Breaking the Ruhls: A Memoir

By Larry Ruhl

A profoundly personal account of the impact of complex trauma on a man’s life.

Larry Ruhl’s father sought comfort from his only son, smothering him not only with his affection, but his sexuality—blurring critical boundaries that would prove deeply debilitating. Larry’s mother, with her spiraling, ever-changing mental illness kept the family in a constant state of anxiety. By the time Larry graduated from high school, overwhelming sadness and suicidal thoughts took root, plaguing him for decades.

Breaking the Ruhls will resonate deeply with many who have experienced similar trauma, boundary violations, and abuse within the family. Ruhl mines his own experiences with sexual confusion, addiction and recovery, relationships, career struggles, and therapeutic breakthroughs, while demonstrating it is possible to heal and thrive.

• Ninety-three percent of juvenile sexual assault victims knew their perpetrators. For 80 percent of those, that perpetrator was a parent.

• Shines a spotlight on complex trauma involving sexual abuse and help others shed the shame that sexual abuse survivors unfairly carry.

Larry Ruhl serves as a board member for Taking Back Ourselves, which facilitates weekends of recovery for survivors of sexual abuse, and is a registered speaker with RAINN (Rape Abuse Incest National Network). He previously served as a board member at Male Survivor, a leading organization in the fight to improve the resources and support available to male survivors of all forms of sexual abuse. Today he takes meetings into addiction treatment centers as a way to shed shame and draw the parallels between addiction and sexual abuse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Central Recovery Press
• Release date: Jan 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781942094593

Book preview

Preface

As an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I face challenging questions. Is it truly possible to move through the shame I carry every day? Can I have a full life without depending on mind-numbing drugs and alcohol? And the most difficult question of all: Do I tell? But how do I tell? Who do I tell? What happens if I do tell?

My decision to share my story was not easy. It’s been suggested to me I’m betraying my father and my family by writing this book. I know now that isn’t true.

We live in a society that blames the victim. Shame and guilt are piled on victims, with devastating consequences. Young children are told by the adults who should protect them to remain silent, to keep secrets. Women are accused of asking for it if they dress certain ways. Adult male victims keep quiet, guilty for not being man enough to fight off an aggressor.

Sexual abuse affects every corner of the population, leading to countless cases of addiction, suicide, eating disorders, depression, and anxiety. And more.

One of the main reasons I’m speaking out is to help erase some assumptions about abusers. My father wasn’t the lurking, sinister predator many imagine pedophiles to be. He was a friendly, fun loving, and well-liked guy. That’s reality.

By sharing our stories, especially the most painful and shameful pieces, we can shed our own shame and find unity, compassion, and understanding for one another. I’ve struggled with my sexual identity, addiction, and the wrenching pain of acceptance. Accepting what my father did has seemed, at times, unfathomable. Accepting my mother’s betrayal has been equally hard. I was brought up to forgive and forget. I have found ways to achieve the former, but will never allow for the latter.

I am a victim of childhood sexual abuse, but I am also a survivor. The term victim speaks to what was. Survivor focuses on my present and my continued path of healing.

I share my story to help others believe that healing is possible.

PART I: LEVITTOWN

Chapter One

You’re a faggot! she hissed, spitting out the word, saliva forming at the corners of her cigarette-stained mouth.

Hearing her say that word caused my stomach to churn and my face to burn crimson. She knew she had gotten to me; however, she went on saying it over and over again, mocking me, more enraged each time.

Faggot. You make me sick, faggot.

Close to tears, I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth. Mom, please don’t do this.

Silently she moved away from me, searching for another cigarette.

I felt paralyzed. What had changed in the two short days since she told me she loves and accepts me for who I am? I tried replaying in detail what had transpired before this crushing moment.

I had celebrated my twentieth birthday a few weeks before the semester ended at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT). As I was packing up my dorm room, getting ready to spend summer break at home, I received a call on the hallway phone from my sister, Eileen. She sounded abrupt and panicked.

Mom and Dad are going to ask you if you’re gay.

Why?

She stammered and then mumbled something about always suspecting it but now having proof.

Proof? I asked, laughing nervously.

It’s not funny. She went through your room and searched the bags you dropped off last week. She found and read some things.

My heart started pounding.

Mom said something about a set of envelopes. Does that sound familiar?

I felt like throwing up. I knew the dangers of keeping private things anywhere near my mother, but in the chaos of the semester ending, I’d forgotten a makeshift journal I had created and left it in a side pocket of my duffel bag. I shuddered at the idea of these deeply personal expressions being read by anyone, let alone my volatile mother. Now, I was being forced to talk about my sexual identity, one of my biggest fears. Eileen and I were incredibly close, allies in a childhood driven by chaos and violence. She was one of the few people I confided in about my conflicted sexuality.

I had an hour before I needed to be on the train. Part of me wanted to run away, but I knew my options were limited. Before Eileen’s call, I was resigned to another dreadful summer in Levittown. I had no money and desperately wanted to feel like a normal college kid, who went home to doting parents—a mother who did your laundry and cooked your favorite meal, beaming while you devoured it, and a father who wanted to hear about your classes. I knew this scenario was a fantasy, but I held out hope that it was going to be a decent summer anyway.

All that was over now. How could I turn this situation around? Maybe I would deny the envelopes were mine. I quickly discounted that idea, knowing how many notes, letters, and cards I had written my mom over the years. She knew my handwriting.

Maybe I would say it was a book report for a class, which I knew was only slightly more believable. But as I recalled what I’d revealed in those passages, I knew I was in for a gut-wrenching experience.

Panic rose up through my chest, as dread I recognized from an old place spread over me. It was all too familiar, but I tried to keep it from taking over. I understood the kind of reactions my mother was capable of and wondered if, having previously escaped the worst of her wrath, it was my turn to experience one of her violent fits of rage.

I couldn’t stop the memories of what she had done to Eileen from bleeding into my brain. A day from a decade earlier suddenly felt like yesterday.

At fifteen, my sister dated Steven, a slightly older boy who lived down the street. He was Eileen’s first real boyfriend, and it was nice having a new face in our intimate family. They often let me tag along with them, which got me out of the house and made me feel like I had a big brother. But over the course of a few months, our mother’s interest in Steven grew increasingly obsessive. As a result, she forbade Eileen to see him anymore. It was not the first time our mother’s decrees made us miserable, but we knew we had no alternative but to accept them.

It didn’t end there. Our mother claimed that hang-up or prank phone calls were coming from Steven. A car driving by slowly, or the sound of a horn honking was Steven sending her a signal.

He’s in love with me, we heard our mother tell our father.

When he tried to convince her otherwise, her temper flared. Our lives morphed into all things Steven. His imagined presence in our house was palpable. Eileen, who was reluctant to give him up, thought our mother wouldn’t find out if she stayed in contact with him, writing about it in her diary. One late afternoon, Eileen and I were in the living room watching TV.

Our mother, appearing in front of Eileen, asked, Did you see Steven at school today?

Just hearing his name made me tense. After Eileen answered an abrupt no, our mother slapped her across the face with ear-ringing force, knocking my sister to the floor. I sat motionless. Up until that day, she’d only ever hit my father like that.

Don’t you fucking lie to me, Eileen, our mother warned.

As Eileen tried to stand, our mother hit her again, harder this time, knocking my sister into the dining room table.

Mom, stop! I pleaded.

Get out of this house and don’t you dare come back until you see your father’s car in the driveway. Do you understand me?

I nodded fearfully and left. At nine years old, I had few friends and was too consumed with worry for my sister to do anything but walk around the block. As I got close to our house, I listened intently to hear anything, but it was hot and the air conditioning, as always, was on full blast, muffling any voices or screams.

After what felt like an eternity, I spotted my father’s car barreling down our street. I tucked into a bush nearby and watched him hurriedly get out of the station wagon and disappear through the front door. In that moment, I imagined the entire house bursting into flames, with only Eileen getting out alive, putting an end to this nightmare. I stayed in place for a few minutes longer before heading up the driveway. Was I going back too soon? The thing I knew with certainty was that I couldn’t tell anyone. I knew the importance of keeping family secrets.

Nothing could have prepared my young eyes for what I walked into. The house was in shambles: lamps lying on the floor, some of my mother’s cherished knick-knacks in pieces, and blood everywhere—on the wall-to-wall carpeting, the coffee table, the sofa. As I turned toward the stairs going up to our bedrooms, my eyes took in the deep mahogany stains that streaked the surfaces, the bloody handprints along the beige walls, and spots where blood had dripped. I sat on the sofa believing Eileen might be dead. My father walked into the kitchen, seeming not to notice me. He turned on the faucet and emerged with handfuls of wet dishtowels. Making eye contact with me, he ordered me to stay downstairs and said, This is what happens when you lie to your mother.

Where’s Eileen? Can I see her? I felt numb.

Upstairs. Wait until I get her cleaned up. If your mother comes back in, just tell her you love her. Okay?

I nodded and sat and waited. I had to pee but was too terrified to go into the bathroom alone. Eventually, my father came back down, blood-soaked towels in hand, and motioned for me to head up. As I turned into Eileen’s room, I saw it too had been ransacked. My sister was on her bed in a fetal position. As she clutched her knees, I saw her face was bloodied and bruised. I wondered where all that blood was from. What had Mother done to her? I stayed in her room and slept on the floor next to her as she cried and groaned in pain.

My family did not discuss the incident. We went along as if it had never happened. Eileen did what she could to conceal the damage to her face, making up excuses when anyone pressed her on what happened.

Weeks later, when Eileen and I were laughing in the back seat of the car, our mother spoke, raising her voice. Go ahead and laugh at your little jokes, but remember next time either of you betrays me, you’ll end up in the hospital. That’s a promise. We fell silent.

Recalling that horrible day drove home the enormity of what I was about to face. Stepping off the train, my throat tightened. I could tell that Eileen, who was waiting for me, had already been crying; when I hugged her, she released more tears. Instinctively, I reassured her it would be okay.

My parents were sitting in their regular positions at the dining room table, their expressions both familiar and disquieting. They’d clearly been fighting, and as usual, my father looked defeated. I’d no sooner sat down than my father asked me to join him for a drive and a father-son chat. I managed a half smile and got into the car. I hated the idea of being alone with him, and wondered if this was his idea or hers. Considering he was incapable of standing up to her, I presumed this was my mother’s plan. I remained silent as he made his way to a local park.

I need to ask you some uncomfortable questions.

Uncomfortable for whom? I wondered. You or me?

I hate having to do this, but what’s with those envelopes? Do you know what I’m talking about?

Why did she go through my stuff?

You know how your mother is. She gets ideas in her head. You shouldn’t keep that shit around anyway. Who knows who might read it? Are you gay?

I think I might be bisexual, but I’m not sure. I’m really sorry, Dad.

I regretted not lying. His look of disgust engulfed me, and I apologized again. He muttered something about being disappointed that I would choose to be that way, and my shame deepened.

When you talk to your mom, not a word that I told you what she did. Understand? It needs to be our secret.

I did understand. He had been asking me to keep his secrets since childhood.

I braced myself as I walked back into the house. I saw my mother look at my father, and as he nodded, her gaze shifted to me.

Come out into the garage with me, honey, while I have a cigarette.

I followed her out and after she lit up, she turned and gave me a hug, whispering, You’re my son Larry J., and I will love you no matter what. Now, tell me what you said to your father.

I told him that I’m bisexual.

Is that the truth or are you lying to us?

No, Mom. That’s the truth.

Do you have AIDS?

Caught off guard, I abruptly answered, No.

Have you had sex with men?

I nodded yes, but was unsure. Did she consider masturbation sex? Kissing? Getting a blowjob? The lines were blurred, but I was glad I answered yes, based on what I had written on those envelopes.

What kind of sex have you had with men?

Mom, that’s personal.

She looked back at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Personal? Nothing is personal as long as you live in my house. Are you doing drugs?

No. I answered definitively.

Show me your arms.

What?

Show me your arms. She sounded exasperated.

I don’t understand.

She grabbed my right arm forcefully and pushed up the sleeve, looking at the underside of my elbow and wrist.

What are you doing? I asked, trying not to let my fear and annoyance show.

Checking for track marks. Drug addicts have them. Don’t think I’m an idiot, Larry J.

Shoving my arm aside aggressively, she said, I don’t ever want to talk about this again.

For the next two days, my mother avoided me. Meals were excruciating, as she refused to look at me and disappeared into the garage at times to smoke, leaving me with my father, who also refused any interaction. I was confused and vulnerable, wondering if she had changed her mind about loving me no matter what. On the third day, she unleashed her fury, telling me what she thought of homosexuality and of me, the word faggot puncturing my heart over and over.

After she stormed away from me, I called Eileen, who rescued me by offering to let me stay with her and her husband, Brian, for the duration of the summer. At least I now had a plan of escape; I had always needed a plan. I went upstairs and grabbed my mostly still-packed bags. With the whole summer ahead of me, I longed to be back in the anonymity of New York City, carousing with my roommate in seedy bars and art galleries, two of my new favorite scenes.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into Eileen’s driveway and out of the hellhole of my parents’ house. Thankfully, I had a job lined up to keep my mind occupied, and to earn some much-needed money.

I went to work at a home furnishings store in bucolic upper Bucks County. It was the antithesis of Levittown. Winding up River Road, my anxiety settled, and I could focus on handling beautiful objects and greeting customers of a different ilk than my parents and those I grew up with—an escape from what was familiar.

In conversations with clients and coworkers, I avoided giving up any details of where I was from, feeling the stigma of Levittown and the stain it left on me. The first few weeks went along smoothly, with no contact from my parents. In the evenings, Eileen, told me about their fighting, and said my dad thought it was best I wasn’t there to hear what my mother was saying.

As the summer trudged along, I developed a friendship with one of the partners of the store. He included me in decisions to remerchandise, and he left me in charge more frequently. After one long weekend, he asked if I might like to join him and some friends for drinks. There was never a discussion about my age, but he knew I had yet to turn twenty-one. While I watched him and his friends order their cocktails with confidence, I felt embarrassed, both by my underage status and lack of knowledge in the alcohol department. I wanted what these people had: self-confidence. Noticing my discomfort, he slid his glass of champagne toward me, and with a wink, he offered me a sip.

My relationship with him developed outside of the business. He started referring to me as his houseboy, which meant housesitting, being his designated driver, and staying at his place after a long night out, along with drunken attempts at sex.

Within a few weeks, I sensed I was wearing out my welcome, so I developed an updated plan. I called FIT and asked what it would cost for me to come back early. I was given a prorated rate, and working backward I calculated how many days I could afford, down to the penny, as my urgency to flee felt dire. I could leave Levittown, hopefully for good.

Eileen felt badly about my decision and wanted me to stay. She felt things could still turn around, as my father had started calling her frequently to check up on me. But I didn’t care. I stood by my parents through unspeakable moments, and now they turned against me.

My mom always reassured me our relationship was very special, and even if all else failed, we’d still have each other. She told me I was the only one who knew how to make her feel loved, and for that she would stay devoted to me. Where was that sentiment now? My father’s main objective was to please my mother to maintain peace. He needed more love than anyone could possibly give, and he carried himself as a man burdened by rejection.

Right before I made my escape back to the safety of New York City, Eileen called to say my parents wanted to see me. She was afraid if I refused, it would fuel the fire. I was cautious but hopeful that we could have a civil conversation. After a restless night, I drove to meet them at a restaurant. I felt better knowing we would be in a public setting.

Arriving, I immediately felt unsettled. My parents were nestled at a small corner table, with only a handful of other patrons in the restaurant. As I approached, my father stood to give me a firm hug.

He whispered in my ear, I love you, Son, and I felt my skin prickle.

My mother did not look up, instead staring down trance-like at the menu in front of her.

Hi, Mom. I greeted her warmly, despite the anxious knot in my stomach.

She said nothing, and my father had a pained look. Quietly, I suggested maybe this was a mistake.

My mother’s head shot up. She looked awful, with puffy eyes and streaked mascara.

"A mistake? A mistake? You’re the fucking mistake," she said, loud enough to make heads turn.

I sat frozen with embarrassment.

You know what you are? A disgusting faggot. She spat as she spoke. My father tried to quiet her.

Shut up. Your son fucks men, and you’re telling me to be quiet? You both make me sick.

Knocking her chair to the floor, she stormed to the ladies room. I felt all eyes on me, as I slowly made my way to the exit. I was convinced the other diners agreed with my mother. Soon after I left the parking lot, I pulled off to the side of the road, sobbing, letting the shame and humiliation pour out of me.

I made the drive back to Eileen’s last as long as I could, weaving through neighborhoods and taking old familiar detours. There I was again, lost in my thoughts, wanting to avoid all human contact. Once home, Eileen greeted me with a hug. There was no need for words.

I kept a low profile those last few days, praying they’d pass as painlessly as possible. The evening before I was to leave, Eileen walked in the door with a worried look on her face.

They want to see you again.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

No, Dad called and said Mom’s a mess. They want us to stop by tomorrow.

My head started to ache, and my mind clouded. Why would I go back there and be humiliated again?

She wants to see you so she can finally beat you senseless, I told myself.

Despite all that happened, I felt an agonizing guilt, which made me feel I had to do what they were asking. I had disappointed them so greatly by not being normal; now it was somehow my responsibility to make this better. I felt dirty for having sexual feelings that upset my mother. I knew she felt betrayed. Maybe she had come to her senses and remembered our special bond. I wanted to believe that. I could see my sister felt I had to go. She was, after all, the good daughter who always did whatever they asked of her. I understood it was the easier path, but I secretly wished my sister would stand up to them on my behalf, even just this once.

I tried to give myself another objective to force me back into that house. The only thing I could come up with was that there were some things in my room I wanted to bring back to the city with me. Who knew when I’d ever be back? So I made getting my favorite T-shirt, some music, and a photograph the goal of my visit.

That morning, I was riddled with second thoughts. I imagined my mother hurling more insults, and me hurling my fist in return. I caught myself running with this fantasy, and shook myself out of it with a dismissive laugh.

My father got up off the couch immediately and embraced me when I walked in the house. I stood rigid in his arms, wanting him