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

The menacing red eyes of a spider glowed between the trees in the dark pixelated background. “The spiders can’t hurt me in creative mode, but I can kill them if I want to.” “Which mode do you like more?,” I asked her. “Definitely creative,” she replied as she sat long ways across the sofa chair, tapping away on her iPad. It was a gloomy Monday morning and I had the day off since I was working the upcoming Saturday. I had woken up at 4:30 am, but managed to go back to sleep. It was now about 9:30. I methodically sipped my coffee as I sat on a dining room chair and gazed out the window at the downed limbs from the overnight storm. My daughter was happy and my wife was dropping my son off at his first ADHD group session. For a moment, the house was quiet. Survival mode. A game of Minecraft had summed it up in a phrase. This is exactly where I’ve been recently. And like my seven-year-old daughter, I also prefer creative mode over survival mode. Yet unfortunately, unlike a vid...

I imagined them in a circle - surrounding me and looking down at me. Each person glared at me with a scowl. Some pointed their fingers. I felt the pain in my side as one of them kicked me. “You are a pathetic son.” “Look at the mess you’ve made.” “You are an incompetent parent.” You are a terrible Christian.” “You are a failure.” The feelings were overwhelming. Then I pictured Jesus in a white robe, taking my hand and helping me up. “I love you, son - no matter what - I’m proud of you.” Maybe the therapy and EMDR was working. At least I could take the thoughts captive. I could counter the negative emotions. I could at least temporarily silence the voices.  My son had just returned from camp. I had just gotten home from work and my son hugged me as he stepped out of the van, a beaming smile across his face. He was happy and he actually missed us. He couldn’t stop talking about the fun he had had. This year, he was surrounded by friends. He liked his counselor. He loved the water sl...

It’s been about one year since I began meeting with a therapist. What a needed journey it’s been. I’m not always sure what we’ll talk about, but we always find something to discuss. Sometimes, we chat about my biological family and how I’m handling things. Sometimes, we talk about my son - is he still having meltdowns, is he getting along with his sister, is he behaving appropriately - and sometimes we touch on other stresses - work, health, the band, etc. I really should have started meeting with a therapist a long time ago. It took me a while to accept that I needed to see a counselor and it took even longer to find the right person. Originally, my wife and I were looking for a new therapist for our son after we moved to Indiana in 2020. Next thing we knew, all four of us were each meeting with the therapist individually (we were new to the whole family counselor idea). So yeah, it’s been helpful. It’s one thing to talk to your spouse or friends about your problems. It’s a...

Holidays are often emotional. I’m proud of myself when I can get through any holiday without a breakdown. I’m sometimes more irritable and less motivated. Often, I experience a low grade anxiety. I usually try to do a lot of mental preparation for the holidays. I try to allocate some time for reflection. It helps to write down my feelings and record my thoughts. It helps to talk to a therapist. Moving to another state has helped as well. Making new friends (and keeping in touch with old friends) has made a huge difference. Yet there are times when I regress - times when I am intentionally or unintentionally drawn back in. A couple weeks ago, I made the mistake of going through old Gegner family photos and videos from the early 2000’s. We used to have what seemed like such a good relationship. The family devotions before Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. My mom’s phenomenal cooking and the piles of food - mashed potatoes, gravy, corn pudding, green bean casserole, an assort...

“The trees look like giant people!,” she exclaimed as she squeezed my leg and nestled up to my side. “They’re just trees, sweetheart,” I reassuringly replied as the wind softly whistled across the moonlit field behind our house. “What is that noise!?” “Those are just cicadas, dear.” “What are cicadas!? Will they hurt us!?” “No, they won’t hurt us. They just make lots of noise.” It was a Saturday night in October and my seven year old daughter and I were taking an impromptu walk around the block around 9pm. I’ve always been a protective parent. There is something deep inside me which feels a sense of responsibility and purpose in guarding and comforting my children. I want my kids to feel safe and I want them to know that I will protect them at all cost. In fact, some might say I’m overly protective. Yes, I do keep track of what our kids are doing on the internet. I do care what they’re being taught at school. I make them wear helmets when they ride their bikes. It matt...

“We’re going to try something different today.” In her hands she held two small oval pieces of plastic - one black and one white. I had heard about EMDR, but I had never personally experienced it. “What causes you anxiety?,” my therapist asked. I had to think about it for a moment. My mind started scanning. There were so many things which caused me consternation…the fear of disease…the fear of losing a loved one…the fear of flying. But these weren’t things I necessarily thought about day in and day out. There were the daily stresses….my tinnitus…money…my worries as a parent. The next layer down were the deeper anxieties - things I couldn’t articulate as easily - feelings that came with a vengeance - emotions that I thought I had conquered, yet showed up when I least expected them. “My son and his comments…,” I finally replied, “…and of course, there’s my biological family.” “I can’t stand feeling like they don’t accept me…I don’t like thinking that something is wrong with me…and ultima...

It was a Sunday morning. Usually we’d be headed to church, but we decided to take the morning off. Our daughter crawled into our bed and hugged me. “I love you daddy,” she quietly whispered in my ear. Those words were just what I needed to hear. I fumbled out of bed and reached for my glasses. My mother-in-law had breakfast ready. I could smell the eggs and bacon. I sleepily stumbled up the stairs. “Stop looking at me!,” he sharply exclaimed. Yep, our son was in one of his moods. “You’re so weird,” he continued as he nestled up to his Nana. Usually, I could handle it. I had concluded that ignoring the comments was the only reasonable option. Any response was fire on fire. Sometimes the ignoring would go on for hours or days. I had developed an iron gut. Eventually he’d stop - only to find another button to push. It was exhausting and today, I especially didn’t want to deal with it. I love our son dearly, but he can be a handful at times. ADHD has its challenges - but add to that opposi...

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 the truth 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 avalanche...

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 later email...

“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 me under. A dream. A comment from our son. A question or comment fr...

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 o...