This article is part of my series on depression. In this piece, I want to talk about what has happened to me over the last three months, and it has to do with my childhood abuse. Then I want to connect that to the healing power of remembering and of forgiveness based on those memories.
A Warning to Readers Why would I talk about childhood abuse in an article series on depression?
My childhood abuse scars are deeply connected to my depression—to feelings of worthlessness and loneliness, even in crowds. It’s connected to why I don’t feel comfortable in crowds. As a courtesy and kindness, I want to say right here at the top that not everybody should read this. It’s going to be intense, and it could trigger painful memories and emotions for people who were also abused as children. You may not want to read this if you have that background. Only you can decide that, but I wanted to warn you. I’m going to talk about things that are socially uncomfortable and awkward. If you need political correctness or can’t handle difficult content, you should probably stop reading now. Not everybody who has depression was abused as a child, and not everybody who’s abused as a child has depression. I don’t want to present my situation as unique because that’s not true. I think my situation is very common—the fact that I was abused and that resulted in depression. But just because you’re depressed doesn’t mean you were abused, and just because you were abused doesn’t mean you’re going to struggle with my kind of depression, which is not mild. It’s serious suicidal depression that I’ve learned to manage.
Beginning Intense Therapy
About three months ago, I started engaging in therapy—three different types. I won’t get into the details. Maybe I’ll talk about that in a different article. One was fairly mild but very helpful, just traditional talk therapy. The other two types were very, very intense. My therapist let me know that the non-talk therapy was going to be intense and might be difficult. He was right. It has been both. I’m doing this intense therapy to deal with what they call CPTSD—complex post-traumatic stress disorder. They evaluated me on a scale of 1 to 60, with one being almost none and 60 being really bad. My score was 52. Unbeknownst to me until a couple months ago, I have pretty severe CPTSD. Now I know. I’ve been professionally evaluated, and yes, I have serious issues. One of the things I’ve been talking to my therapist about is dealing with that CPTSD, hoping that healing from it will also help me manage my depression.
What I Knew Before
For about the last 15 years, I’ve been having flashbacks of severe childhood abuse. I had fragmented memories that I couldn’t stitch together, but I knew a few things. Before I started intense therapy three months ago, I knew with fairly high confidence that my abuser was a woman. I knew the abuse happened when I was young—between the ages of three and eight. I’ve now narrowed that down to between four and seven. I also knew the abuse was severe—it involved molestation, fondling, and physical torture including cutting and burning. That’s what I knew. But there was a lot I didn’t know. I didn’t know who this woman was. I didn’t know why she chose me. I didn’t know how the abuse ended. I didn’t know how much my family knew about the abuse. I didn’t understand why I never got help—why my family never got me help if they knew. ## The Memory Returns Three months ago, I started the intense therapy and over a 10-day period, I remembered exactly who this person was and exactly what she had done to me. What surprised me? I thought the revelation would come all at once, like being hit with a load of bricks. It didn’t. It came over a 10-day period in bits and pieces. The best way I can describe it is like getting half a dozen jigsaw puzzle pieces every day. Every day for 10 or 15 days, I got new pieces and started snapping them into place. The process accelerated. As I assembled more pieces, I would receive even more the next day. The first day I got three puzzle pieces, the second day six, the third day nine, the fourth day twelve. After 10 or 15 days, I had a nearly complete picture with only a couple pieces missing. Over the course of three months, I’ve assembled a complete picture with no missing pieces. I don’t remember the exact sequence of memories. I wasn’t thinking about documenting this for posterity while going through it. But I vaguely remember the progression. First, I confirmed it was a woman in my family. Then I remembered her hair color—blonde. Then that she was thin, and I remembered the sundress she wore. I remembered what she did to me. Then towards the end—day eight, nine, maybe ten—I remembered her name. I remembered who she was.
The Moment of Recognition
It happened at the gym, right as I was walking in. Based on research I’ve done, this probably isn’t a coincidence. The gym is where many trauma and sexual abuse survivors go to reclaim autonomy over their bodies. It’s where we go to feel strong and in control. It’s probably not an accident that I remembered there—one of the places where I feel strongest and most in control of my own body. I remembered her name. I went in and sat on the gym floor for about 20 minutes just processing. I probably dissociated a little. I’m not sure exactly. But I remembered her name. That wasn’t the end, though I thought it would be. Two or three days later, I had a full HD video replay of the last time she abused me—how she finally got caught. It was an aunt. I was raped by an aunt. She got caught by my uncle. I remember everything like it was yesterday. The house. The room. The dress she was wearing. What she was doing to me when he walked in. The horrified look on his face. The way he ran out of the room. Their screaming and yelling. Being left on the bed half dressed. My parents coming to get me. All of it.
Unexpected Reactions
The memory didn’t come all at once. That surprised me. It came in pieces over days. What also surprised me was my reaction when I finally remembered her name. I expected some kind of collapse. Maybe I’d get in my truck and drive to find her. None of that happened. I didn’t collapse. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream or yell. I didn’t go looking for her. There was nothing—just calm, quiet, and emptiness. I wasn’t ready for that. There was only acceptance. The crying and screaming did come, but not in that moment. It took another week or two before the pain arrived.
Unexpected Empathy
The level of empathy I felt for my aunt surprised me most. I hadn’t expected to feel empathy. She was very young—late teens, early twenties at most. I don’t think she was old enough to drink. Now at 45, I realize that a young woman of 18, 19, or 20 is still, in many ways, a child. She was obviously a victim herself. Normal, unbroken 19-year-old women don’t sexually assault and physically torture their 4-year-old nephews. That’s not normal human behavior. She was broken and damaged in fundamental ways. I recognized that. Part of me bled for her, wanted to hold her and tell her I was sorry it happened to her. Tell her it was wrong that she was hurt like that. I wasn’t prepared for that empathy. I was ready for hate, anger, a desire to confront and hurt. I had none of that in the moment. I’ve had moments since where I’ve told myself I want my aunt to burn in hell forever for what she did to me. But those are moments of weakness and intense emotion. They’re not how I really feel. She was a wounded, damaged child who latched onto me trying to heal herself. I know that.
The Power of Forgiveness
That clarity and understanding, my ability to empathize with her—I didn’t expect any of it. My desire to hold her and tell her I was sorry, that it would be okay—I didn’t expect that either.
To be clear, I’d already forgiven her before I knew who she was. That was an important part of my healing process. I knew she was a victim. I prayed to God and found the strength to forgive her and understand before I remembered her identity.
But when I remembered who she was and had the details—when I knew it was my young aunt who had been broken—I reached a level of forgiveness I hadn’t been able to before.
One reason I’m still disappointed my family kept this secret is they denied me, for 40 years, the opportunity to fully forgive my aunt. Without knowing her identity, who she was as a person, I couldn’t fully forgive. In these last three months, I’ve been able to.
I don’t know if she’ll ever read or hear this, but I hope she does. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But if she is, I hope she’ll understand that I know she was broken. That I love her. That I’m sorry she was hurt. That I’ve forgiven her for what she did to me. That I took the pain she caused and tried to turn it into something good.
If she were here with me right now, that’s what I would tell her.
The Good Consequences
All of this surprised me—how the memories came gradually instead of all at once, the calm and acceptance I felt, my ability to empathize, the affection I still felt for her.
What are the consequences of finally knowing who this person was? Many have been good.
I’ve reached a level of forgiveness I couldn’t achieve before. I have new understanding of who she was and why she chose me.
Many confusing parts of my childhood now make sense. Why my parents moved us out of state and cut off contact with extended family. Why my uncle divorced his brand new wife without explanation. Why my parents became so careful about where I went and who I went with. Why I am so different from other people.
So many confusing, disconnected parts of my life now fit together. I’ve snapped the puzzle pieces into place. Each piece connects with the others, bringing me great peace and relief. I didn’t expect that level of understanding.
Unexpected Benefits
Some other unexpected benefits have emerged. Personal struggles with my demons have almost completely vanished. Things that tormented me daily have gone quiet. From my research, this isn’t unusual—it can be fairly common.
I’m beginning to understand my relationships with women in ways I couldn’t before. The young women I first interacted with as a young man—I understand now why those relationships unfolded as they did and why most were deeply painful. It helps me understand why certain women react to me the way they do today, especially those who are wounded, broken, or abused. There’s a mutual recognition between abuse survivors that I understand now. I didn’t fully grasp it before.
Understanding My Behaviors
I understand my own behaviors now, even 40 years later, in ways I couldn’t before.
Most friends and family don’t know this, but when I’m in a room, I constantly track where everyone is, like an air traffic control tower. It’s not conscious—or wasn’t until recently. I subconsciously track people’s locations, especially attractive women.
This has nothing to do with sexual desire. It’s about tracking threats. My aunt was a beautiful woman and a serious threat in my life. Now I track people constantly. In any situation where I’m not alone, I’m tracking physical locations like planes on a radar screen.
This explains why I’m uncomfortable in crowds—sporting events, weddings, memorials, religious assemblies, conventions. Anywhere with more than a couple people, I’m running a full-stack air traffic control system, which is mentally exhausting. I can’t turn it off.
There are other behaviors like this that I understand now. That’s a good thing.
The Painful Consequences
Some consequences have been painful. I won’t say bad, but definitely painful.
Anger at my aunt for violating me. At my parents for not keeping me safe. At my entire family for keeping this secret, even when I confronted them with the truth. Anger that they didn’t get me treatment, help, or therapy despite knowing I was seriously wounded. It was neglect—terrible neglect that hugely impacted my life.
I’ve had to confront uncomfortable truths about people in my immediate and extended family who claim to love me. Their actions showed they cared more about social appearances than getting help for a wounded boy. That’s a hard pill to swallow.
The Most Difficult Part
The most difficult part of recovering these memories is understanding the nature of my relationship with my aunt. We haven’t spoken in 40 years, but understanding what that relationship was when I was a boy—parts of it are very uncomfortable and difficult. I’ll share what I can.
I loved her. I adored her. I worshiped her. She made me feel loved and special and chosen in ways no one else did. She also terrified me.
But more than the terror and fear, I remember the love, adoration, and worship. There are things about that relationship I still don’t fully understand. There was relief at being chosen by someone beautiful. It makes no sense, but it’s true.
I worshiped her as something beautiful, sacred, secret, and divine—even though she was cruel and wicked and anything but divine. My four-year-old mind didn’t understand that.
Coming to grips with the fact that I loved, adored, and worshiped my abuser, that she meant everything to me—it’s difficult to admit.
Even now, I feel jealous thinking she might have had other victims after me. That’s horrible. I hope she didn’t have other victims, but I understand she likely did. When I think about it, I feel jealous. It’s insane, but I won’t lie about how it makes me feel—jealous, possessive, and protective. Because she was special to me. Because I adored and worshiped her.
That’s heavy. Processing these emotions, understanding that I’m so broken I worshiped the woman who abused and tortured me—that’s incredibly heavy.
Wrestling with Guilt
I’m trying to understand what a four-year-old’s mind is capable of. The abuse continued until I was six or seven. What are a boy’s sexual faculties at that age? Was I capable of sexual attraction? Did I understand my aunt was physically beautiful? Was a five-year-old’s understanding of beauty different from the sexual attraction I feel as a man now? Was it the same? A mix?
Why did I keep it secret? Was it because the attention made me feel special and I didn’t want it to stop? Does that make me complicit? A co-conspirator? What guilt do I bear?
Was I betraying my uncle? We were violating his marriage. Even though I was just a boy, I feel guilt. As a grown man, I understand what it meant that his wife did that with me. It makes me feel partly guilty in that transgression.
There are so many confusing emotions to process—feelings of guilt, worthlessness, dysfunction. What kind of boy worships the woman who rapes him? Maybe there’s something fundamentally broken deep inside me. I’m afraid that’s what it means. A normal boy wouldn’t do that, would he? I don’t have answers to these questions. This is why I’m doing therapy—to work through this.
The Connection to Depression
How does this connect to my depression?
Intense emotions aren’t good for a man fighting severe depression. I’ve had intense episodes of anger, sadness, guilt, shame, and worthlessness. I’ve managed them well, all things considered. I’m taking my antidepressant, going to the gym daily, getting up and going to work. I think I’ve done well, but yes, it’s been an extra burden. The intense emotional episodes have made managing my depression more difficult.
But I’m also getting closure. There’s relief and peace in finally having answers. Most importantly, I have a new level of understanding about myself, about why I’m wired this way, about why people react to me as they do—especially those who were also victims of abuse or abandonment. They react to me in certain ways, and now I understand why. This allows me to be more careful, to make more considerate, loving, and principled decisions about how I behave and interact.
Net Positive
When I weigh everything on a scale—has it been good to remember? Yes.
Remembering my aunt and what she did has been painful and intensely emotional, but it’s also been healthy. I’ve been able to heal. I’m not completely healed yet—that will take years. There will be scars. But I will heal. Over time, I’ll understand more about why she chose me, why I adored and worshiped her, how her abuse left bloody fingerprints across my entire life. I don’t understand it all yet, but I will. I’ll work through it, and it will help me be less depressed.
Already, the healing and the quieting of my worst demons has granted me additional peace and rest. I’m grateful for that.
Overall, it’s a net positive. I hope other people in my situation—those abused as children with repressed memories—will have the same opportunity I’ve had to remember fully what happened, if they choose it. Even though it will be painful, I think it will help them heal.
I’m thankful and grateful I finally remembered who she was, if for no other reason than it allowed me to forgive her fully in a way I couldn’t before. For me as a Christian man who wants to imitate God’s mercy as much as humanly possible, reaching that full forgiveness is really important.
I want to be clear—I’m not a saint. I still have days where I wish her great pain and suffering. But those are moments of weakness. When I’m lucid and in control, I know I want to forgive her and see her shown mercy.