I am creating this post to honor my dad, honor me, and honor our story together. I’ll highlight the impact of abuse, the power of forgiveness, and the sovereignty of God. I am glad to invite you into more of my story. Whether you have been deeply hurt or have hurt others deeply, I want you to know you’re not alone.
Note: This post, which includes mention of sexual abuse and suicide, may trigger strong emotion. If this is you, feel free to reach out to me or someone else to process it. I am grateful to be in a place where I can reflect on my abuser without anger, but if you have been abused, I want to honor wherever you may be in your healing journey. Trust me, I have gotten angry at my dad many times and likely will again. I’ve cried a lot.
***
When I was seven years old, I told my mom, “I hate Dad.” He was a force I could never match. He consistently broke my spirit.
She replied, “You’re not supposed to hate your dad.” That comment stumped me. I thought to myself, “But I do.”
I hated him for coming into my bed at night and using me in ways I didn’t understand.
I hated him for overpowering me with his physical strength.
I hated him for shutting me out emotionally in response to trivial things.
I hated him most for inspiring the lies that I didn’t have a voice, a right to my body, a certainty that someone had my back, or unique value to offer the world.
When I sang a song on a road trip, he sang it louder until my voice drowned out. When I showed excitement for writing, photography, art, computers, math, and more, he communicated “good luck.” When I voiced my discomfort with his sinful touch, he withdrew all affection. When we wrestled, I got squished.
Squished is a good description of what I felt most often with him. I was small. And I was alone.
***
My dad felt the same as a child. His father didn’t know what to do with his oldest son who was sensitive and disinterested in watching the multiple football games playing across two TVs in the living room every Sunday.
On a day my grandfather had tickets to a live game, he heard a scream through the front window. He walked outside to see blood gushing from my dad’s cheek that was ripped open by a branch as he fell from a tree.
“What were you doing?” his father said. “Now we’re going to miss the game.” My dad looked up in pain at the disappointment and anger in his father’s eyes. The anger that was present despite the rip in my dad’s face.
My dad shared that story when I asked where the long scar on his cheek came from. The shameful scar which reminded my dad he was a bother every time he looked in the mirror. He was deficient and wrong.
And if he lacked further evidence of that, he could focus on the story he told himself about his same-sex attractions. They were a part of his life he had to keep hidden. He could never be fully known.
***
He believed he was different. When his dad described the intimate details of the affair he was having, my dad, who was navigating puberty and focused on guys, could not relate. Something must be wrong with him.
When he stood at attention in the navy, he hoped his uniform and stoic face would hide his attractions.
After he felt a genuine call to the ministry and brought his family across the country to Dallas for seminary, he was disappointed when his attractions didn’t diminish as he immersed himself in the study of God’s word.
When he was overwhelmed by the politics he experienced when pastoring a small Baptist church, his secret became his solace. He retreated into his bedroom, shutting out his son, daughter, and wife to decompress with gay porn.
Just as he was puzzled by his dad’s preference for football over time with him, I never understood why my dad locked himself away from me. Whatever was on the other side of the door must have been pretty amazing. More than me.
Over time, my dad’s porn use deepened and he began acting out with guys in person. Eventually, his sins caught up with him.
When I was 14, I watched from the elevated sound booth at the back of the church as my dad tightened his grip on the pulpit to keep his hands from trembling. His voice shook. He cut the sermon short and asked a deacon to close in prayer. Before it ended, my dad was out the church doors, never to return. From a sea of confused faces milling about the foyer, a woman stopped me and said, “There’s something wrong with your dad.” I wanted to defend him but had no clue what to do. Our life would change forever.
***
My sister and I stayed with friends for a week while my parents took a road trip. He wanted to put distance between him and the pain. He tried to explain his attractions to my mom. “It’s like electricity going through my body,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.” He cried in her arms.
He checked himself into a mental hospital and joined a 12-step group. He became open about his struggles and pain. His example would be a gift to me when I had a nervous breakdown at the end of college and was encouraged by him to begin recovery work. I give him credit for that.
My mom stayed by his side. She didn’t know what else to do. I watched her waste away with anxiety, drinking Ensure to intake calories. My sister got her license and was out late each night. My dad’s door began to close again. I was alone.
No longer able to live in the parsonage and unable to afford a house in the same town which had become affluent over the years, we moved into an apartment in the city. I entered ninth grade knowing no one.
I was a shell walking into the windowless school. I put on my protective smile and ensured my hair was in place. It landed me a spot at the popular table at lunch. But I sat with nothing to say, amazed at the carefree spirits of the other students. The guys who exuded confidence especially intrigued me. How was that possible? I didn’t last at that table a week.
Guys became a mystery to me as they had to my dad. When I neared high school graduation and a classmate said he wanted to kiss me, I felt the same electricity my dad had described.
***
Throughout college, my dad and I had an off and on relationship. Afterward, as I came to grips with the abuse I experienced and received support, I decided I wanted to actively work to deepen and restore our relationship. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. But the abuse was a wall. A big wall we never discussed.
In a support group for male survivors of abuse, I had an opportunity to role play confronting my dad. I received strength and care from the group and made plans to meet my dad at a park.
I waited with trepidation until we stood face to face. Then, I shared everything I could remember with him in detail. I shared how I felt and how I believed it impacted my beliefs about myself, God, and how I showed up in the world. He owned it all, was sorrowful, and shared other examples of neglect he was sorry for. That was a big step for both of us. Afterward, we connected more often. While I still kept it surface level, I enjoyed a more relaxed relationship.
***
Several months later, he called to get my opinion on something. He said, “Jason, I’d like to hang out with gay people. I want to express that side of myself.” I was caught off guard and asked him to tell me more. He felt something was missing from his life. He wanted to let his guard down and just be himself.
He and I were both navigating our same-sex attractions. I wanted marriage with a woman but wasn’t sure how it would be possible due to my lack of arousal. He had a marriage that didn’t satisfy him. During that year, I joined a support group for guys who desired to live according to values and goals that weren’t in line with their same-sex attractions. My parents ended their marriage of 36 years to allow my dad to live a gay lifestyle.
I grieved the loss of my family as I had always known it, as imperfect as it was. I expressed my hurt to my dad. I told him I loved him but I also told him I felt abandoned. I needed to say that to keep a wall from being built in my heart.
My dad entered the lifestyle and was happy. He told me he felt closer to God than he ever had. He could breathe. But the euphoria was short-lived. He withdrew and turned away from the faith. “How could a god who made me this way condemn me for it,” he said.
***
Soon, he went dark. He bought an RV and lived with his partner at various campsites and parks in the area. He changed his phone number and email. He vanished from social media. We had no way to contact him. I would see the back of him at the mall but realize once he turned that it wasn’t him. I questioned whether it would hurt less if he was dead. At least then I’d know his disappearance wasn’t a choice.
Three months before he died at the age of 69 he reached out to me. He was hurting. Panic attacks were frequent. He apologized for breaking contact and wanted to talk with me every day. He came to the house to visit my wife and daughter and didn’t rush off. He shared his renewed belief in Christ.
He invited me to spend the day at Six Flags amusement park with him. That was our safe place together as a family growing up. He was always happy there and we were too.
We carpooled from my house. Because he was a big man, I assumed we would drive in his truck. He opted to fit himself into my 2-door sports car. He was glad to let me take the wheel.
We enjoyed walking the park. We rode side by side in the old-time cars. We shared a funnel cake, our favorite.
But while we latched into the seats of the Titan roller coaster, bracing for the steepest drop in the park, he felt a sharp pain in his jaw. He had recently drained some of his limited savings having work done on it. His mind went to the unknown depth of expense which may be incurred again. His mood changed.
He was somber as we waited in line for another ride. He said something unexpected.
“Jason, leaving your mom was the worst decision I’ve made in my life,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say except “I’m sorry.” I gave him a big hug. “That’s got to be so hard dad.”
***
Over the next two weeks his panic attacks increased. He shared concerns over money. His boyfriend, Chan, and I sat across from him in their tiny living room and assured him we would take care of him. He shook his head.
Days later, I got a call from his neighbor. “Jason, you need to go to the hospital.”
When I arrived, I learned he was sedated in an operating room as they stitched his neck and wrists. They placed charcoal in his stomach to counteract the bottle of Wellbutrin he had ingested.
He never came to.
***
We went with his boyfriend and gathered some of his belongings. We opened cupboards filled with porn. Apparently, it was still a solace.
His partner shared the details of his final day of life. Something was off with the way my dad said goodbye that morning, lingering in the doorway as Chan left for work. He cut his workday short and returned home.
My dad was surprised to see him. Standing with a red knife in his hand, he said, “I have to die. I’ll be broke in a month.” “That’s not true,” Chan said before running next door to get their neighbor. We had wanted dad to believe he wasn’t alone. That we had his back. But he didn’t believe us. Or he believed he didn’t deserve our help. He had hurt a lot of people. Who knows.
***
My dad did hurt people. But so have I. My dad reached for lesser things. So have I. My dad remembered that Christ reaches for us and is the only one who can make us whole. That is true for all of us.
I miss him. I missed him being here when my son was born, when I started my coaching business, and when I’ve taken my family to Six Flags. I want my messy dad back into my messy life.
Whether you have been deeply hurt or have hurt others deeply, I want you to know you’re not alone.
Thank you for honoring me and my dad by reading our story.
God bless.