WANTED: Male Survivors of Incest and Sibling Sexual Abuse
If you are a male survivor of incest, or sibling sexual abuse of any kind, I’m calling out to you. My sister molested me when I was six-years old, and the perverse atrocities she exposed me to, persisted and progressed for a year. It took three decades to complete my journey, from victim to survivor, and now I know it didn’t have to be like that. Now, I know, I didn’t have to feel so alone.
I was so young and confused; my sister had no trouble convincing me I’d be in more trouble than her, if our wretched secret was uncovered. She knew I was terrified of our psychotic father, and she wielded that knowledge against me.
“Dad would kill you, if he knew what you just did,” she’d warn. “I’ll never tell on you though… You can trust me.” It wasn’t a question, but her eyes widened with anticipation for an answer… I didn’t have one. I remember being distracted, because my underwear felt strange and it occurred to me, I put them on backwards. My big sister sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can trust you too… Right?”
I could only nod.
I was seven-years old, when our mom came home earlier than my sister planned. I was suffocating, buried beneath floral-patterned bed sheets —Thick legs crushed my head! She twisted, tweaking my neck! Then, a flood of light and fresh air —Searing pain in my arm!
The room spun as I flew, in a wide arc, courtesy of my mother’s fury-induced adrenaline surge! I saw trailing snapshots through tears. Michele’s wide-eye horror. The window. A poster of Bon Jovi. The open doorway… and I hit the ground running.
In the living room, I collapsed on the couch and succumbed to a year’s worth of hidden tears. I pulled a pillow, hard, into the back of my head, so I couldn’t hear my mom’s distorted screaming and her voice, alien, from shock and rage.
I was a deer in the headlights when my mom’s hands, gentle again, found my shoulders and rolled me over to face her… the warm, loving mom I’d always known. She held me, and rocked me forever, while I drenched my cheeks in the sanctity of her embrace. My mom tried to ease my pain, alternating between asking me if I was all right… and telling me I was.
I could only nod.
We never really talked about it again, and knowing how much I appreciated that fact, sickens me today. I needed professional help… immediately! I was thoroughly convinced I was a dirty, disgusting little pervert. I felt guilty and ashamed, thankful everyone was willing to pretend it never happened.
Months later, playing with my toys on the floor of my bedroom, I was overwhelmed with an unexpected wave of inner-turmoil that I was far too young to comprehend. I felt happy and content, sitting on the hardwood floor, transforming a car into a robot and then back again. All of a sudden, all the pain and discomfort I ever felt in my whole life, seemed to bubble up from deep inside myself, leaving room for nothing else.
I continued having episodes like that throughout my childhood, and I did my best to keep it to myself, along with the bedwetting, and the fact that I still had sex dreams about my older sister. I isolated myself more than ever, but occasionally someone (usually my mom) would catch me breakdown for no apparent reason. It happened in school… often, and on the bus. Kids pointed, stared, and made fun of my inexplicable tears and hypnotic rocking…. “What’s wrong, Crybaby?”
I could only nod.
When the attacks came, I would squeeze my knees tight to my chest and rock back and forth, trying to calm the storm brewing in my mind. It helped sometimes but, more and more, the despair seemed endless and threatened to break me apart from the inside.
With eyes shut tight, I’d rock faster —jaw flexed, to quell a blossoming scream, while my fingernails bore into the backs of my arms. Sometimes, the skin would break, and I’d bleed a little. Somehow, this brought relief and subconsciously, I believe, laid the foundation for a bleak coping skill that will forever tempt me in times of duress.
I have a lot of issues my friends, but perhaps if you’re reading this I’m preaching to the choir. I’m not the only male survivor of incest, and you have to know I genuinely understand how difficult it is to talk about being beaten, bullied, or abused by a female violator… but you have too! I need to hear your voices, see your words. Will you join me here?
My sister molested me, progressively and persistently for a year, and I haven’t felt like I fit in with the rest of the world since. I know, first-hand, the severity of the scars left in the wake of this rare form of sibling sexual abuse. I wear plenty of them on my skin, but most of them lie far beneath its decorated surface.
I’m thirty-seven years old now… a loving, supportive partner and a proud, caring daddy. I’m a published author and an advocate for abuse survivors, mental health awareness, suicide prevention, and the essential elimination of stigma.
Two years ago, I overcame my own suicidal tendencies, after struggling with them for twenty years. I was already on borrowed time and my death was looming on the horizon, until I finally identified the problem and faced the weathered demons from my haunted past. Many of these demons were born in my sister’s bedroom, and they’d grown impatient with me… ignoring their insistent screams for so long.
In the end, I survived of course, but it wasn’t pretty. Now I do the best I can, living with severe mental illness and striving for perpetual motion in my daunting recovery. My symptoms vary in their severity and persistence —lying dormant for years or, sometimes, demanding my full attention for extended periods and my ability to cope will most likely always fluctuate to some degree.
Mine, is a difficult journey for sure, and I could really use some company. Does anyone hear my call?
Now, in the spirit of full-disclosure, the sexual abuse I survived isn’t solely responsible for my extensive psychological disorders, but it was a main ingredient. Any form of abuse, from any violator, introduces destructive elements into one’s life. When your older sibling sexually abuses you, it decimates your innocence and cripples your ability to trust. If you want to recover from the devastation, you’re going to need help… the sooner the better.
The fact that I’m a male survivor of incest, alone, would have been enough to crack the foundation of my existence. The fact that I didn’t get help after my sister molested me, made some of that damage irreversible.
This motivates me to expose the trauma I experienced throughout my youth, and the complex reverberations that echoed into adulthood. I’ve been quiet for far too long. I want people to read my harsh stories and bear witness to the escalating damage they that occurred —avoid the illusions, traps, and pitfalls I subjected myself too. I want to open stubborn eyes to the facts, that these issues will never just go away, and no one has to suffer alone.
Feeling uncomfortable around my peers in grade school, because my sister forced me to have sex with her, didn’t need to blossom into debilitating Social Anxiety Disorder… or progressive panic attacks, that eventually kept me homebound with Agoraphobia.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) didn’t have to graduate to Chronic PTSD. I know if I got help sooner my adolescent habit of self-harming wouldn’t have followed me into adulthood and escalated to pouring boiling water on myself and breaking my own toes with a steel barbell plate!
I can feel the gravity of the time I lost, figuring this out on my own, and it’s a sobering fact, that others are out there learning the same hard lesson. So, I’m spilling my guts about the crimes committed against me, the repercussions they’ve had on my life, how I deal with my remaining issues, and how I’m moving forward with my life.
My friend, Emma White, invited me to do this here, where the support, compassion, and understanding always come in generous abundance, with perfect sincerity. The Real Supermum Blog will be a beautiful mountaintop, from which I can shout far and wide… calling to my brothers to join me, not as fellow victims of abuse, but as powerful survivors!
With severe conviction and vigorous pride… I’m screaming out to you!
I want you to share your stories here, and the reason for that is simple… It helps. It will help you, because you’ll have affirmation, understanding, compassion, and support. You’ll have a safe community to purge your stored suffering, without worrying about judgment, ignorance, or stigma.
It will help those who read your words you too, reminding them they’re not alone and showing them, that yes… they too can survive. I lost my mother in 1993, but here, I have access to some of the most caring moms (mums) on the planet. What better place, to ease the heavy burden of loneliness and support your healing. Will you join us?
Don’t worry. I’ll understand, if for now…
You can only nod
