Secrets and Solace: A Father’s Journey of Betrayal, Healing and Acceptance

There are times when I wonder who I would have been had I not been protected.  In Bible College, I joined a choir which toured the northeast states.  During each performance, our choir director would randomly invite several students to share their testimonies.  We never knew who he would call on.  I wasn’t ashamed of my faith, but I was definitely nervous to speak in front of a crowd.  Some of my classmates had dramatic and extended testimonies filled with backsliding and debauchery.  In contrast, my testimony was boring.  My parents were missionaries in France.  My mom led me in the sinner’s prayer when I was four or five years old.  That was it.  I didn’t sleep around.  I wasn’t into drugs.  I didn’t smoke.  In fact, I didn’t swear and I never touched alcohol until I was out of college (and rarely at that).  I was squeaky clean. The bottom line is - I was seriously sheltered.  I went to a Christian school K-12....

“There are crazy people out there...people don't need to know everything about you. It’s time to just let it all go. You’re forty-six and nothing will change the questions you are asking yourself today about yesterday.” Her direct message surprised me. Ironically, it followed minutes after a direct message from a friend who wrote, “Keep sharing - your words are helping others walk this same path.” Two vastly opposite messages, yet my heart latched onto the negative of the two. Hours later, I was in a dark place, questioning my writing and even my calling in life. I wanted to help people. I wanted to use my story for good. I wanted to inspire others who were facing similar rejection and confusion. Maybe I was just beating a dead horse? Maybe I was just trying to get attention? What was my problem? I felt pathetic for seeking out validation in social media likes. Maybe I needed to get over myself. I had been derailed. I felt stuck. My heart was deluged in a flood of ...

Years ago, a friend introduced me to a podcast called “Family Secrets.” It’s a fascinating look into the lives of those who have carried the weight of their own secrets or the weight of someone else’s secret. Not all secret keepers in “Family Secrets” come clean, but for the most part, every secret keeper feels a new freedom when that secret is out in the open, even if it brings with it some embarrassment. Often, the response from others is far less dramatic than expected. Even if rejection occurs, a new liberation is found in honesty. Personally, my heart is lighter after sharing my story. I certainly have had my doubts - “Should I post this?…What will people think of me?” Yet, most responses have been positive. A number of friends have privately shared their own histories of abuse. I’ve made new connections and have gained a deeper empathy for others.  Another observation from “Family Secrets” - almost every secret started small and eventually snowballed into an avalanc...

Certain childhood memories I kept to myself. We were probably both 4-5 years old. I remember her name to this day - Jenny. She was blonde. I think she was a neighbor. There were two other children there and they were doing the same thing. For years, I was ashamed because I knew I did something that I shouldn’t do. It was my fault and my sick curiosity - at least that’s what I believed for nearly 35 years. Then one day, my world was flipped upside down. I was shocked to hear what had happened to our four year old son. I was again reminded of my own childhood memories. Certainly, 4-5 year olds don’t do such things - at least on their own initiative. It was this thought which finally prompted me - at the age of forty-one - to share my buried memories with my parents. “We’re so sorry to hear that happened to you.” Why did their response feel so understated and insincere? Certainly, my memory was news to them - but in some instinctive way, it felt like they already knew. A lat...

“Who were your parents when you were growing up?”   I knew she would ask at some point.  “ You don’t know my parents.  Last time you saw them, you were only a year old.”  That was the end of the conversation, but I knew the topic would surface again.  Someday, she would ask why we don’t see my parents anymore.  My therapist suggested that I keep it simple.  I had the lines rehearsed in my mind - “ My dad was unsafe and the rest of my family stopped liking us because we decided to protect you and your brother.”   There are moments like these when I am reminded.  As much as I try to block these realities out of my mind, the situation is still the same.  Most days, I feel like I’ve moved on.  But then it hits me like a freight train.  Suddenly, I’m on the outside looking in.  My confidence and self worth are nonexistent.  I’m the bad guy.  I can be strong for weeks - even months - and then something will take ...

It started as a single thought - You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not sure where the thought came from. Before I knew it, my thoughts were spinning out of control. You can’t ever fix your family.   It’s your fault. They all hate you.   You messed everything up. You can’t fix your abused ADHD child.   You’ll never connect with him. You can’t fix yourself.   There’s something wrong with you. You’re helpless.   Things are only going to get worse. You might as well give up. You’re powerless. You’ll never get over this. God doesn’t care enough to answer your prayers. Your feelings don’t matter. This weight will break you. You’re a loser.  No one really understands. You’re alone. Most days, I’m a pretty positive person. But sometimes that one thought will creep in and I’m back in that dark place. But I write it down.   I get it out. I look at the words on the screen and realize they are just words. Words that I can accept ...

If you could describe your childhood in one word, what would it be? For me, it would be the word “alone.” Something struck me when I was meeting with my therapist this morning. For the first time in her presence, the tears started falling and it all became clear. “What are the tears for?,” she inquired. “I’m not sure if I can put it into words…I just know I want other people to know that they are not alone,” I responded.  For years, I’ve been struggling to write songs - the rhythms and melodies are there, but the heart is missing. A part of me has been locked away. My spirit has been paralyzed. At times, I’ve been a phantom - distant, guarded and skeptical. I’ve learned that most people can’t comprehend the context of my world. My story reads like a Stephen King novel or a CSI drama. It is indeed…unbelievable. I’ve seen so many friendships turn awkward. “What if you’re wrong?,” they’ll ask. “There‘s been a lot of pain on both sides ,” they’ll interject, gently smearin...

I had so many questions growing up - and these questions continued into my adulthood. I am now in my forties - and I am still trying to piece together this puzzle of mysteries. As a child, I accepted everything my parents told me - even if it didn't make sense. What else was I to do? I trusted them. This comic is my attempt to summarize my biggest questions and my family's peculiar response. https://share.pixton.com/qnbp7si