First Friday, The Phoenix Project, and the Distance I Chose

A Statistic That Explains a Lot

One detail stood out: Men often don’t come forward about abuse until 20 years after it happens.

That didn’t surprise me. Not because it’s acceptable—but because it reflects how long it can take to even understand what happened in the first place.

As I listened to the presentation, I found myself mentally auditing my own timeline. As a child, there was physical abuse that later shifted into psychological abuse, especially once social services became involved—much of it only understood years afterward. But for adults, it often takes a different form.

There were times I didn’t feel safe in my own home. I’d lock multiple doors and sleep on the floor—wherever I felt most secure. It took weeks before I could go back to my own bed.

No one physically abused me. But the damage was still there—financially, mentally, and through threats that made everything feel uncertain. And that uncertainty lingers, especially when you don’t know if your experience will be taken seriously.

When you think about it, most systems only ask for a snapshot of your recent past: job applications, security clearances, and background checks. They usually focus on the last seven years.

Seven years is often considered enough time to understand who someone is today. Which says something important: who you were beyond that window may not reflect who you’ve become.

This Isn’t Just About Friday

I haven’t been in a relationship since moving to Front Royal. That wasn’t accidental. It was a decision shaped by past experiences—ones that took time to process, and even longer to fully understand. Sometimes clarity comes with caution.

After going through situations that leave you questioning your own judgment, your instincts change. You start setting stronger boundaries, limiting who you let in, and watching for patterns you didn’t notice before.

And sometimes, that leads to distance.

What I Watch for Now

The moment things become physical—toward me, my neighbor, or even property—I’m done. Property can be replaced. People (and time) can’t. I don’t accept repeated behavior that feels off—even if it’s explained away as “normal.” It isn’t. That’s how you end up living on edge—always wondering what’s coming next.

I’ve also become more aware of behaviors often described as gaslighting—where someone tries to convince you that what you experienced didn’t happen the way you remember it, or that your reaction is the problem.

Over time, those patterns can distort how you see yourself if you’re not careful. Recognizing them early changes everything.

When Protection Means Keeping a Record

Documentation matters more than most people realize—receipts, records, and cameras. Not out of paranoia, but clarity. When something is denied or rewritten, having something concrete changes everything.

When accusations or shifting narratives enter the picture, everything changes. You start thinking in terms of proof, timelines, and what can be verified. Even when you’ve done nothing wrong, that pressure is real. Others reframe your intent and draw conclusions that fit their own rationalized perspective.

Some things can’t be replaced. Trust is one of them—or at least, it takes two people actively working to repair it. When the person you trusted with everything breaks that trust, or works against it, it’s hard to come back from—especially when all that’s offered are words or shallow actions.

What I Haven’t Said (Yet)

There are still parts of my story I haven’t shared. Not publicly. Not fully. Some things come out over time. This space helps document that it happened—even if everything isn’t said at once.

Not every path forward is structured. Sometimes progress happens in reflection. Sometimes in writing. Sometimes in unplanned conversations.

I’ve tried different spaces to work through things:

• Co-ed groups
• Men’s groups
• Mental health groups
• Fraternities
• Different organizations

Each one offers something—but none of them fully fit.

Men’s groups at church focus on faith and morals.

Mental health groups can feel like you’re trying to find the right label—one that keeps shifting.

Fraternities are built around improvement, camaraderie, and helping others—but don’t often make space to work through personal struggles directly.

So you take pieces from each.

There isn’t always one place that brings it all together—other than you.

When Words Don’t Come Easily

Sometimes I feel ready to talk. Then my body reacts—shaking, tension, something pulling tight. Sometimes I just go quiet. Not to avoid it, but to steady myself. And then I’ll say I need to talk about something else. Sometimes I’m abrupt. Sometimes more candid. Usually, people understand.

There’s an unspoken expectation to stay composed. To be steady. Reliable. Even when it’s not easy. So you keep it together—and work through it the best you can. Even encouragement can bring everything back to the surface. Progress isn’t always steady—but it’s still progress. There are still times when I start tearing up or break down. I beat myself up over it later, feeling like I should’ve been able to keep it together.

I may be all smiles and handshakes these days, where long ago, I would have shuddered at someone offering a hug—something that felt too personal, and was not common in my own family other than grandma. I’m learning to build myself up—slowly—to move toward something that feels normal. Over time, that has started to become the norm.

There are other parts of my life where I feel like I’m chipping away at the rough parts of my past, as when I first came to this town. You can smooth the surface, but you don’t fix a crack by chipping away at the stone around it. You just learn where the weight can safely rest.

At least the structure still holds.

What Help Actually Looks Like

It’s often easier to offer relief to others than to receive it, let alone to ask for it. Help doesn’t always look like advice. Sometimes it’s someone inviting you out, someone showing up, or time and space to think clearly. Sometimes it’s simply to think about nothing at all for a change, to be at peace.

How Men Actually Talk

Men do things together.

• Fishing.
• Going to the range.
• Playing games.
• Watching sports.
• Grabbing lunch.
• Fixing things.
• Hobbies.
• Talking “shit”—but not talking, while actually talking.

The conversation happens in pieces, shoulder to shoulder. Not all at once. There’s also a level of guard. Because many of us have learned that what we say can be used against us. So trust builds slowly. And when it does, the deeper things come out—over time.

The Aftermath Nobody Prepares You For

When things fall apart, there’s still work to do. Documenting. Replacing. Rebuilding. All while processing what happened.

• Did it really happen that way?
• Is that really a problem?
• At what point does something stop being “normal”?
• Why did everything start to feel off—like I was constantly adjusting to something I couldn’t quite explain?
• Why did simple things become difficult, and difficult things become expected?
• Why did I keep questioning myself instead of what was happening around me?
• Surely people have been through worse. That’s what I kept telling myself.

From time to time, I’m lonely. Sometimes it’s just the absence of another person or someone to share life with. I have my dogs, and without them, the house would feel a lot quieter. What I don’t miss is the tension. I don’t miss looking at the doorknob, wondering what I’m about to walk into as I arrive home. There’s a difference between being alone and being at peace.

What’s Different Now

I have places to go. Circles of friends. A strong network. Creativity in various arts. And the ability to relax in my own space.

I don’t see this distance as failure. I see it as protection. Built on awareness.

People look to men for strength. I may be a pillar in my community, but I’d rather be honest about the cracks. I’m not a knight in shining armor. There’s too much to live up to in that image—one that people have come to expect.

Final Thought

The Phoenix Project is doing meaningful work. But not every path forward looks the same. For some, healing means reaching out. For others, it means stepping back. And sometimes, it takes years to understand the difference.