Young Teen Abused

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I used to think I was special. I used to think I came from great American families, where the relatives up and down my family tree did wonderful and interesting things. My parents loved me. We were middle-class and well-educated. That is the truth. I was sexually abused as a child. I come from families with long histories of substance use disorder. I am now a 32-year-old man who has spent 28 years waiting to escape the maximum security lockup of the traumatized self because of what was done to me by two people whom I trusted, whom my parents trusted, and who betrayed us. That is also the truth.
My oldest living relative is my grandmother, who came from the Midwest and is a Quaker, a peaceful sect of Christians who honor simplicity, reflection, and silence. Grammy, please know I am only doing what you taught me: I have reflected silently, and now I am standing up to share my truth. What I do here, telling this story for the first time, I am doing in homage to the ideals for which members of my family have given their lives—law, education, psychology, therapy, writing, history—and I’m proud of my family’s accomplishments.
But make no mistake: Love should never be correlated with accomplishments. A child shouldn’t feel that he or she needs to accomplish things to be worthy of love. All the wonderful and interesting conversations and accomplishments in the world will never fill the void left by abuse or neglect, nor will it offer absolution for your trespasses.
It’s often said that everything happens for a reason. That’s a lie. Everything happens for two reasons, but we usually blame one thing, turning a blind eye to the other. Both sides of my family spoke openly about the alcoholism to which they had a predisposition—sometimes in raised voices, gin blossoms blooming—but never did anyone talk about abuse, whether physical, sexual, or emotional. This is classic misdirection. Alcoholism and abuse are symbiotic, in cause and effect.
Abuse is often intergenerational and institutional, thriving in hierarchical power structures, such as primate groups—or human families. Payback is almost always paid forward, down the chain of command from the alpha to the beta, all the way to the most vulnerable. That’s how it goes: Be hurt, hurt, hurt. But evolution can be slow. There always will be a pull to protect our own, whether in our schools, at our workplaces, or in our family.
We know the stakes of speaking out are high and the upside is opaque at best. To name abuse feels like a betrayal of the highest order—not only does it shatter the illusions to which we all cling in polite society, but it reopens us up to another assault. But this is wrong. We must bear in mind two things: Nothing is as bad as the original trauma, which we survived, and the trauma we endured now has a real meaning the second time around. It must.
As my favorite writer James Baldwin surmised in 1962: “Pain is trivial except insofar as you can use it to connect with other people’s pain; and insofar as you can do that with your pain, you can be released from it, and then hopefully it works the other way around too; insofar as I can tell you what it is to suffer, perhaps I can help you to suffer less.” That is a beautiful formula—first for healing, second for salvation, and third for action.
Abuse is always a covert operation, and it is always hypnotic. You can be tricked into thinking that you are crazy, that you are the problem, that your memories are false. You can become mesmerized by what is wrong seeming right, even though you know it is not. The abuser emanates power, becoming a kind of vengeful god, holding sway over even your self-conception.
To the abuser, power is the ability to humiliate. But abusing others will never satisfy the abuser until he confronts the humiliation he himself suffered: that is why abuse is serial and compulsive. Payback is paid forward. The only other response to abuse—when not open rebellion—is to invest that abuse back into the self, in the form of self-hatred, self-medication, and self-harm, and I know from experience that even these inward-facing responses hurt those you love, your girlfriends and friends.
This is all very new to me. When a young mind and body are traumatized, they go into a kind of shock. The events that have occurred are too far outside the window of experience, and so the mind takes over, bent on protection and survival. Memories can be formed, repressed, and stored away, like the Ark of the Covenant at the end of the Indiana Jones movie. I recovered mine only recently, and they came back first in my body—twitches and bruises, aches and pains—the meat of myself trying to make sense of the actions that the mind never processed fully, like a movie where the sound and motion are out of sync.
These days, I’ve been rebuilding, trying to synchronize, because when working properly the mind and body are the same: We are one organism with five senses. Sometimes, I think I have answers. I don’t. I used to think abuse happened to other people, not me. I used to think other people hurt people, not me. I was sure of it. I am capable of great feats of self-delusion. In all of this, I am not alone.
Men know, but often forget, that when they say no, people hear it. Women say no, or a resigned yes due to circumstances, or remain silent to survive (often out of fear of a reprisal), and we proceed with the grace and goodwill of a two-ton wrecking ball. Throughout human history, men have consciously and unconsciously acted out their malice and anger, their own feelings of inferiority, upon women—often, it must be said, aided and abetted by alcohol. Payback is paid forward.
But woke, sober, and righteous men can be the most self-deluded of all. “We are not like the brutes,” we say. “We hate the brutes!” To us, the brutes are the guys who got the girls in junior high because their voices deepened before ours, the guys who secreted hormones while we still had no pubic hair. The brutes also humiliated us.
So, once we get elected to office, or produce an Oscar-winning movie, or rise to editor in chief, or fill Madison Square Garden with thousands of people to hear our jokes, we feel that we have won, that we are entitled to a little fun. We are better than the brutes. We deserve something too. We act through willful ignorance, an indefensible suspension of morals and a byproduct of a culture, of families, and of institutions that fail to set the proper boundaries, instill the proper values, or mete out proper reprimands when they’re early enough to take, or late enough to matter.
Preaching is not my job. As a literary agent, I try to find people who can change the way we think about the world, often applying the lessons of the past to make sense of the present for a better future. So I feel on firmer ground when I paraphrase from David France’s How to Survive a Plague, a book another agent I know helped to shepherd into being.
In the 1980s, an illness called AIDS descended predominantly upon a group of people in this country who had done no harm to anyone; they loved, that is all. Millions died, while others slept, postured, or turned away. The courageous acts of the men and women who refused to be silenced by the stigma and pain associated with AIDS and with being gay ended up forcing the U.S. government, the medical community, and the culture to respect their needs. They fought for and won their rights. They saved lives.
The revolution began by breaking the silence. Silence equals death. My silence is over. I choose life.
Elias Altman is a literary agent in New York City.
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