I will start with a set of three photographs. I don't have many photographs of myself, and there are multiple reasons for that. In one way or another, all of those reasons result in my being uncomfortable about looking at images that resemble me. The photographs that I do still have, then, are each significant; they each contribute to a story.

The first photograph for today is my baby picture. I was perhaps six months old, old enough to be aware of the world, old enough to express a joy at being alive, old enough to have learned that life brings fresh surprises at any time.

I was still young enough then to believe that each new experience would be good. This is not a memory, but it is obvious from the look on my face. Babies don't know how to hide their feelings.

The second picture is my second-grade school picture. I was wearing my favorite shirt of those years, a black cowboy shirt. But the face is what haunts me. The mouth is smiling, but it is not a smile of happiness. It is a smile of appeasement. The eyes are the worst, terrifying eyes to see in the face of a child, ancient eyes, anguished eyes.

The third picture is even harder to look at. I was probably 22, in the Navy, and had just gotten a promotion to Cryptologic Technician (Administrative) Second Class. The face is still young, but the expression is old and beaten. There is no joy there, no hope, none, nothing at all.

What happened over the years to take the joy out of my life? Plenty.

In the opening segment, I gave an overview picture that focused on emotional abuse. That is a true picture, because that was the constant and overwhelming presence of my parents. But today's segment is physical as well as emotional. Be warned.

It is also one of my first memories.

This is my memory: I walked into the kitchen, where my mother was washing dishes. The sink was at the end of a narrow aisle. I wanted something under the sink, so I tried to open the cabinet door, right in front of where my mother was standing. Her response was to beat the shit out of me.

My sin was being three years old. I should have been an adult. I should have walked up to her and said, "Excuse me, I'd like to get the Comet out from under the sink so I can go clean the bathtub. Could you step aside for a second, please?"

I was lucky; this was the only beating I ever got from her. I don't know why that is true; perhaps she saw what she did, perhaps it scared her to see what she was capable of. But I doubt it; all that changed was that she backed off from the physical and focused on the emotional.

How many beatings must a child receive in order to qualify as physically abused? For my own answer, I will turn the point-of-view over to the beating itself.

Slap. No message, yet. All I want to do is to be sure that I have your undivided attention. Are you listening, child? Wake up!

Slap. This is the death of childhood. It's over. It's bloody fucking over, you got that? Hope it was good while it lasted.

Slap. It's time for the death of trust. You just never know what someone might do to you, do you, kid? Any time, any place, out of nowhere. Wham! Someone you thought was safe will do it to you again.

Slap. It's called love, kid. I wouldn't do this if I didn't love you. It works the other way, too. Anyone who doesn't beat the shit out of you must not love you enough to care. You want love in this life, it's easy to find; all you have to do is follow the trail of your own blood and tears.

Slap. This is the death of innocence. You don't have to trust someone for them to hurt you. The world is a nasty place, kid. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be.

Slap. Oops, that one just kind of happened. It's called randomness, kid. It's a beautiful concept.

Slap. This one is about control. I'll bet you'd like this beating to stop, wouldn't you? Make me. Go ahead, try it. I'll just hit you harder and longer.

Slap. I want you to know your insignificance. You think this beating is about you? Shit. What you think or feel doesn't matter.

Slap. This is for reinforcement. All good learning has to be reinforced, you know. You have been listening, haven't you? There's going to be a test. If you haven't learned these lessons yet, you will. Trust me. I'm the one who's beating you.

Slap. That one is just for the hell of it. Punishment doesn't end when the lesson is learned; remember that. Punishment ends when I say it ends.

Slap. It's about justice, or the lack of it. That business about how the punishment should fit the crime is a crock of shit. You'll get what I decide to give you.

Slap. This is the end, for now. It's just a reminder that I'll be back.

Thank you, beating. That's enough out of you.

What should a child do when a parent responds to disappointment or annoyance with violence? I know the adult answer. Defend my boundaries; I don't have to put up with abuse from anyone. Put as much distance as I can between myself and the abuser; nothing good comes from such a relationship. Call the police, if necessary, or the sanitation department. People who abuse are trash.

A child does not have these choices. A child does not understand these choices. Children depend on their parents to protect them. What can I do about the fact that it was my parents who were the problem?

Actually, I can protect him. You see, this little boy who grew up to be me, this child who learned some of the harshest lessons that life has to offer, is still alive. He stopped growing that day, while the rest of me went on living. His life, his terror, and the memory of that day remain intertwined.

I am the only person who can change that.

I must start by returning to the scene of the beating. I stand across the kitchen and watch as a young boy walks in, goes to the sink, and tries to open a cabinet door in front of his mother, my mother. I stand and watch and endure as she turns and pours out her rage on an unsuspecting, innocent, unprepared child. I must watch and listen to her blows, as they fall upon this child, myself, and upon me as an adult as well.

I cannot interfere. This is the defining moment in his young life. If I take it away from him, it will kill him; he has already lost everything that he knew before, and by intervening now I would take away the rest. I stand, I watch, and I endure.

When it is over, I make my move. He runs away from our mother, crying. I scoop him up in my arms. He is no weight at all; I have been carrying his burden for 40 years.

I cradle his crying face in my shoulder, look at my mother, and calm myself. I've done this before; I know what to do. She knows what's coming, too, and looks at me with venom in her eyes.

It is time for me to say the Freeing Words: "By your acts, you have shown yourself unfit to be a parent. You have forfeited any right to continue to be a part of this boy's life. I will take this child, and I will give him a home in my heart, and I will love him."

There is nothing for her to say. If she spoke, I would not hear her. Her part in this drama is over.

I walk out the door of the house where I grew up, still carrying my young self. I walk until I reach a safe and loving place, a place that I know and that he knows, and where nothing bad ever happened to me.

It is a trout farm where my brother worked during summers, starting at about the same time that I was the same age as this child in my arms. There is a pond nestled into the side of a steep hill. One end of the pond is divided into pens; each pen is filled with fish swarming past each other in a never-ending ballet. Old weathered boards have been laid across the tops of the pens to form walkways. The other end of the pond is open, deep and still, and there is a spillway at the far end. I listen to the water rushing out, to the frogs as they croak to each other, and to the occasional fish as it swishes through the surface of the water.

I set him down, and he runs out onto the boards to the middle of the pond. I follow at my own pace. When I catch up to him, he's looking down at the fish, fascinated. I help him take off his shoes and socks, and roll up his pants legs. He sits on the boards, feet dangling into the water. I take off my own shoes, roll up my own pants legs, and join him. The cool water feels wonderful.

For a moment it is as if nothing had ever happened this day. The resilience of children is amazing. But I can never let myself forget that under the surface, there are scars; they are scars that I carry as well.

Then he turns to me and looks up. "I don't want to go back there," he says.

"Fine. You don't have to go back. Where would you like to live?"

He points to the fishing house beside the pond. "There." It's an ugly, squat, concrete block building, but he doesn't see it that way. The back room is set up for cleaning and packing fish, something he never paid attention to. In the front room is the counter where business took place, and a basin where minnows swim. There's also an old soft-drink machine, the kind where bottles hang from racks, and you have to move the bottles along the racks yourself to get them out. This was back in the 1950s, when there was more variety to soft drinks, and there was almost always something in the machine I--he--had never heard of. Even better were the bottle caps in the bin under the bottle opener. I collected bottle caps at that age, and this particular soft-drink machine was my favorite source. There was almost always something new in there, often from a drink that I'd never see or hear about again.

"Where will you sleep?" I ask him.

"There," he says insistently, pointing at the fish house again.

I laugh. "No, I mean, where inside there?"

He thinks for a second or two, and says, "By the machine." There's only one machine in there, as far as he knows or cares.

"How about behind the counter?" I say. "That might look a little better when people come in to fish or buy soft drinks." He frowns a bit. "Don't worry; the machine will still be there."

He grins and says, "OK."

I know what he'll eat. My brother works here, after all; he will catch fish and cook them. And my child will be happy with that; when I was growing up, I never had enough time to spend with my brother. Actually, given that he was ten years older than I was, I never knew more than the surface of him until many years later.

And if my inner child--this one, anyway--wants to spend the next few months or years collecting bottle caps, what's wrong with that? It's not very feminine, but he's too young for those feelings and issues to start asserting themselves. He's only three, and he'll always be three. He needs what a three-year-old needs, not more, not less.

He'll fish. He will never be disappointed; drop a hook in the water here, and you've got one. He'll probably throw most of them back in so he can catch them again; I remember that well.

Every day he'll check the machine for bottle caps. My heart will always make sure there is something special for him there.

If he ever needs more than this, I will know; his needs are my needs, too. As soon as he knows he needs something more, I will be here. Wherever else I may be, I can be in that place, and in this one, too. Even if all he needs is a hug.

Hugs, he will get. Hugs, and love, and stability, and safety, and anything else he needs. My heart will give these things to him.