1st Oct 2024
This morning, I submitted the final manuscript, illustrations, and admin for my forthcoming book, ‘An Intersectional Guide for Male Survivors of Sexual Abuse and their Allies: Masculinity Reconnected’, to the publisher, Routledge. It’s been a year and a day since I signed the book deal, roughly three years since I first sketched out a plan for a book of this nature, and five years since I committed to improving my writing by publishing a monthly blog. At the moment, I feel numb—not the sense of pride or relief I expected, though I’m sure that will come later after I regroup with friends. Right now, I’m reflecting on the challenges that I’ve felt in the run-up to submission, particularly those surrounding self-disclosure.
Broadly, self-disclosure is when a therapist chooses to share something personal with a patient or client. In my opinion, it’s a delicate therapeutic tool that, when used sparingly, can lead to powerful interventions. Not only can it enhance the client-therapist relationship, but it can also provide the client with a sense of closeness and intimacy, offering a reparative experience for past psychic or developmental wounds.
I incorporate self-disclosure in the book, which feels appropriate in a work about intersectionality. Additionally, I want the book's ‘voice’ to reflect my therapeutic voice—how clients might experience me in a group or therapy session—which naturally includes moments of self-disclosure. However, the challenge has been deciding how much to disclose, and more importantly, why I am choosing to disclose certain things while withholding others.
Authentic self-disclosure is about offering something of myself that serves the therapeutic or reader’s journey. It must be intentional and purposeful. However, distinguishing between authentic self-disclosure and disclosure meant to placate my anxiety has been difficult to tell apart. This anxiety manifested as two distinct voices. The first, a critical voice who says, "Why are you writing a book about sexual trauma and intersectionality? You're taking up space that a more marginalised and deserving writer could fill." The second, an academic voice, says,"You’re not academic! You're not qualified to write a psychotherapy book."
At times, these anxiety-ridden voices grew so loud I attempted to appease them in the book by preemptively self-disclosing personal vulnerabilities, identities, and experiences, or by dumbing down and humbling myself. A part of me—likely a very young part—felt that if I disclosed to these voices parts of my vulnerability, they might ‘give me a pass’ or make allowances for me. Maybe not as a peer, but as someone they could at least tolerate, leave alone, or even praise in a tokenistic, patronising way rather than criticise or attack.
This tactic from my past—revealing my vulnerabilities in an attempt to gain the attention I need—has always been risky. Historically, it almost never worked, and in the case of this book, I suspect it would instead expose me to even more painful criticism rather than pacifying potential critical voices or lead to acceptance. In trying to appease these voices, I will have unintentionally shown those who would criticise me exactly where it hurts.
When discussing this with my peer supervisor, he advised me to focus on self-disclosures that align with the experiences of those I’m primarily writing for – the survivors! If, he said, it doesn’t relate to them, it isn’t necessary. Last week, when I spoke with my clinical supervisor about the same issue, he calmly but authoritatively said, I want you to stand your ground. Some readers will connect with your self-disclosure, while others may use it to criticise the book and elevate themselves at your expense. You can’t control that, but you can protect yourself by not showing more of your vulnerability.
While the vulnerabilities I feel are not the same as those experienced by male survivors of sexual abuse, some survivors will know what it is to be vulnerable and have that vulnerability used against them—whether through the abuse itself or in subsequent disclosures, social situations, or interactions with health or justice services. In these last few anxious months, this has served as my barometer, trusting that male survivors will connect with the appropriate, vulnerable self-disclosures and trusting my own process to not allow unnecessary, anxiety fuelled disclosures in that don’t service me, the book or the men reading it. It sounds simple, but emotionally, it’s been by far the most pervasive struggle.
Even today after submission, I find myself looking for evidence that the book and my self-disclosures will be okay in order to sooth myself. I somewhat succeed—albeit in a way that younger me finds cringey—by reading the wonderful endorsements for the book from various well-known therapists, writers, and male survivors. I recall the wisdom of my supervisors, and most importantly, I keep in mind the hundreds of male survivors who have trusted me to run recovery groups and provide one-to-one therapy. Perhaps now, regardless of what happens with the book, I’ve reached a point in my professional career where I can gather all this soothing evidence, feel like I belong in this field of psychotherapy, and as my supervisor says, stand my ground.
Next steps: The publishers lay out the book, create an index and spell/grammar check the manuscript. How long this takes I’m not sure. I’ll be busing myself figuring out how to promote it and organising some in-person and digital launches. Dates and venues tba. If any readers have any ideas about promotion, guest lectures or talks to help promote, do let me know.
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