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CSA

When I was 15 – I think 15 – perhaps 14, I was molested by a family friend. 

My parents were in Amway. They looked at their “upline” in a way that always seemed to me nearly worshipful. Nearly adoration. I didn’t understand it then, and do not understand it now, so many years later. One of those upline was Dan Jacobson. A large fellow. Very, from what I can remember, but you will not see me write, or hear me say, or suggest in any way, that my memory for such things was ever any good. Add trauma to that, and I will not in any way vouch for my own memory regarding the nature of temporal or physical attributes of any person in any event. I’ve never been able to remember what people looked like. And one I want nothing more than to forget? 

Dan was over quite a bit. As a troubled young person, something which my parents did not seem to have a way of dealing with, I had no one to talk with. My father’s way of dealing with this was always to bring me to events with people my age and shove me into them telling me I needed to make friends. To stop being shy. At 18, when I had my first interaction with a young lady, one who followed me home my first day of college, he walked up to me and said, and I quote, “Thank God. I thought you were gay.” My mother’s way of handling my difficulties was to ignore them and, on occasion, tell me not to worry. Neither approach was effective. 

Dan listened. Later I saw what that was. I don’t think he was listening for any reason other than to get closer, to build trust, to soften me up. That was a year, I think, since my parents had joined Amway under a woman whose last name was Harriet Lapidus. I remember her.

Dan was around very much of the time. Meetings in his office to “draw circles” for “prospects.” Sales and informational meetings. And often meeting my parents at our house in North Miami. There was a patio that had been converted into a room. I can’t recall what it looked like. Knowing my father, it was paneled. There was a couch in that room, and a TV. Dan walked in and asked me how I was doing. Sat down. This was not unusual. But what was, thinking of it later, was how low his voice was. I do not remember where my parents were. Perhaps he was waiting for them. Perhaps they ran out to get food for everyone. Perhaps…

I don’t remember anything of that except next he was unzipping my pants and I disappeared.

I understand now that there is more to the action of the sympathetic nervous system in stress-inducing situations than fight or flight. That has always been too simple. Fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. Depending on circumstances and individual psychology, one of the four occurs, though all with very similar physiological effects. I froze. When I was again cognizant he had his hands in my pants, pulling my underwear down and fondling me. I know I froze again, but not for long, I think, and then came about, lurched away, and asked what the hell he was doing, pulling myself together. I do not remember if I left the room or he did. I don’t remember anything the rest of that day or for the next day or so. Nothing. 

It is not uncommon, as a result of trauma, to not remember events. To need to reconstruct events, timelines, facts, because the brain just did not process them into long-term memory. Memory is processed by the hippocampus. That little seahorse in our brain buffers the information and, when we sleep, short-term memory is funneled through it transformed into long-term memory. But trauma puts a net, a wall, around the event and doesn’t let it out. It stays in the hippocampus as a permanent now. But without that processing it is a jumble and it takes our critical faculties to sort out what it was, what we saw, what we heard, the order of events. This is the basis of PTSD and CPTSD- an event that is always in the now. Triggers bring it back to the forefront and remove anything else that is happening, leaving us to react to the original stimulus. 

But more on that later.

It was two or three days later I cornered my mother in the kitchen. I had no idea how to tell her. I started by saying that I hadn’t wanted to tell her because my father would find out and probably kill him. Then I told her what happened. I don’t remember much of a response. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t one, but that I don’t remember there being one. She said I was right. We would not tell him for his own good.

Dan never came back to the house. I didn’t see him again after that. Not that I can recall.

I can still feel what it was like, discovering what he was doing as I came back to my senses. I try to tell myself that it isn’t a big deal. It’s just a touch. Just a body part. There is a value, a significance our culture has just assigned to this part versus that part. Some cultures cover up parts others don’t worry about. So, really, just a part. Arbitrary designation. That should be all. Why let an arbitrary designation and another person’s bad choices or psychopathology hurt me. Isn’t that just logical? We can choose how feel, right? Upset is optional. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Hamlet, Act II, Scene ii) Forget it. That doesn’t have to be a big deal, right? After all, if a toddler is walking around and grabs you, you look down, pat them on the head, crouch down or pick them up, and laugh it off. If a woman is holding a baby and they put their hand on her breast, no one gasps or feels violated, right? Turn around in a crowded line and accidentally bump the woman behind you with your elbow? You apologise. Say excuse me. The end. Intent is everything. And I am not in any way responsible for another person’s intent. That should work, yes? Somehow that has never worked. I keep trying but it never has.

I blamed myself, of course. I was a 15 year old without a double master’s degree, without a degree in psychology. Of course I blamed myself. I would have stopped him. My sympathetic nervous system had other ideas. I blamed myself. What did I do wrong? How could he have thought I would want that? What’s wrong with me? Now I’m a 62 year old with those degrees, and I still blame myself. Nothing has changed.

It affected me, of course. Prior to that I wore clothes that fit. Not tight, but fit. After that, everything had to be baggy. Still. If a man touches my shoulder or back, like someone deciding my neck is tight, I freeze and become nauseated. Unexpected touches would set me off. My “first time” was rough. I just couldn’t take anything off. Had to be under covers. Thank goodness for Lee’s patience. She knew what happened. I told her. She said it wasn’t my fault. She’d never lie, but she had to be mistaken, right?

I had little experience with people with varying gender preferences, and I desperately needed to offload the guilt. We had just passed the Anita Bryant era and that was in the air. High school was a mass of people calling each other gay and fag, very often leveled at me. So I decided Dan must have been gay and that must be what they do. You don’t have to tell me that’s wrong. Believe me, I know. I just so much needed it not to be my fault.

Some years later, I was teaching religious education at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Gainesville, the teen group, and we were helping an RE teacher move. We were moving the stacked washer and dryer into the apartment. I had worked a lot with this man. I’m sorry I can’t recall his name. He was, and I hope still is, a really nice, kind person. In moving, somehow, someone said something perhaps, I discovered he was gay. I was pretty oblivious to those things. To so many things. Still am.

I decided to talk with him. He explained what I should have known to be true, now know is true – that a horrible person is a horrible person. Being gay has nothing to do with molesting kids and a gay person is no more likely, and no less likely, to sexually assault someone. I was faced with evidence contrary to my previous understanding, to my belief, and, therefore, had to change my mind. Isn’t that what critical thinking, what a brain, is for? I am indebted to him for that lesson. 

So I was back to blaming myself. Years of counselling did both diddly and squat. Gestalt, REBT, CBT. So much for critical thinking.  

I told myself, again, so what. Not like this is anything new and people get over it. One out of three women will be sexually assaulted. One out of six men will be too, although it is expected, due to lack of reporting, that number is probably higher. The more violent a sexual assault, the more likely it is to be perpetrated by a man, against women and men. Women, though by far the greater victims, can certainly be perpetrators. They are, however, usually, less violent. And it is a myth that a man can’t be raped because they can’t get aroused unless they choose to, or can’t if terrified or angry. As far as harassment, I’ve stood in line and had comments like “nice ass” from the ladies behind me. Maybe they were serious. Maybe they were making fun of me. I don’t know. Sitting having a drink with company, a woman is invited over by a person in our group who knows her, and ends up with a hand on my knee offering to pay for my drink if… I am aware this happens to women so much more than to men, but it should never be let go, never be brushed off. Anyone witnessing it should have a hand in decrying it. I’ve lost jobs over telling men, including my boss, to stop telling sexist jokes, making sexist comments, objectifying women, being pieces of crap. I can’t imagine my son’s behaviour in this being any different than my own. I know how he was raised and I’ve seen how he behaves.

And if it is violent, if it is assault, it should always be reported. Lack of reports is why we feel this doesn’t happen to men. The feeling of personal guilt, of personal responsibility, is why it doesn’t get reported. That’s why the 177 assaults by the sports doctor at Ohio State, Richard Strauss, went unreported. After the shock, came the guilt. After the guilt, the shame. And one does not report shame. They told no one. Not even their parents.

Which brings me back to mom and dad. Again, I don’t know how I found this out, but I discovered my father knew. I imagine my mother told him. Did I want him to kill Dan? No, not really, but yes. I didn’t want that on his head. I didn’t want him in trouble. But I wanted him to WANT to kill him. Failing that, could he at least talk to me? Tell me he was taken care of? Ostracized? Shamed? Punished in some way? And apparently I wasn’t the only person. Liz, his wife, divorced him over his infidelities and proclivities. I didn’t understand how he could not do something. I still cannot understand it. I didn’t talk to my father for years after that.

Some years later, after deciding to be better than I had been, I began talking to my father again. Gainesville, Florida, in our backyard, fire going, the neighbours from across the street are over, a common thing, and Ron is playing his guitar. The phone rings. This is before cell phones but after phones no longer needed to be tethered by a cord. Lee comes out of the house and hands the phone to me. It’s my father. He says what he says, he says some more, then, “by the way, Dan says hello. He’s in Boston now.”  I was stunned. I still can’t imagine what would possess him. How dense could he be? What pathology is this? I responded. “Please tell him to get a gun, walk to the middle of Boston Commons, put it in his mouth, and blow his brains out.” I then held the phone up and said, “Lee, it’s for you.” I got up and went for a walk. Two hours later I returned.

I don’t know why I said that to her, gave her the phone, instead of just hanging up. And it wasn’t right to make them all worry. I don’t know what I was thinking or why I did it. But that was my reaction.

I want to be clear on something. I am not dumping on my parents 100%. No one is perfect. We all have our problems. Friar Lawrence, Act II, Scene iii of Romeo and Juliet:  “For nought so vile that on the earth doth live / But to the earth some special good doth give, / Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, / Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:” Nothing is fully good or bad. And I dislike using the terms good and bad as they mean different things to different people and therefore mean nearly nothing. But I will break with habit and use them here, feeling I have been clear in what I mean by the terms. Nothing is either all good or all bad. Parents included. We are all a complicated mixed bag or virtue and vice.

I was born with a six vertebra long hole in my sacral spine, with the cord now tethered, and a blood disease, and part of the right occipital lobe of my little brain not connected, and a cardiac sphincter that would not open so I could not eat. My parents were told I’d die, and I didn’t. They were told I would be blind, and I’m only half blind. They were told I would never walk, and I did, at age three and a half. They were told I’d never learn to read, which I did at age four thanks to my mother’s insistent efforts. My speech needed a lot of work. They were told to institutionalize me in the now infamous Willowbrook, which they did not. I was very lucky in that way, but in other ways, I wonder. I asked to see a therapist, and I didn’t. I asked to be tested for learning disabilities, and they did not. So one can see why I would wonder. And then, to not hold responsible a man who molests your son. That is something I do not understand.

I have great trouble forgiving my father. I have great trouble forgiving my mother. And I have even more trouble forgiving myself. 

That is, perhaps, the one thing I set my mind to that I cannot, will never, accomplish.

 
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Posted by on October 2, 2026 in Culture, Family, psychology

 

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The Shadow

Some people believe in a soul. Some do not. We, here in the West, seem to take the concept as a given, but it is far from it. Even those who do not believe in the full concept of the soul are forced to use the term as the best we have available in English.

For those who conceive of a center of being and call it a soul, it is often depicted as an immutable core, unchanging and unchangeable. It is the self, and it stays the self whether its bearer sees one lifetime or many, depending on the philosophy.

Others similarly think of the soul as the center of being, but do not see it as immutable. Quite the opposite, in fact: for them it is something dynamic, fluid, with edges uncertain, spreading, mixing. We are substance dropped into a pool and cupped back up again, with most of our soul back in the cup, but some of it still in the pond, mixing, and with some of the pond retrieved in the cup. Well. Pond. Ocean, Sea—all waters. All souls.

And, it is thought, by those who know the soul as changeable and inconstant, that the soul can diminish. A trauma may cause parts to flee to a place where shards dwell, where they forget whence or to whom they belonged. A fright may cause bits of soul to depart, hiding from fear and danger. A constant threat can cause the soul to shrink, and a suffering can cast a shadow on the soul that shrouds it all its days and nights until the last light departs the eyes. And perhaps even after that.

My own soul is not smooth. Its boundaries are piked, jagged. There are parts missing from its surface, leaving gaps, divisions, sulci. There are pieces missing within. And how did they leave? They flew as darts, as butterflies. Blazed off as sparks and fell as flowers. Left curled, like small children covering themselves for shame and protection as they fled.

And there is the shadow, large and deep, the companion of my soul. Behind, over, ever-present. My soul is slippery, transient, and I have a feeling it is within and sometimes without and, when without, larger than the body, not solid but substantial. And behind it still, the shadow, covering my soul, covering me.

* * * * * * * *

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.” That is old. It goes back to 1930. Both the ego, in the person of Lamont Cranston, and the Shadow, the alter ego, were from Boston. He was from Boston as well. The Shadow could turn invisible, and I swear to this day, he did as well. Somehow he snuck up on me; I can honestly find no other explanation.

I wish the Shadow could have been there with him, to see what evil lurked there while it was only an idea, before it became manifest in action. Now the shadow of that act is everywhere around and even within me. I know this because now I can see the evil in the hearts of men. Even when there is none to see.

* * * * * * * *

I am fifteen years old. My parents have been in Amway for a while now. A year, perhaps. Maybe slightly longer. Amway has quickly become a constancy of meetings, rallies, product pick-ups, and tape deliveries. Our small home in North Miami is busy with the comings and goings of turning Plan A into Plan B with a seemingly ceaseless flow of people. Almost every day I come home to find people I have never met before. Most of them are in and out and never seen again, replaced by a new face the next afternoon. Others become fixtures. Leo Little, Maureen, and her husband, Pablo—“downline”—are so often present they might as well live with us.

Some of the “upline”—people to whom my parents are the downline—become fixtures as well. The downline mostly go to the upline, but in some cases the upline people came our home. One upliner in particular is seen more often at our home. And then more and more. He seems nearly ubiquitous. In retrospect, perhaps I should have seen that as a problem but, then, he was simply a friend of my parents. Dan Jacobson.

His last name might be spelled with an “e” instead of an “o.” Honestly, I don’t care. What I care about is he seemed to shadow my parents. There appeared to be no time he was not there. In the end he was practically sewn to them.

I do not blame my parents for working so hard at Amway. They wanted better, wanted out of the day-to-day and paycheck slavery. But I can only imagine what they might have accomplished if they had spent as much energy in other endeavors. My mother would not return to college for a degree. Too much time, she would tell me. Again and again I would ask her, “How much time will pass if you don’t?” She spent nearly two decades working Amway. I am not sure what she got of it.

I know what I got of it. Shadows.

* * * * * * * *

I am fifteen years old. I am in my family room. My parents are not here. Dan is, though. He has sat next to me on the couch and I think nothing of this. He has often been here, arriving before my parents. He is intelligent, and we talk from time to time as I rarely talk with those my own age.

I am being asked about school. I am being asked about one subject, then another, then still another. Somehow, the conversation leaves topics of the mundane and turns obliquely toward matters personal, but I am not opposed to having someone to talk with.

But as I speak—I seem to remember my voice getting soft, becoming somewhat sad—his hand moves to my shoulder. It is a comfort and an indication of understanding among those who know and trust each other. I am to trust this man, or so I would believe by how often my parents have him over, how continually he is in my home. All signs I should trust him. What it was, however, was distracting, as his other hand moved to my fly, began to fumble, to reach for the zipper, and I am confused, unsure what is happening, cannot believe the reality of what is occurring. It cannot actually be, and in moments, as the zipper begins to lower while he kneads through the dungarees, I come to the realization that he really is doing what I think he’s doing and I move back and away with a sharp, sudden start and he looks at me in disbelief and. . . . All else is shadow until the night.

* * * * * * * *

What happened next I cannot say. I remember nothing of the remainder of the day. Was it morning? Afternoon? None of this do I recall. Perhaps it made an impression upon on me insufficient to have warranted recall, or perhaps I have buried the memory and, then, not wanting to know that I have been party to my own duplicity, have repressed the memory of the suppression. Whatever the explanation, the rest of the day following the encounter is blank. Time seems not to exist until the evening, when I found my mother. I do not know if I told her after much thought, or thought not about it at all and informed her with an air of of-course-I-would-say-something. I do not remember if I told her easily, or with trepidation. But I remember the conversation, though my recollection is devoid of emotion: I remember it as though transcribed and given to actors who have been given the direction, “Dry, dry, dry. These words mean nothing. Say them. Just say them.”

In the kitchen, that afternoon or evening I tell my mother. I stand next to the open accordion door that separates the entrance of the kitchen at a right angle with the front door from view. It is messy, as usual. I relay the story. Is she upset? I cannot recall. What her emotions were I cannot recall. I can only remember her telling me that we must not tell my father. He might do something rash. He might do something to him, might hurt him. We would not tell my father to protect my father. She will talk to Dan. She will tell him what needs to be told. Nothing else was said, and my memory ends here.

Does he still show up at the house? I must imagine he does. After that, time passes. I am sixteen, meet my future wife. I am eighteen and leave home, go to college, move in with Lee, work at overcoming shame and hatred of my body. I am twenty and get married, become a father.

I hear stories. More people molested. He is divorced by his wife for cheating, and it matters not a bit if it has been with women, men, minors. I could not be the only victim; though he was unsuccessful with me, surely others were not, are not able to stop him, choose not to fight, not stave off. Surely some give in. What is the chance I would be the only one? But still, no one said anything. I did what I, at fifteen, was supposed to do: told. I gave the adults the chance, was asked to say nothing. I trusted them, and more people were hurt.

Some years pass. I am in the car with my father in Ft. Lauderdale. How many years later? Ten? Has a decade passed? I don’t know, but I have decided this day I will tell him. Time has come and gone and he will know now.

It is difficult but I blurt it out. He looks placid. Tells me he knew. Didn’t you do anything? No. What was there to do? He was a business associate. Why cause trouble? Why say anything else?

I don’t. I am silent. I am silent for a long time.

Home, I tell Lee. She can believe it barely as much as I. It is a long time before I speak with my father again. His presence has the substance of shadow.

* * * * * * * *

Gainesville. Some years later. My home near the university. My father calls and we speak. All of a sudden, he says, “Oh, and Dan says to say Hi. He’s in Boston.”

For a moment, I cannot speak.

I think. Slowly the answer seeps from my mouth. It has been years and years and now this breach. I cannot imagine I have just heard what I heard, cannot imagine it was said. Said by my father. I hear the answer as I slowly, quietly, say it.

“Tell Dan to take a gun, walk to the center of Boston Commons, put it in his mouth, and pull the trigger.” And immediately, loudly, away from the mouthpiece, “Lee, it’s for you,” and put down the phone, immediately exiting the house. I walk.

Before widespread cellphones, which I might not have taken with me regardless, I had no way of telling Lee why I walked out. No physical way. No emotional way. I could not make my mouth speak. A way for her to reach me would have been no use. I could not have spoken. I don’t think I could have been held, stopped, slowed. I walked for two hours. Where, I don’t fully remember. The neighborhood, the woods, University Avenue, 34th Street.

Upon arriving home my wife looks at me. She had a short conversation with my father and tells me he had no understanding of what he did, what he said. She says some unkind words about him, then some even less kind. Then, she just looks at me and asks if I’m OK. I am not. I have come home only because I didn’t want to further worry her, as she is my light while the outside world was reducing to shades of gray and the inner world to shadow.

* * * * * * * *

I have been asked to go on a trip. To make the trip affordable, I’ll have to share a room with a fellow. No. I’d rather not. Deep, deep inside, I do not trust this man I have not met.

I have few male friends. This is not a surprise to me. I wish I did, could, but I cannot bring myself to trust them.

While I have managed to forgive much which I have gone through—most of what people might have done to me, in error, on purpose—I cannot seem to, have not been able to, forgive this one man and, perhaps, my father as well, for having allowed this person to, what? Live? Exist? No, that isn’t it. I have not forgiven him for giving what appears to me a nod to the action, for not telling me it was wrong, for acting like nothing happened.

Something did happen. In my mind, it happens again and when it does, my soul shrinks, shards fall, parts of living soul die, fly, shrivel. The lights dim and I am again covered by shadow. It is shadow all the time.

 
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Posted by on December 10, 2006 in Family, psychology, Social

 

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