Reflections on Recovery from Sexual Child Abuse

I don't remember much about my childhood. I have no memories of the time before my parents divorced when I was four years old. Between my fourth and fifteenth years, I have very little memory. My therapist says I am dissociative. Forgetting bad things is a way of coping with them and surviving. I sometimes wonder how bad things really were since I remember so little.

Since I started working on my recovery from the sexual, emotional, and physical abuse I suffered as a child, memories come back to me periodically. I have only been in recovery for two months, and I already remember a lot of things I had forgotten a long time ago. I can only imagine what I will begin to regain as I move forward. Memories of my sexual abuse are especially foggy. I remember vague instances of it happening, but no time frame for when it started or ended (there was an end, thank God), no memories of separate events, just separate settings.

I have two step brothers, my step father's kids. One is three years older than me and one is six months younger than me. My actual brother is three years younger than me, so there are four of us total, no sisters. My brother and I lived most of the time with our mom and step dad. We shared a room. My step brothers would visit every other weekend and for a couple weeks in the summer. I don't know how old I was when it started happening. Somewhere between ten and thirteen years old is the closest I can come. Definitely less than thirteen.

We were playing in the rec-room (we called it the playroom). All I remember about the first time is that my older brother, Vincent (not his real name), reached over to me while I was seated next to him. He ran his hand up my thigh and rubbed my penis. I became aroused immediately. I looked at him and he looked back. I don't know what expression he had on his face, I just remember his eyes looking at me intently. I was confused and scared by what he had done. He had touched me in a way that I had always been told was wrong. But it felt good. Very good. I was at the beginning of explorations into my own sexuality and arousal. How could it be wrong if it felt good? Plus, he was my older brother. By this time, I had known him as my brother for more than half of my life.

I don't remember how it progressed from this initial fondling to full-blown abuse. I remember sitting in the living room after my mom and step dad had gone to bed (Vincent was old enough to be trusted to watch the three of us on his own). Vincent was sitting next to me. The door to the playroom where my other brothers were playing video games was closed. We would open our pants and pull them down enough to expose our penises. We would masturbate each other to orgasm. Then we would pull up our pants, change clothes in our rooms if necessary, wash our hands, and go join our other brothers in the playroom.

I believe this setting was the most common. I remember it like a still image. His penis was huge compared to mine and he had full pubic hair where I had none (testament to the fact he had already gone through puberty and I had not). My fingers barely circled it when I touched him. My penis was so small in his hands.

Sometimes we would sit on the couch in the playroom behind our other brothers while they were focused on their video game and touch each other. We would have pillows on our laps and would sit close. I remember feeling excited by the danger involved. We could be caught. I didn't want anyone to find out. I saw myself as an equal participant in the abuse (I never considered it abuse until two months ago. I began thinking of it as molestation in my late teens, but never saw it as abuse because I felt like I was responsible for it).

When we would drive home late at night from a ski trip, he and I would sit in the back seat of the van, crouch down low (pretending to sleep), and masturbate each other. When we would go camping, we would have our sleeping bags next to each other in the tent. Once everyone was asleep, we would unzip, reach into each other's sleeping bag, and masturbate each other.

These four settings, along with the first incident, are all the memories I have. I know it lasted at least a year because we only went skiing in the winter and we only went camping in the summer. I believe it lasted several years. I know it stopped sometime around the age of thirteen or fourteen (for me). I don't know why it stopped or who was responsible for stopping it. One Idea I have is that Vincent met his fiance around that time. With her able to satisfy his sexual needs, he no longer needed to use me in that way.

This abuse has had many ramifications in my life to this day. Negative self image (always feeling that I am unattractive and that my penis is small), low self-esteem, depression (sometimes severe), suicidal thoughts (I planned to kill myself more times than I can remember and cut myself with a knife on many different occasions), and sexually compulsive behavior are some of the major issues.

I am working through a lot of my issues with a combination of a 12-step program group (sexaholics anonymous - a group for sex addicts, another result of the abuse), individual therapy (general therapy and I am beginning to see a specialist in sexual abuse and dysfunction), reconnecting with my family (slowly, person-by person), and educating myself in all aspects of my problems (I read a LOT).

The memories, as I said, come back slowly in pieces. I have epiphanies on a weekly basis about an aspect of my life that has been affected by the abuse. I move forward in spite of my fear. The future is uncertain, but I feel better about it than I ever have. I am finally being honest with myself and with other people.

I leave you with the serenity prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change
Courage to change the things I can
And wisdom to know the difference
Thy will, not mine, be done.