Caleb Boggan
“The rift in the way I identified with other men eventually caused me to reject masculinity—even my own.”
I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't know Jesus. My family loved God and attended church regularly, giving me the opportunity to embrace faith in God at age 5. But at that tender age, I was also sexually abused by two teenage boys who lived down the hill from my house. Unable to process what was happening, I felt the tension of both pleasure and humiliation. When one of the adults came out of the house and interrupted the encounter, I felt great relief. But whenever I remembered the incident, I would condemn myself for not stopping it. I must have wanted the abuse, I told myself. Even though I was too young to understand sexuality or what I'd experienced, I grew to feel increasingly guilty that I hadn't said "no!" Fear and confusion followed as I was silenced by the trauma, unable to process the experience with anyone who might be able to help. Because most men in my life demonstrated unhealthy expressions of masculinity, such as aggression or emotional disconnect, I developed a belief that men were unsafe. This rift in how I identified with other men eventually caused me to reject masculinity—even my own.
As I entered grade school, the sexual abuse and my perceptions of men laid a foundation for harassment. By third grade, I was called gay by my peers. Their bullying made me feel rejected and confused. What is broken about me? I wondered. Unlike the other boys, I wasn't rough and tumble. Instead, I was drawn to the arts and friendships with women. Unlike the boys who bullied me, my girlfriends seemed safe and understanding. Then, with puberty came unwanted feelings of same-sex attraction, which I quickly learned to stuff down. I rehearsed the lie that what happened when I was 5 was my fault. Am I destined to want these desires? I'd ask myself. On several occasions, older men made unwanted sexual advances toward me. Unable to see the connection to my childhood abuse, I couldn't understand what attracted this peculiar behavior. I internalized the belief that something was wrong with me, and everyone could see it.
Instead of letting others into this place of confusion and isolation, I made great efforts to make sure everyone else in my family was okay—I was the second of seven children. However, I emotionally shut down because I couldn't fully extinguish my sexual feelings. Even though prioritizing others' emotions over my own helped me cope, I still turned to pornography and masturbation to avoid connecting deeply with family or friends. Overcome with fear and self-hatred, I suppressed my feelings for years by being who others needed while never fully knowing myself.
As I've matured, I can see how the confusion created by my abuse greatly impacted my relationships with other men in my teen years. Disassociating from my masculinity and emotions was a self-protection mechanism that shielded me from what I felt was disorganized, broken, or dysfunctional inside. My attraction to men wasn't really about sex. Instead, I was longing to feel secure and safe with men to compensate for what had been stripped from me by childhood trauma. My attractions, in fact, were like a language that was speaking the unmet needs of my heart.
Thankfully, I started connecting my identity to my masculinity through a faith community of trusted men who empowered me to embrace my own expression of masculinity. Encouraging my sufficiency, they were physically affectionate, emotionally available, and had no other desire than to see me flourish as a whole man. As a result, in the last few years, I have seen drastic changes in how I see myself and the good ways in which I was created. Being a man is a great privilege. I'm grateful to have understood and resolved so much pain, so I could discover love that has healed me and propelled me into a joyful life. No longer held captive by same-sex attraction, I hope to marry a wonderful woman and have a family someday.