Table Of ContentI dedicate this book to my mother and sister, whom I thank for allowing me to
tell my story. Your courage and love sustain me.
Things are not always what they seem.
—Phaedrus
Foreword
W W M of incest by his father there were few
HEN ALTER DE ILLY WROTE HIS WONDERFULLY TITLED MEMOIR
published first-person accounts of boyhood sexual abuse. It was an act of
courage to be so open regarding what is often a shameful experience about
which the victim should be forever silent.
Yet discussing the trauma, whether through spoken word, published work, or
unpublished journal, can be a major component of a healing process. De Milly
has set an admirable and moving example in articulating his horrifying
experience.
Writing about such a tragedy makes it known. Keeping it silent, hushed, or
shooed out the back door like an unwanted pest only adds to a victim's trauma.
Indeed, for many, silence—often reinforced by threats of retribution by a
predator—is as traumatizing as the physical act of sexual abuse itself. Forcing
oneself to remain silent about a shameful trauma requires encapsulating it,
putting it in a box somewhere in the nether regions of one's mind, and keeping it
frozen there.
This freezing is called "dissociation." Dissociation is an adaptive mechanism
when it takes place in the midst of a trauma from which there is no escape. It
protects the victim from experiencing the full extent of his or her anguish and
terror. Unfortunately, dissociation can become a traumatized person's
characteristic way of dealing with anxiety-arousing situations, and then it
becomes dysfunctional on several levels:
First, it teaches the victim that dissociation is the only way to deal with
difficulty, whereas in most situations dealing with a problem head-on is far more
effective.
Second, in many cases the "freezing" works only partially, and the frozen
anxiety leaks out somehow, often in unexpected and disturbing ways. For
example, a man may avoid public restrooms without realizing how this relates to
early experiences of subjugation and victimization. In an extreme example, a
man may be in a situation that somehow triggers his memory of abuse (whether
or not this new situation poses a real danger to him), and then he suddenly finds
himself in another geographical place. He has fled the anxiety-arousing moment
while encapsulating—and keeping out of consciousness—not only his fright but
also the flight.
Third, chronic dissociation is rarely limited to the traumatic event. I have known
sexually abused people who have virtually no childhood memories—dissociation
spread from traumatic to benign events, and much of their history is lost to them.
These are all reasons for victims to talk about what happened, and de Milly
has done an exceptional job in this book. On the other hand, we should not and
cannot judge those who remain silent because of fear, or shame, or guilt, or the
sheer inability to put into words the abuse they have suffered. This book speaks
not only for its author but also for those who cannot yet speak about the trauma
for themselves.
And what is this trauma? The physical acts, of course, as well as the silence
surrounding them. But the most debilitating aftermath of incest or other forms of
sexual abuse is the betrayal involved. At its heart, sexual abuse is an
interpersonal event, and it has consequences for future interpersonal
relationships.
When a child is sexually abused, treachery is introduced into his or her most
private and crucial relationships. Seemingly unbreakable bonds are broken when
abusers use their age or authority to satisfy their own needs without regard to
those of their victims. Consequently, many sexually abused children grow up
distrustful and consider people dishonest, malevolent, and undependable. They
often become frightened of emotional connection, and consequently isolate
themselves. Alternatively, they may merge their identity with a loved one's so
deeply they hardly know where their own identity ends and the other's begins.
Mistaking abuse for affection, or sexual desire for genuine tenderness,
sexually abused boys often become men who have difficulty distinguishing
between sex, love, nurturance, and affection on the one hand, and abuse on the
other. They may interpret friendly interpersonal approaches as seductive and
manipulative, or they may not notice when exploitative demands are made on
them—they've learned to see these as normal and acceptable. This affects not
only future intimate relationships but also relationships with authority figures,
and, for some, all interpersonal ties.
How does one recover from such a betrayal? Walter de Milly bravely tells us
how he tried to find peace in his relationship with a father he both adored and
detested. As with virtually all who are sexually abused by a close family
member, his feelings for his abuser are complex and nuanced. His father would
betray him one moment and nurture him the next. In My Father's Arms
demonstrates de Milly's struggle to come to terms with this paradox.
He powerfully describes how he tried to disclose what happened, and how
even his mother made valiant attempts to tell people about it once she knew.
They were not believed. Instead, de Milly was revictimized by various well-
meaning professionals who denied his childhood victimization, blamed him for
it, denied or attempted to "repair" his homosexuality, or inappropriately intruded
into his life.
Professionals today are as a whole more sophisticated about the possibility of
childhood sexual victimization and about the harm done by denying and/or
pathologizing an individual's homosexuality. Nevertheless, any sexually abused
person seeking psychological help for his or her trauma is well advised to
question potential mental health professionals carefully about their beliefs and
experience in this area. (For a detailed guide to finding a therapist, see my book
Beyond Betrayal: Taking Charge of Your Life after Boyhood Sexual Abuse.)
There is no painless way to deal with predators and abusers once the abuse has
happened. Silence, emotional cutoffs, and even exposing and publicly writing
about one's experiences (as de Milly has done) all have their emotional costs.
Given that, I hope victims choose paths of healing that will get them to a more
peaceful place rather than remain locked in a private hell.
This is a bravely conceived and realized first-person account of an all-too-
common tragedy. It should be read carefully and slowly. It is a nightmarish
account, and if it gets overwhelming, the reader should put it down and return to
it later—it is well worth the effort. I thank Walter de Milly for writing it.
Richard B. Gartner, PhD
M athic monsters. Of course monsters do inhabit
OST BOYS WHO ARE MOLESTED ARE NOT THE VICTIMS OF PSYCHOP
our world, but for every serial killer and rapist hunted and captured there are
untold numbers of sex offenders who will never face justice. Why? Because they
neither look nor act like monsters. Their faces don't tell us who they are. In fact,
most sex offenders come into our lives as ordinary people. Some are even well
known and admired for the good works they do in their communities. After an
offender is arrested it is not uncommon to hear a surprised neighbor say,
"Everyone thought he was a nice man."
That is what my mother thought she was marrying. A nice man. A good man.
A prominent, handsome Christian.
Several years after this memoir was first published, my mother invited her
church circle to her house for their monthly meeting. I have to admit that I had
never given their ritual much thought. But in recent years she had begun to send
me the lessons from these meetings. It was her way of sharing her thoughts with
me. So I wasn't surprised when I found an envelope from her in the mail one
afternoon with another handwritten lesson. I felt too busy to read it at the time,
but as I slid her notes into a folder thick with years of our correspondence,
something she had written caught my eye, a word that seemed out of place. I
began to read what she had told her church friends: "There are many ways to
commit murder. One can murder a person, but one can also murder a friendship,
a marriage, the happiness of a child."
This was not the sort of language my mother would use in casual
conversation. I'm not sure I had ever heard her use the word "murder." It seemed
too strong a word, really, to use in the active voice with a group of nice Southern
Ladies. But I knew she had led an impossible life. Her early years were so
abundant with courtesy and shared morality that sex offenders were unheard of.
No one could have prepared her for the nightmare in her own marriage. And so,
at the age of eighty, she had found the word to describe what my father had done
to us. Murder.
Centuries ago, the word "murder" meant "secret killing." To this day, keeping
a crime hidden from public knowledge is part of the crime itself. The problem
for most sex offenders is that the victims of their crimes are living children. The
offenders of course need their victims to keep the secrets, so they use their wits
and get their way through verbal threats: "If you tell anyone, bad things will
happen to you, to me, to your family." But spoken threats may not be necessary.
By definition, a psychologically traumatized child cannot express himself.
My father issued few threats. He had no need to go further. He knew I'd be a
good son and obey the commandment to "Honor thy Father." He knew I feared
punishment for doing bad things. And so, without the necessity for spoken
words, we'd made a pact. Neither of us would ever tell anyone about the things
he did to me. That, of course, was his plan.
Offenders and their victims are not the only ones who keep secrets. Even if a
child who was molested exhibits signs that something is wrong, or the offender
falls under suspicion, the offense is likely to remain unreported. Dozens or
hundreds of otherwise responsible adults may know something of the abuse yet
do nothing about it. It weighs nothing on the soul to report the ogre who lives
under the bridge. Turning in a "nice" offender, however, may require pure moral
stamina. Excuses for keeping silent are endless: That man's too nice to hurt a
child. It's only a rumor. It wasn't real rape. It only happened once. The child
won't remember. I wouldn't want to break up the family. If the offender went to
prison, it would only make things worse for the child. It would destroy our
church. It would tarnish the reputation of our school. It would cost me my job.
People will accuse me of being a zealot. It's not my job to report this. It will ruin
our family name.
Offenders—the nice ones—will always have apologists on their side. An
acquaintance of mine, bringing up the case of a famous celebrity accused of
molesting boys, said to my face, "He's done so much for children. Throw him a
bone." This comment goes directly to the heart of the problem of the "nice
offender." My acquaintance's crude remark is a confirmation of the way a great
many people think.
Pay-as-you-go justice. It's an ancient practice. In medieval times, priests
would sell indulgences to sinners. Give the church some money, and voila, God
won't send you to hell. (This practice, by the way, was what impelled Martin
Luther to nail his complaints to a church door. Thus began the Reformation.)
Today, some offenders operate on the supposition that for every hundred boys
they help, they can molest ten. The truth of course is that sexually abused boys
are not math problems to be solved with toys or philanthropy.
But, if we do look at the math, this is what we find: It's not uncommon for
child sexual offenders to molest dozens or hundreds of boys. Given this fact, it's
a big problem for offenders. We, the boys they molested, grow up and become
men... multitudes of men. We outnumber offenders by ten to one, perhaps a
hundred to one. And now, we're doing something about it.
I'm happy to see, since publication of the first edition of my memoir, that
other men have come forward and told their stories. I'm happy to see that
"powerful" offenders are being brought to justice.
I know this doesn't comfort you if you're in the midst of recovering from
childhood sexual abuse. Whether or not your offender is brought to justice, what
he did to you cannot change. But what you do can. You can take the wreckage of
your old life and build a new one. In that act, you will change yourself. You will
sail a ship under your own command, watch your own compass, and meet new
ships along the way. You will turn from an injured boy into a man saving others
—retrieving lost treasure, voyaging on to a world where you're not alone, your
thoughts aren't crazy, you have worth, love, and wisdom.
If you were abused as a boy, this is what I hope for you.
Walter A. de Milly III
January 2012
I stood, taught, nudged, waited, criticized,
AM GRATEFUL TO MY FRIENDS WHO ENCOURAGED, PUSHED, UNDER
nourished, and put up with me until the book was finished. Thank you.
For editorial help I thank Wallace Floyd, Frank Taylor, Richard Browner,
David Groff, and Louise Quayle.
To Captain Tom, thank you for taking me out to the green waters those days
when I've needed it most.
To Lewis and Manny, my "older brothers," thank you for making me part of
your lives.
To Larry, Jorge, the late Mark B., Mark S., Kevin K., thank you more than I
can say. To all my Tallahassee friends, especially Ashby Stiff, Peter Munton,
and Tom Hicks, thank you.
To the psychiatrists and researchers who took the time to help me, especially
Dr. Linda Cooper Miles, who first "discovered" the source of my father's
pedophilia, thank you.
To my Key West extended family, I love you all: Greg B., John, Richard,
Travis, Ted, Blue, Dean, Paul, Michael M., David, Mark, and Danny, Jimmy M.,
Bill N., Eric N., and Louis.
To Alex of the Black Forest, thank you for your magic.
To Shawn and David, thank you for your love.
Michael Dively, thank you for your consistent support and your challenges,
especially at the end, when it was so hard for me to let go.
For helping me survive the most extraordinary darkness, I thank Steve
Torrence and Dr. William Hawthorne.
For treating me with kindness and respect, and for inspiring me, I thank the
Key West literati, especially Joy Williams, Ross Claiborne, Bill Wright, and the
late John Malcolm Brinnin.
And to the teachers, friends, and helpers from my past, I remember you
always: Ruth Skretting, Dr. Linville, Dr. Oliver, John Rising Watson, Carol
Ouzts, J. Michael Carrin, Ed Cake, Sally, Tom, Payne, Bud, and Jim.
This story has been nearly impossible to tell. On one hand, the purpose of this
