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  Special Praise for Breaking the Ruhls

  “Breaking the Ruhls is a phenomenal unfolding of one survivor’s story. Larry Ruhl’s deep commitment to honesty in this book illuminates a path for others to follow. A book written for these times of truth-telling.”

  Peter Buffett

  Composer and Philanthropist

  “Larry Ruhl shares the details of the inexplicable horrors he faced growing up with astounding bravery, candor, and self-awareness. Predators thrive on silence. By finding the courage to tell this important story, Larry has become a crusader in an effort to bring this pandemic to an end. I’m so glad Larry wrote this book—for the young boy who embodied a shame that never rightly belonged to him, for the strong man who survived carrying it for a good portion of his life, and for countless others who will feel heard and seen after reading these words. Readers will have a new sense of hope, know they’re not alone and that recovery is possible. Breaking the Ruhls is indeed a gift to the survivors of the world.”

  Eva Tenuto

  Cofounder and Executive director of TMI Project

  “Breaking the Ruhls is a candid, brutally honest, and refreshingly hopeful story of one man’s journey toward healing after childhood sexual abuse. Ruhl never shies away from the truth, vividly documenting the high-highs and low-lows of his everyday life. For many, sexual abuse is a straightjacket that is taken off only when confronted; in doing so, Ruhl proves that life can (and is) to be lived.”

  Steve LePore

  Founder and Executive Director of 1in6

  “Larry Ruhl’s new memoir is an important act of truth-telling. One in six men has experienced child sex abuse, and Ruhl’s sensitive narrative is now a resource for those men as they do the hard work toward healing.”

  Shonna Milliken Humphrey

  Author of Dirt Roads and Diner Pie: One Couple’s Road Trip to Recovery from Childhood Sexual Abuse

  “Larry Ruhl courageously tells the story of the sexual victimization done to him at the hands of his father and emotional and covert abuse by his mother. His memoir offers compassion and hope to all male survivors working on recovery. Larry knows he must share his deepest secrets to recover, and I applaud him for daring to put these truths into the light of day to inspire all of us.”

  Howard Fradkin, PhD

  Author of Joining Forces: Empowering Male Survivors to Thrive Business Partner, Collaborations Training, LLC Partner Emeritus, Affirmations Psychological Services, Columbus, Ohio

  Central Recovery Press (CRP) is committed to publishing exceptional materials addressing addiction treatment, recovery, and behavioral healthcare topics.

  For more information, visit www.centralrecoverypress.com.

  © 2018 by Larry Ruhl

  All rights reserved. Published 2018.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Publisher: Central Recovery Press

  3321 N. Buffalo Drive

  Las Vegas, NV 89129

  23 22 21 20 19 181 2 3 4 5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ruhl, Larry, author.

  Title: Breaking the Ruhls: a memoir / Larry Ruhl.

  Description: Las Vegas, NV: Central Recovery Press, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017029851 (print) | LCCN 2017040037 (ebook) | ISBN 9781942094593 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Ruhl, Larry. | Adult child sexual abuse victims--United States--Biography. | Sexual abuse victims--United States--Biography. | Sexually abused children--United States.

  Classification: LCC RC569.5.A28 (ebook) | LCC RC569.5.A28 R84 2017 (print) | DDC 616.85/83690092 [B] --dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029851

  Photo of Larry Ruhl by Franco Vogt. Used with permission.

  Every attempt has been made to contact copyright holders. If copyright holders have not been properly acknowledged please contact us. Central Recovery Press will be happy to rectify the omission in future printings of this book.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a memoir—a work based on fact recorded to the best of the author’s memory. Our books represent the experiences and opinions of their authors only. Every effort has been made to ensure that events, institutions, and statistics presented in our books as facts are accurate and up-to-date. To protect their privacy, the names of some of the people, places, and institutions in this book may have been changed.

  Cover design by The Book Designers. Interior design by Deb Tremper, Six Penny Graphics.

  For Jeff Serouya and Linda Kawer

  You each took a hand and refused to let me go.

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  PART I: LEVITTOWN

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  PART II: NEW YORK

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  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; howeve
r, 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.”