I hurt for a long time because of childhood sexual abuse. Now I want to provide a safe place for hurting men to connect with other survivors of sexual abuse. Talk to us. You don't have to use your real name to share your experiences or ask questions.

The Funeral of My Abuser

(This is an encore post from an anonymous reader.)

My eyes were red and swollen even before we arrived at the church. I had already been crying in the car, not so much for him, but for all that I knew had happened between us so many years before this day. My older brother was just one of four primary abusers in my childhood, but in many ways he was the most damaging to me. And now he was dead.

The swirling emotions I felt as I entered the church were toxic and overwhelming. Family members greeted me with saddened, concerned faces, yet no one seemed as broken as I was, including his widow and children. No one else seemed to be struggling to hold back scalding tears, even though I know that many were genuinely sad that a friend, son, husband, and father they loved was now gone. I had known a completely different person than they had.

Music played softly on the sound system. I tried to put on a nice smile and talk with family members and friends, but as I saw the black and white photographs of our childhood years scroll by on the screen in the front of the church I ran down the hall to hide in the kitchen as I sobbed uncontrollably.

Mercifully, the service was brief. I managed to stand and read his obituary and to sing The Lord’s Prayer at the end. I don’t know how I made it through, but I did. It was my “gift” to him, even though I don’t believe God’s will was done “on earth as it is in heaven” in our lives in any way. I don’t believe that big brothers were made to abuse their little brothers.

As the service ended, the tears sprang up again from deep inside. While others dabbed at the corners of their eyes, I sobbed again. My wife stood there and wept with me. She held onto me and whispered, “No one knows. No one knows. You’ve done the hard work. It’s over now.”

I shook a few hands, hugged a few necks, offered a few platitudes, and exited the building. My wife offered to drive, but I refused. A few moments later, as I was backing out of the parking space, the sobbing returned—even harder. We changed places and she drove us away from the church. I had said goodbye.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

For this entry, all I can say is 'Wow.' I've conquered so much in my abuse story, but I fear the 'final episode' described so well here! This gives me hope, though.

On another note, would you consider posting other brief entries from another anonymous contributor?

Thanks for your work!

Cec Murphey said...

To answer the question about accepting posts, I'm cautious about inviting others to post. Sexual assault is such a personal, emotional topic and I hope you understand. If you feel you have something to say to readers of the blog, you may email me at cec.murp@Comcest.net.
I expect you to tell me who you are when you write.
I don't reveal anyone's identity without permission. Look the recent posts by Roger. That was his decision to list it that way. John Joseph is a regular contributor, and it's his pseudonym.

Cec Murphey said...

To answer the question about accepting posts, I'm cautious about inviting others to post. Sexual assault is such a personal, emotional topic and I hope you understand. If you feel you have something to say to readers of the blog, you may email me at cec.murp@Comcest.net.
I expect you to tell me who you are when you write.
I don't reveal anyone's identity without permission. Look the recent posts by Roger. That was his decision to list it that way. John Joseph is a regular contributor, and it's his pseudonym.