Learning to Live With the Abuse

This was arguably harder to overcome than the addiction.

Addiction was a war I fought in public. But the abuse—that was private. Quiet. Lifelong.

For years, I tried to outrun it. When sports were going well, I thought maybe I had. Everything looked like it was lining up: performance, praise, possibility.

But when things got bad—there it was again.

The memories.

The nightmares.

The guilt.

The shame.

Random moments would hit me in the middle of the day. Vivid flashbacks. Vivid recreations of things that didn’t even happen, but still featured the same person—Mr. B. My mind was trying to process what I hadn’t been able to name.

Even after years of rebuilding myself, there was still this one thing I couldn’t shake.

Not fully.

It wasn’t just what happened—it was what I believed it meant about me.

I thought I should’ve known better.

I thought I should’ve said no sooner.

I thought I should’ve spoken up, fought back, told someone.

And when you carry that kind of shame, it doesn’t stay in the past. It haunts the present.

Up until just a few years ago, I still believed I would “get over it” one day.

Now I know better.

This doesn’t go away.

You just learn how to live with it.

That was the real turning point. When I stopped running from the memories—and started sitting with them.

I stopped trying to shove them down.

I let them in.

I practiced mindfulness when the memories hit.

I let myself observe them.

Not fight. Not deny. Not numb. Just notice.

And over time, they lost their power.

They didn’t disappear.

But they didn’t control me anymore.

I forgave myself.

For being naive. For believing I was on my way to something big.

For going back when I should’ve run.

For not knowing what to do.

I started reminding myself that I’m not that scared kid anymore.

I talked to him in my mind.

Sometimes I just told him he did the best he could.

Sometimes I imagined telling him how to get out.

And sometimes, I told him it was okay that he didn’t.

That he still deserved peace.

This is how I started healing.

By facing the memories with compassion instead of fear.

By finding new ways to think and feel about what happened.

By exploring other angles. Third-party perspectives. Alternative narratives.

Not to rewrite history.

But to stop letting one version of it destroy me.

But here’s what really helped me move forward:

Therapy changed everything.

I was 37 years old when I finally went to a mental health clinic—for the abuse. I had done therapy for addiction before, but this was different. I needed it.

I thought I was too old to break down. Too far gone to need help. But I was a nervous wreck.

I thought I was going to get fired from my job. I thought I wasn’t going to be good enough for my soon-to-be wife.

That’s how long I held my story in—25 years.

And then I sat across from a therapist, and they asked me something simple:

“Have you ever been the victim of abuse?”

I paused. I wanted to say no. So badly.

But I couldn’t. Look where pretending had gotten me.

And for the first time, I said it out loud:

“Yes.”

That word cracked something open.

I remember my therapist telling me that after I said it, my entire body language changed. Like the weight of 25 years finally shifted. That was the beginning of real healing.

He told me something I’ll never forget:

“If you don’t start working through this, your mental health will get worse. Not better.”

I believed him. I saw it firsthand. I saw what abuse did to others in that clinic. I heard their stories. I saw the wreckage.

That night, I went home and told my wife everything.

And she met it with love.

That opened the door.

I started therapy consistently.

I started healing.

I started to see myself as strong—for the first time.

I started to see the courage forming inside me.

And little by little, the shame started to lift.

This didn’t happen overnight. It’s not over. It probably never will be. But practicing meditation, mindfulness, and cognitive therapy changed my life. I started to face it, and truly overcome it. As a survivor.

The cold, dark cloud doesn’t follow me like it used to.

It’s still there.

But now I walk through it.

And it doesn’t stop me anymore.