A Tragic Cycle

The innocence of childhood fled quickly from Andy’s* life. In the sexually charged environment of home, his mother thought nothing of parading around half-nude, breezing into the bathroom while Andy was using the toilet, touching him in a way no mother should touch her young son. But her unnerving seductiveness could suddenly switch to feral violence over Andy’s childish bloopers, like accidentally breaking a dish. “My brother had to pull her off me,” he says of one such beating.

Andy’s dad walked out when the boy was 11—a physical desertion long preceded by his desertion of responsibilities. “I was an available target for my mother’s anger and frustration,” says Andy.

He was also the target of a young man in the neighborhood, who molested Andy around the same time that his father left.

“The problem was, I didn’t have anyone to talk to,” leaving the repressed hurt and shame—from both crushing events—to ferment unattended. So no one was confronted; no one punished—except Andy, years later, when he confessed doing to other children what had been done to him. And when he went to prison, many considered him a monster, not really caring that he had once been an abused, abandoned child battling demons of his own.

Abused Boys to Men

The Bureau of Justice Statistics (of the U.S. Department of Justice) reports that 67 percent of all sexual assault victims are juveniles. And abuse often begets abuse, particularly when the victims are boys: In her book From Victim to Offender, researcher and professor Freda Briggs points out that “without helpful intervention,” about one-quarter of boy victims of sexual abuse become offenders themselves, generally with multiple victims. Therefore, adds Briggs, “the ‘don’t spend money on those [monsters]’ approach is clearly short-sighted given that an offender is capable of damaging hundreds of lives.”

In the last four decades, public and political advocacy has generated significant progress in exposing the sexual abuse of females and supporting their recovery. Unfortunately, male victims of sexual abuse have not received similar attention or sympathy. Part of the problem is the reluctance of boys to reveal their abuse; part is the widespread misperception that boys can “handle” abuse better; and part is the greater tendency for abused boys to aggressively “act out” as a coping defense, which usually gets them into trouble instead of into treatment.

In Washington, D.C., last summer, for example, a 7-year-old boy who had been bounced among several foster homes was molested by two 12-year-old boys. Another family took the abused child into their home, but when he made sexual advances toward a 3-year-old—a common sign of abuse—instead of getting the older boy counseling, the family simply demanded his removal. That child, like the 12-year-olds who abused him, could be headed for a criminal lifestyle because banishment is easier than caring intervention.

A child’s home life contributes significantly to his sexual health and development. And while overt abuse certainly puts a child at higher risk of continuing the cycle, other types of environments can foster sexual confusion or dysfunction. The well-documented Males at Risk: The Other Side of Sexual Abuse explains the damage caused by, for example, an evasive environment, where discussion of sex is off-limits and children must find other ways to fill in their information gap; a negative environment, where sex is treated as “dirty,” and children’s questions invoke punishment or shame; or the permissive environment, where children become overloaded with sexual information and stimulating imagery that exceeds their ability to understand and manage. On the positive end, a nurturing home life provides accurate, appropriate information and open, supportive discussion of children’s questions and feelings.

In the trauma of Andy’s home life, he found temporary refuge in his church and the kindness of his parish priest. Back in the 1950s, the decade of Andy’s youth, Roman Catholic boys sensing God’s call to the priesthood could attend the first phase of seminary education that began at age 14. Andy’s own call was less than divine: “I did a good thing for the wrong reason,” he says. “I was clearly running away from home.”

But leaving a home where boundaries were routinely invaded for a boarding school where life was exactingly and harshly regimented only strengthened Andy’s feelings that he lacked power and identity. “I was allowed no choices other than should I use salt or pepper, or put sugar in my coffee,” describes Andy. “Nearly everything else was preordained: This is when you go to bed, this is when you get up, these are the classes you take, this is how you use your time.” Being creative, being an individual, was “frowned on” as being prideful or disobedient. Simply questioning a priest’s viewpoint proved cause for expulsion.

“Authority was something I learned to fear,” says Andy, “which cut down on honesty and communication.” Good friends in the all-male school risked being labeled “particular”—code for “homosexual”—a threat that kept most relationships on a superficial level. Any sex education came through the less-than-reliable avenue of locker-room talk, or through wrestling holds that wandered astray.

For a refreshing interim during his undergrad years—the upside of being expelled—Andy attended a small southern seminary that contrasted sharply with the two institutions that flanked it. There he delved into philosophy, enjoyed greater freedom, and honed his musical talents. “That was the best experience of seminary for me,” he praises. But it came too late to override the previous lessons—“that you don’t make waves; you just do as you’re told.” In his last years “I was always afraid I wouldn’t be approved for the priesthood.”

An Elusive Power

Andy’s sense of powerlessness, suffered by most abused boys, only worsened at seminary. Most boys learn early on that part of being a man is being in control: strong, assertive, stoic in the face of hurt or discomfort. Forced into a passive, weakened, repressed role, they will often look for compensatory ways to regain a sense of power and self-esteem. For some, this means initiating relationships with those who are even more vulnerable than they are—trying to revive and master their own victimization.

“They, like their own abusers, develop sexual relationships with children,” writes Freda Briggs. “In those relationships they have power and control and are able to satisfy their emotional needs without the fear of abuse, rejection and failure that they associate with adult relationships.”

Ordained in the mid-1960s and assigned to a parish, Andy felt thrust into an unfamiliar freedom that unleashed all the repressed and festered sexual confusion, his longing for acceptance, and fears of responsibility. “I found myself attracted to boys 13 or 14, the same age as I was when I first went to seminary,” he says. Emotionally, “I was still 14, and so those were the kids I’d seek out for companionship.” But companionship slid into sexual exploitation.

Once, when his inappropriate activity came to light, Andy’s superior simply admonished, “You don’t look like half a man to me.” Andy was transferred to another parish and ordered to get therapy.

Finally, after nine years, he left the priesthood, thinking that would solve his sexual problems. Instead, he discovered, “I now had no structures to act as a restraint, and then I spiraled out of control.”

He never inflicted “any physical violence,” he stresses, “though there are other kinds of violence that are equally severe”—the crush of a child’s trust, security, and sense of wonder. All the things Andy had lost and tried to recapture. “But you cannot recover what was taken from you by stealing from another.”

He knows that now, an understanding that has come from a process of imprisonment, intense therapy, and renewal from a merciful God. But back then, all Andy knew is that nothing could tame the overpowering fantasies that crowded out other thoughts, the insatiable cravings that seemed imbedded in his being. “I honestly thought, This is who I am.” And feeling powerless before His all-powerful God, he angrily blamed God for “letting this happen. I was so desolate.”

So when Andy went to prison, “it was the best two years of my life,” he admits. “I really wanted to change, and there I found an ally”—a psychologist willing to meet with him one and a half hours a day, five days a week, for about six weeks: painstakingly exploring the past, helping Andy face his destructive defenses and take responsibility. He also participated in group therapy with other sex offenders. But even the prison code of ethics dumps sex offenders at the very bottom of the barrel. Harassed and threatened by other inmates, Andy had the option of transferring to “special housing,” a fancy term for isolation. But Andy refused: I will have to face the anger and rejection sooner or later, he thought. And at least in general population, he could find a few friends who, too, wanted to change and could offer mutual support.

A Safer Future

Andy’s prison provided effective treatment opportunities; few convicted sex offenders have such options. Public distaste for channeling any taxpayer money into help for offenders has restricted what prisons, and communities, can offer. But if we truly want to make our communities safer by reducing the risk of re-offending, then we must not only punish but also help change the offending behavior. That shows respect for victims’ needs.

Effective treatment typically includes a mix of elements. In individual and group therapy, offenders uncover, examine, and learn to redirect thinking patterns that have contributed to sexually abusive behavior. They identify and learn to anticipate and avoid situations that trigger arousal and temptation. Treatment may also focus considerable attention on getting offenders to realize and accept responsibility for the depth of injury they have caused their victims. And medication may be prescribed to reduce sexual arousal.

But sex offenders also require post-prison assistance. As Andy discovered after leaving the priesthood, the sudden loss of familiar structures and restraints can lead to license rather than freedom if internal boundaries teeter as pressures escalate. For released offenders, support networks can continue to provide accountability structures and assistance during the very difficult transition back to the community. If that network includes the Church, it also links ex-offenders to their most powerful and promising source of transformation, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Andy set up additional structures while still in prison, using his “free” time to focus on mental, emotional, and spiritual development. “I would get up at 5:30, have prayer, and write letters.” He read books that expanded his vision of God and deepened his assurance of God’s boundless love. Andy’s older brother, a priest, kept him stocked with reading material, especially from favorite author Thomas Merton. On October 23, 1986—a date imbedded in Andy’s memory—he sat out in the prison yard pondering an ancient Japanese riddle that Merton presented: “Before your mother and father were born, what was your original face?”

“And as I was thinking, it came to me,” explains Andy. “My original face is the face on which God has looked from eternity. Before my mother and father were born, God knew me and loved me. And that is the real me, my original face. Not the face my parents gave me, of someone not to be loved but deserted. Not the face my molester saw, of someone who was just a body for his satisfaction. But there is a face that God knows, and that’s who I really am!”

That breakthrough understanding, Andy says, accelerated the quest to discover and reclaim his “true self.” “The most important thing that happened is that I went back and remade some old decisions,” he says, “but I made them in the right way.” Decisions such as accepting responsibility and authority for those things he could control—even in prison—like his thought life, his language (which had coarsened in that coarse environment), his sense of worth. Decisions to recognize that children were more than objects to complete his deficiencies; they were precious individuals with histories, personalities, and rights.

“The real sadness of what I did to children is that I did it with God’s love,” he reflects. “God gives us all His love, and rather than loving others in a healthy, holy way, we distort it. That’s the terribleness of sin: It isn’t just breaking a rule. God is there loving me, and I’m taking that love and distorting it and using it to cause pain.”

In some cases, victims have sought Andy out, giving him an opportunity to express his remorse and ask their forgiveness. He has never initiated contact with any victim. “There’s too great a danger of reopening their wounds,” he says. “Back then, it was a question of control: My life was out of control, so I had to control these children through sexuality. The best gift I can now give my victims is control. I don’t set the agenda. But when they contact me, I am more than willing to talk with them.”

And “if you seek forgiveness,” he adds, you must “first forgive those who have offended you.” He has forgiven his mother, who passed away shortly after he left the priesthood. “I know she loved us,” Andy empathizes. “But part of her life was out of control.” He has also forgiven the priests of his seminary days, realizing that they, too, had continued a cycle of repression and fear that had been foisted on them as students.

Released from prison after two years, Andy sought counseling from a priest-psychologist he knew. “And I had a network: my brother, some dear friends, people I could talk to,” and who would help him continue to make right decisions. He got a job working at the national office of Prison Fellowship in Northern Virginia, “which was like a spiritual halfway house for getting back into the community,” he describes. “At PF I could be open. People would not approve of the sin, obviously, but they supported me in my process of restoration.”

Now in his early sixties, Andy remains a committed Catholic and has worked several years in training and human resources with a public-service company. He lives alone in a community with families and kids. Children seem naturally drawn to his warmth and friendliness, but “I have a strict code of behavior. Kids are not allowed in my apartment. I don’t spend time alone with them.” He can now look at a child without sexual desire, though he accepts that some children will always be attractive to him. “The real temptation is not to be with a child, but to be a child,” he clarifies. To be free of the responsibilities that come with adulthood.

Sexual abuse “is a part of my history, but it is not part of my life now,” adds Andy. “I have to remember the history; I don’t want to ever get to the point that I say, ‘Oh, it’s all over.’” He knows that Christ has set him free, “but a free person can still do right or wrong. I have to be vigilant, but I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the past. I’ve been blessed.”

Changing Hearts, Changing Minds

Since getting out of prison in 1988, Andy has never re-offended. That’s a success story. Certainly, it doesn’t make up for the pain his victims have endured and, in some cases, continue to endure. That is one reason we chose to give him a pseudonym, in keeping with his desire not to reopen or aggravate still tender wounds. But another reason is that, even after 14 years offense-free, Andy would find people who still consider him a monster to be indefinitely punished and caged.

At least 16 states have enacted laws that allow authorities to confine a sex offender after he has completed his prison sentence if they believe he may offend again. Sex offender registries, published on public websites, often spark community outrage to drive away returning prisoners, whether or not they are truly dangerous. Many lump all offenders in the terrifying “sexually violent predator” category, even though 85 percent or more never use physical force.

All sexual abuse is horrible, but not all sex offenders—despite media implications—are vicious animals beyond all hope of change. And as Andy’s life shows, helping them change is still the best way to protect our children.

This article appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Jubilee.

*Not his real name.