A Shell in the Shape of a Boy

My foundation in life and the written word - essay #1

Dear friends,

Over the next few weeks I will be sharing a series of essays about myself. These essays were originally published in the early days of Beyond the Bookshelf when I had less readers and less practice as a writer. I have spent months reworking and editing to make these more personal and relevant. My hope is that through these essays you will come to know me a little better and in doing so, gain insight into my passion for exploring life through the written word.

Photo by Susan Wilkinson

One rainy morning, my 17-year-old daughter and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and watching the droplets streak down the window.

"What do you have planned today?" she asked, casually stirring her drink.

I looked outside for a moment before replying, "A dreary day like this is perfect for reading and writing. I think I'll write an essay on loneliness."

She paused. "Are you lonely, Dad?"

"Yes," I said, "Sometimes I am."

"Me too."

---

That small moment—so simple and honest—lingered in my mind long after she left the room. It reminded me how often I confuse being alone and being lonely. They are not the same. They may overlap, but they are distinct. Being alone is a physical state. Being lonely is an emotional response to perceived disconnection.

Loneliness is a public health concern. A recent U.S. Surgeon General’s report revealed that loneliness is associated with increased risks of cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, depression, anxiety, and premature death. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was already suffering from the kind of chronic loneliness that has now been classified as a public health threat.

Tom Hanks once said:

"I think all of the great stories in literature deal with loneliness. Sometimes it's by way of heartbreak, sometimes it's by way of injustice, sometimes it's by way of fate. There's an infinite number of ways to examine it."

This is one of those ways.

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When I was a sophomore in high school, I attended a private all-boys boarding school affiliated with my church. As a devout young man, I believed it would be a safe space for spiritual and academic growth. But during that year, I was repeatedly attacked and sexually abused by an older male.

For over 30 years, I never told anyone. Not my friends. Not my parents. Not my siblings or my spouse. Not law enforcement. No one. I suffered in silence.

I was a heterosexual male considering a religious vocation when the abuse occurred. Afterwards, I was terrified of what people would think of me. Would they blame me? Would they even believe me? A shell of silence became my only companion. A mask replaced my personality.

It is impossible to describe the depth of despair and isolation that follows trauma like that. And while the overwhelming number of victims of sexual abuse are women and girls, many boys and men carry similar invisible wounds.

In a world that sees men as aggressors, how could I be a victim? Just breathe. It will all be over soon. These are the lies we tell ourselves to survive.

I left the school at the end of the year. Like many teenagers, I believed I could handle everything on my own. If no one knew about the abuse, it didn’t exist. Right? But I wasn’t me anymore. My innocence had been ripped away with startling cruelty. What remained was an empty shell in the shape of a boy.

For the next 30 years, I pretended to live a normal life while a storm raged within. I attended college briefly, then transitioned through various jobs until I joined the Navy. I got married, raised children, and earned promotions. From the outside, everything looked fine—beautiful wife, wonderful kids, lovely home. But I was utterly lonely in a crowded life of friends, family, and coworkers. No one knew about my secret. Loneliness feasted on my soul, fueled by the ravishing hunger of rage.

I was sure everything would be better if I didn’t exist. I wasn’t any good for anyone around me. I was a used-up and worthless thing. Discarded like so much rubbish.

I believed nothing could cleanse me of the shame, the pain, the hopelessness.

Inside, I felt like a terrible husband, father, and son.

I was the dried-up husk of a man.

Just breathe.

It will all be over soon.

Better to die.

These were the lies I told myself to survive.

---

Unshared secrets corrode love. Eventually, my marriage neared its breaking point. I didn’t want my wife to think I blamed her for all the difficulties in our marriage. So I told her the truth. I planned to take my life anyway—what did it matter?

Then, something unexpected happened. I cracked. Light crept in. For the first time in decades, I felt seen.

Loneliness is a monstrous thing, but with my family’s encouragement, I sought counseling. Slowly, painstakingly, I chipped away at my shell. Healing is not a straight line. Trauma does not disappear. We don’t overcome the past; we carry it with us.

Friend and fellow writer Rona Maynard described this beautifully:

"I have given keynote speeches about ‘overcoming’ depression. The wording changed when it dawned on me that no one ‘overcomes’ anything. Like you, like us all, I carry my whole life, both the wonder and the weight... We all carry the losses of an ordinary life. Some must also carry trauma unimaginable to anyone who was not there."

Avoiding vulnerability was my armor. But I learned that vulnerability is the foundation of connection. Building connections with people is now central to my healing. Writing is part of that. Every sentence I write peels back a layer, inching me closer to the truth.

During the years of isolation, books were my constant companions. Their stories gave me purpose when I felt unwanted. Through them, I saw my pain reflected, named, and understood.

I began to write about life as seen through the written word because books helped me explore the depths of myself when I had no other lifeline. Writing opened a door in my soul, making me feel less alone and more a part of something enduring.

I’m glad you’re here.

Let’s walk together, beyond the bookshelf, and discover the intimate ways life and the written word are forever intertwined.

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Until next time,