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'Our little secret.' Eagle Scout says writing graphic book about sex abuse helped him heal
'Our little secret.' Eagle Scout says writing graphic book about sex abuse helped him heal
Memory of horrific sexual abuse at a Southwest Florida Boy Scout camp
Aaron Averhart describes the memory of horrific sexual abuse during and after his years at Camp Miles, a Boy Scout camp in Southwest Florida.
H. Leo Kim and Alex Driehaus, Fort Myers News-Press
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“I was so excited, I could barely contain myself. The year was 1986, I had turned twelve a few short months before, and I was ready for my greatest adventure so far, the Camp Franklin Miles Boy Scout Summer Camp Program.”
So Aaron Averhart writes in his just-completed book, Finding Foxboro, which he hopes to publish, about coping with sexual abuse during and after his years at Camp Miles, a Boy Scouts camp in Southwest Florida.
Averhart was 15 when he reported in 1989 being molested by his scout leader William Sheehan over four years at camp.
Only now, he says, at age 45, is he able to give a name to what happened to him and talk about it openly; a process helped by discovering other men in Foxborough, Massachusetts where Sheehan came from. Since 1998, almost 50 from that town have alleged the scout leader raped and molested them, too.
Averhart found their stories on the internet in 2016 and reached out, overwhelmed by the discovery he was not alone.
It took him two years to pour his Camp Miles experiences onto the book’s pages, at times in graphic detail, as if by conjuring his abuser he might exorcise Sheehan’s power over him once and for all.
He hopes the book will help others break their silence and begin to heal, he says.
Here are excerpts from Finding Foxboro :
“Everyone called him ‘Uncle Bill,” Averhart writes, “and he seemed loved and respected by scouts and leaders alike. He soon took a liking to me and brought me under his wing. He talked to me about staying and becoming a staff member for the remainder of the summer, which I was greatly interested in. Although I was officially too young he informed me, … he could pull some strings to make it happen. When I said yes in excitement, he assured me he would make it so.”
Many people have asked Averhart why he returned to Camp Miles after that first summer, he says, and why he told no one. The delayed revelations of thousands of former Boy Scouts across the country suggest his silence is not unique.
“I endured these things in silence, knowing they were wrong, but not knowing what to do,” Averhart writes. “If I exposed him, everyone would discover what happened, that I had caused it and that I enjoyed it. I took what he told me to heart, vowing inside to keep it closely guarded."
Men typically wait 20 years or more before disclosing they were sexually abused, according to social science research, and boys are less likely than girls to discuss their experiences.
“ … I felt as if my shame and guilt were plain for all to see. Was I gay? I was confused about everything. “… That my shameful secrets should remain undiscovered from my friends and classmates was my greatest preoccupation.”
As for telling his parents, who knew he was hurting but not why:
“I was still too scared and ashamed to tell them the truth. I was frightened that no one would believe me if I came forward and that was a chance I was unwilling to take,” he writes.
Nor was it a black and white experience. Averhart loved scouting. Like his older brother, he wanted to become an Eagle Scout, and eventually did.
“My happiness was juxtaposed by my profound sorrow,” he writes of the years at Camp Miles. "The variety of educational experiences was intoxicating and exotic, offering things I could never accomplish at home, I loved getting to work the ropes course and having a cabin by the older boys. It was exciting to be away from home, living in the literal wilderness … .”
Over time, Sheehan changed, becoming more violent, he writes.
"If it was late at night or early in the morning, he would not hesitate to rape me. In order to keep me quiet, or perhaps because he got a thrill from controlling people, he began to shove my face in the pillow. Sometimes while being choked in my cot, I would only be partially unconscious and other times completely … .I was starting to fear for my safety.
"The thought of death sounded peaceful and quiet, things I desperately longed for. … I was nearing the end of my rope and it petrified me. I didn't know how much longer I could hang on."
Pushed to his limits, Averhart broke down one night in a counselor’s cabin. The Boy Scouts of America quickly removed Sheehan from Camp Miles, but local sheriff’s office investigators dismissed his claim.
“When a child tries to come out about abuse against a figure like that, they are almost always confronted with an uphill battle, due to the abuser’s carefully cultivated image and reputation,” Averhart writes.
But he also blames himself for being too frightened and ashamed to describe to detectives all that was allegedly done to him, he says. Sodomy isn’t a usual part of a child’s vocabulary.
Sheehan died in Fort Myers in 2017 from complications of Alzheimer’s disease, never arrested or convicted of sexual abuse.
After years spent trying to medicate his trauma with alcohol and drugs, Averhart is in therapy, remembering and facing his past.
“This predator had chosen a child experiencing his first throes of puberty, awash in hormones and indecision," he writes. “... I still smell the pine and penny royal mint. ... Here, where the sunlight gently filtered down through the trees and the sounds of nature filled the air, he would abuse me with enthusiasm. Being thusly introduced to my sexuality, by such perverse methods, is one in a long line of battles I fight to this day.”
In the course of writing Finding Foxboro , Averhart went through a near mental breakdown as he confronted his demons. Today, he says, he is better off for it.
“As I sit and write this over two years after finding Foxborough, I am able to say that I have come a long way, both emotionally and psychologically. There are so many stigmas that surround mental health issues and treatment, which must be confronted and faced down, especially for men.
“All of this has helped me come to accept two important facts. One, I am no less of a man because of my abuse as a child, and two, I know that I am not responsible for what was done to me.”
Follow this reporter on Twitter @PatriciaBorns.

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M y son is in love with me. This is no surprise. After all, I have nice green eyes and Jennifer Aniston-type hair , though regrettably not her long-stemmed legs. More importantly, I can tick off the names of the Los Angeles Lakers , play a tough game of Junior Monopoly and have a high tolerance for jokes that revolve around the letter "p." What 7-year-old boy wouldn't adore me?
I grew up in a house of rowdy boys, boys with no-nonsense masculine names like Jack and Tom and Jim. In some ways this made it easy for me when my son came along, red-faced and furious and eager to devour the world. I knew what to expect. Loud grunting noises and flying objects. Toilet seats never put down. Clothes left in a heap on the floor as if the Wicked Witch had just waved her broom and made the person in them disappear. A preference for toys with an excess of body parts and names like "venom."
What I was not prepared for, what caught me totally off-guard , was my son's romantic feelings for me. A few mornings ago I was standing in the bathroom, looking like a mean raccoon. My hair was piled loosely on my head, mascara ringed my eyes from the night before. "You look like hell," I said to the mirror. Suddenly, there was this little voice. It was so quiet and small, so unlike my son's normal full-throttle roar, I almost didn't hear it. "No, you don't, Mom." I looked down. My son was staring up at me, his huge gray eyes full of longing, his heart banging furiously in his little bony chest. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world." The scary thing was he meant it. What guy ever said that to me with such purity of motive and heart?
This intent pining for me began, normally enough, when he was 4. I'd go to sit down on the couch or a chair and he'd slide his hand under me, grinning madly. I'd go to hug him and he'd burrow his little head into my breasts, lingering there a minute too long. I'd be taking a shower and suddenly the curtain would be flung aside by a pint-sized blond in Ninja Turtle briefs. "Mommy's in the shower," I'd say. "Oh," he'd say, holding his ground.
That my son was intense didn't help matters. He was, as the books charitably call it, a "spirited child" — which is to say volatile and active and completely unlike my friends' babies. Fervor extended to everything he did.
For a time when he was 2 and 3, he was obsessed with his father. My husband would do something fairly nonthreatening — leave the room, say — and our child would go insane, flinging his skinny toddler self on the floor, or worse, hurling himself after my husband out the door.
I remember in particular one long, miserable weekend in Solana Beach. We'd driven down from Los Angeles to relax, have a good time, which only goes to show you how delusional as parents we still were. Every time my husband wanted to head out to go bodysurfing or for a swim in the pool he'd have to sneak out of our hotel room or frantic screaming would ensue. It mattered not that I, the mother, the one who had spent 30 hours in mind-altering labor, was readily available for fun and games, a romp in the pool. No, my son wanted his father. And how dare I presume to be a worthy substitute? Nothing like the rejection of a 3-year-old to make you feel really small. But by then I had another baby so I didn't have much time to brood about it.
So when my son latched on to me again it came as somewhat of a shock. He wanted me, but now he wanted me like Lyle Lovett crooning about unrequited love. He pouted if I didn't hug him tightly enough or cuddle with him on the couch. He cried if I wouldn't lay down next to him after I read him a story at night. "All right, leave!" he'd say angrily, turning his back to me in bed, as though we'd just had a lover's quarrel. Then, of course, he'd protest loudly when I did.
I tried not to let all this bother me. I knew that little boys did this, developed erotic feelings for their mothers around the time they turned 4. It said so right there in the updated edition of Dr. Spock , and that eventually these feelings would abate. Some of my friends' sons were also behaving this way, acting like drunken high-school boys on a date trying to cop a feel. I was damned if I was going to be uptight about it, do something that would make my son feel bad about himself or, God forbid, cause him to grow up sexually repressed. A child of the liberated '70s I was going to handle this right.
We had talks. Frank, straightforward talks. About how mommies and daddies touch each other. About how mommies and children touch each other. Whenever his hand would stray into the no-touching zone again, I'd remove it and gently remind him to keep his little mitts to himself. I bought a children's book that discussed boys' bodies and girls' bodies, with cartoonlike illustrations of vital parts. We said the words "penis" and "vagina" with devil-may-care abandon.
Every so often, my husband would happen in on one of these conversations, roll his eyes and accuse me of hopelessly confusing our son, perhaps even warping him for life. "He's too young. He doesn't understand," he'd say. "Of course he does," I'd snap back. I had no idea whether he did understand everything I was telling him, of course. It's not like you can give a 5-year-old a sexual comprehension test. But I was doing what I felt was right. I answered questions when he asked them. I kept the explanations simple. We rented "Look Who's Talking," and in the opening scene when the talking sperm are frantically trying to penetrate the egg and my son turned to me and asked, "What are those little wiggly things?" I didn't flinch, didn't turn off the set. I said they were sperm and that they came from the daddy's penis and that they went into the mommy's body. "That's how babies are made," I said. "Eeeeuuu!" my son squealed with a mixture of wonder and disgust. I knew then I'd done my job.
Then gradually, mercifully, the sex problem went away. My son grew older, got distracted from his passion for me, lost interest. There was another girl in his life, Sarah — Sarah with the long blond braid and big gray eyes, who raced him every morning on the school blacktop. I was relieved.
Then a few months ago, something happened that jolted me back awake. It began with my son and his best friend, James, who lives next door. I adore James. He's as round, mellow and dark as my son is wiry, incendiary and pale. If there were a movie made about the two of them it would be called "Buddha and the Little Beast." Another reason I adore James is because he finds it impossible not to tell the truth. This is bad for my son, but good for me.
On this occasion James was over at our house playing basketball in the patio. He and my son were talking about James' teenage brother. I was in the kitchen when I heard them giggling wildly and in the next split second the uncommon phrase, "He sexed her."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I came out to the patio. I stood on the steps. I looked at them. They looked at me. More giggling. I smiled. As Joan Didion once wrote of a scene involving Nancy Reagan plucking a rose for a cameraman, the moment was evolving its own choreography. James held his hand over his mouth and giggled again. I could see I was going to have to deal with this.
"What do you think that means, 'he sexed her'?" I asked in my most neutral voice.
"He put his tongue in her mouth," James giggled.
"He rubbed on her with his shirt off," my son added, even more hysterical.
I was tempted to say, "Boy, are you guys misinformed," but held my sarcasm in check. I'm not exactly sure what I said. I think I told James he might want to have a talk with his parents. I think I also said something to the effect that sex is not a verb but a noun, turning this potential sex education moment into a grammar lesson. But it was clear I was not off the hook.
After James went home I got my son a popsicle and sat with him on the porch steps while he ate it. I thought about what to say. On the one hand, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, insist that James' brother had absolutely not been having sex and how could you think that? and launching into a detailed explanation of sexual intercourse. That seemed a bit neurotic. On the other hand, I wanted to be sure he had a handle on the basics, that he understood sex was not just an act, but caught up in all sorts of complicated and lovely emotions.
"Do you remember what I told you about sex?" I said.
"You mean about the penis going into the vagina?" my son said with a silly grin.
"Yes," I said. "But sex is not just how people make babies. It's the way mommies and daddies show how much they love each other."
This perked my son's interest, so I went on. I babbled on about how sex was the most beautiful thing in the world that two people who loved each other could share. I talked about the magic feelings surrounding being in love. Then suddenly I noticed my son looking at me in a strange sort of horrified way, as if I'd just blithely informed him his pet goldfish had died.
"You love Daddy more than me because you two have sex!" he said, beginning to cry. "I don't ever want to ever hear about sex again!"
Well, I just about fell over, I was so stunned. Here, I'd given my 7-year-old what I thought was an inspiring lecture on sex and love, and he'd managed to twist it into some bizarre Freudian conspiracy pitting parents against their children.
I tried to repair the damage. I told him that's not what I meant at all, but that mommies and daddies feel a different love for each other than they do for their children, which only made him howl more. I told him I loved him more than anything and that he was being silly, which only made him madder. I tried hugging him, and he pushed me bitterly away. No matter what I said, he refused to calm down. Unfortunately, sometime in here my husband showed up, demanding to know what the hysteria was all about. I don't think I explained the situation very well because his immediate response was, "What did you tell him that for?"
Over the next few weeks, my son showed distinct signs of regressing. He trailed me wherever I went, refusing to let me out of his sight. He was like cat hair on a wool skirt, I couldn't get him off of me. Whenever his father went to hug me, he threw himself between us in a preemptive jealous fit. But he wasn't mad at my husband, it was me he was furious with. No matter how much affection I gave him, he accused me of giving his sister and his father more. I felt terrible, guilty. After all, wasn't I the one who'd screwed him up, made him hopelessly insecure?
"What should I do?" I asked my friend Maura on the phone one day. "He won't leave me alone."
"I don't know," she said. "Have you tried seeing if anything'
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