My relatives talk about this boy who lived with my parents before that fateful morning.  I never knew this child.  They talk about this outgoing, carefree child that ceased to exist one early morning around my 5th birthday before my parents got up.  I heard the rustling in the other room and got up quickly, thinking my abuser had returned as he promised, but it was my father getting ready for work.  My abuser, the "Big Bad Wolf," never returned.  That child my relatives talk about died that morning, not even leaving me any memories of him.  In his place was a very insecure, shy child who could not relate well to others, desperate for attention, affection, and approval.

Years later, my eleventh summer, I met a relative of his.  It was my first experience on my own at a real summer camp, setting my own schedule, doing what I wanted to do with my time.  He was the camp store worker.  Looking back I see he was well experienced in what he did.  He spotted this shy, desperate for attention loner and paid attention to him, encouraging him, listening to him, believing in him, teaching him how to run the cash register.  I was like a starving man who hadn't had any food for several days and doesn't mind that the moldy hot dog has dirt on it.  He poured into me what my parents withheld from me.  I was an ideal and willing victim.

How willing was I?  I was so starving for attention that the pain of the abuse was dwarfed by my intense need for affection and attention.  We had a "date" one day at a time when all activities were down.  He missed the "date."  I was disappointed and upset.  If I had any boldness I would have actually requested we  meet again after I got home!  I often daydreamed about him finding me and taking me away with him.  The pain of the abuse was insignificant to me.  I knew what he did to me was wrong, but the pain of lack of affection and attention from my parents was immeasurable!  I would take relief from that at all costs.

I never recall any congratulations from my parents for anything I had done.   I don't remember any encouragement from them.   I do remember the time when the company I worked for had a week's layoff to overhaul all the machinery.  My father's words were "I was never laid off."  I "only" held a "B" average in school, about a consistent 3.25 grade-point average, even through college.  Even when I was accepted into one of the college's honor societies I didn't get any congratulations from them.  The house was empty when I got home from school, except for my dog, Wendy.  I didn't get to name my dog, my mother did.  My nights were spent doing homework and watching TV alone or out with my few friends.  I didn't choose to go to college, my parents choose that, including my field of study. 

On the other hand, I did spend almost an hour opening gifts at my aunt and uncle's house on Christmas Eve and a half hour on Christmas morning.  I always had money for school.  My parents gave me money for my offering at church, I never paid out of my own money.  There was a TV in my room.  One Christmas I got a minibike.  For another Christmas I got a very nice stereo system, which I picked out myself almost two months early.   I had lots of things, but lacked what I needed the most, my parent's affection and attention.

Am I saying my parents didn't love me?  Not at all!  I firmly believe they did love me, but they didn't demonstrate that love.  Like the soldier in John Michael Montgomery’s "Letters From Home," I needed to hear "Son you make me proud" once in a while.  I needed the pat on the back.  I needed what Tim McGraw dreamed about in “Grown Men Don’t Cry,” his father talking on the front porch.  I need what money couldn’t buy.  I can’t find out why they didn’t give this to me since both my parents have passed away. 

I didn’t begin to deal with my abuse until my children were in high school and my father had passed away long before that and my mother was in a nursing home and mentally challenged due to several strokes.  As a result, it was not until my children were almost grown up that I really began to deal properly with them.  I still have a more difficult time dealing with my son than my daughter.  We were thinking about getting a t-shirt for my daughter that read “Not the wife!  Not the wife!   Not the wife!”  People who didn’t know us mistook us for husband and wife when we went out for lunch together J.  I need to be more deliberate with my son, possibly because my later abuser was male.  I still am not sure about my first abuser.

 My first girlfriend was abusive, kicking me whenever she got mad at me.  I endured it because she also paid attention to me, listened to me, and held me.  What was an occasional kick in the shins compared to the relief from the emotional and physical isolation I endured?  Abuse was better than isolation (for Trekies, remember the episode on the psychiatric planet?)!  Abuse was better than no attention!

My need for affection and attention were finally met in a healthy way through my wife.  She often encouraged me.  However, she could not help me overcome the effects of the abuse.  When I came to Jesus on May 24, 1990 all this changed.  Slowly God had me face my abuse and its effects head on, prodding me to make conscious decisions about how I would deal with the many problems it had created.   I had to deal with how I treated my wife, forgiving my abusers and others who have "done me wrong," a short temper, my previous abuse (misuse) of my girlfriend, now wife (I got her pregnant and then married her), etc.   I still have "issues" pop up, but they no longer have control over me.  I simply hand them over to Jesus to handle them.  Recovery is not a destination but a journey.