Several shots were fired from what looked like a 45 caliber Thompson sub-machine gun. One shot struck a parked car not three feet away from where my daughter and I were walking. Although I was not terrified during the less than two minutes it took for the event to transpire, as soon as it was over and the bad guys had left the scene, terror crept into my mind and heart. For the next several days, weeks and months, during every waking hour, a movie kept playing and replaying in my mind. I tried to process what had happened. I weighed details I knew I saw or heard. I tried to avoid filling in details about things I didn't see or hear, but which filled in various gaps. I wondered why I was immobilized and stunned during the first thirty seconds of what we witnessed. I actually misread the situation, thinking the bad guy was an undercover police officer. I wondered how I managed to conclude that in the middle of the terror. Most of all, I found myself being hard on myself. I kept thinking, If I were any kind of real man, I would have.......recognized the danger sooner.......jumped into the fray.......tackled the gunman......wrestled the gun from him......held him prisoner until the police arrived. My mind went through many many scenarios. But I could not imagine a likely scenario which did not contain significant risk that my daughter would have been injured or killed, or that I would be injured or killed. It took me months to work through these alternate scenarios, with the help of a skilled psychologist who used to be a police officer. One thing really hurt me terribly when I came home to the USA. When I told people about what happened, the look of shock and revulsion on their faces was just too much for me to bear. All I wanted was for them to listen to me, but the story was so shocking to them, and so upsetting to their day-to-day false sense of security, they gave me non-verbal and verbal cues to change the subject to anything, anything else! I thus became conditioned to not talk about it. But talking about it was what I needed in order to heal from it.

May 16, Gay? or Not Gay?

Wed, 16 May 2007 04:30:55 GMT

I went away for college to Boston to attend Harvard University. While at college I had several friends and acquaintances who were gay. During my sophomore year I even worked on the set crew in a drag show that is the oldest theatrical company in America-----the Hasty Pudding Theatricals. It was strange for me to have gay friends while at the same time desperately hiding the fact I was in a sexual relationship with Steve, the man who molested me several times a week beginning when I was twelve years old. The confusing thing about this was that I was not sexually attracted to these gay friends. I was curious about them, but I never had any sexual feelings for them. In a certain regard, my friendships with these guys were simply friendships. In another regard, they were experiments testing whether I was gay or whether I had any attraction to men. The most insane thing was that while I was away at Harvard I had one life. I was heterosexual. Yet while I was back in Minneapolis I lived at Steve's house. Things might have been different had I been able to attend Harvard straight through. Originally, I was accepted at Harvard and at the same time, I was accepted into a Navy ROTC program, which would have paid my entire cost of attending Harvard. My ROTC commitment would have ordered my life so I could break from Steve. But the radicals of the late 1960s managed to get ROTC removed from Harvard's curriculum. As a result, I lost my ability to pay for Harvard. I nevertheless attended Harvard and graduated from Harvard. But it was a roundabout journey. My father paid about 20 of my costs. I worked for Steve and he then paid for a significant portion of my costs. Finally, in the last year or so, Harvard gave me some grants and loans so I could complete my studies and graduate. By this route, I took seven years to complete a four year bachelor of arts degree. When I was not at Harvard, I lived and worked with Steve. Therefore, I also was sexually involved with Steve and dependent upon Steve in too many ways. I worked for Steve for a year between high school and my freshman year. I worked for Steve for two more years between sophomore and junior years. I worked for Steve during every break from school and during every summer vacation. For years, I have wondered why I didn't find a way to break away from him. But by the time I started college, I was so worn down and indoctrinated by him, and dependent upon him for food, shelter, transportation, advice and friendship-----I could not conceive of not working for him. It was almost like the dutiful son who works in the family business at the father's insistence, even though the son would rather do anything but. I was, in effect, Steve's prisoner, suffering from Stockholm syndrome.