Abuse sneaks in like a mouse in the midnight, it tip toes softly with patients and certainty, then remains in your life like an incurable disease, exploding every fiber of your health before it is done, sometimes it may never leave and if it does leave, you may wish to leave with it by committing suicide. A moral testament to our lives is that we only have one time to get it right, and the eternal obligation to assist others who have strayed from life’s royal path.
People have broken the silence before but they haven’t always survived, perhaps to the extent that they haven’t adequately expressed the tenderness of their own pain, shooing it away, they continue to live with the horror of their personal secrets, a secret to hard to bear alone.
It is rudimentary to talk about our inexperience at living as human beings, as we find ourselves in camps of bereaved scavengers who hunger and pains from the cure of being left behind, from soldiers who watched their sufferings while patrolling the middle passage everything else seems effortless. Actually we are all breathing together the same air, as we all live in the same atmosphere on the same planet; though as human beings we are never on the same accord. The cords that we play are never in harmony with the sounds of humanity, it was always in conflict with every other note and every other voice. Many of us do not renew ourselves as we carry our heavy laden baggage full of emotional distortions and shadows of frustrating psychological pain. But when the bag is opened the inner person and all its clutter comes tumbling out for the world to see.
As she cried with a sound voice the tenderness of her shame grew ever so apparent, bobbing her head back and forth as she murmured in the palms of her hands she left traces of herself hidden in the tears of her pain. As the crowd gathered in amusement seeking an answer to her dilemma curiosity grew as well. Yet the answer was slow in coming as she just sat there with her hand over her tiny face and wept. The deep sounds that she made came from her soul; it was hurtful to even listen to it, for we all knew by the way she cried it was something we all should be in fear of. What had happen to cause such sorrow, such deep pain, I wonder what I could do to help her and I guess everybody else wondered too. Questions began to echo off of the walls and ceiling as we all diligently began to seek an answer, but to no avail, no words came, she just sat and cried.
Someone brought in a blanket to cover her with, another person provided a cup of tea, while others put their arms around her in hopes of comforting her. She cried so hard I can’t seem to remember what I was doing at the time, whether I was carrying the tea or embracing her or whether it was someone else. After 40 minutes it seemed the tears would never stop, like an ocean damn that was breeched or the Katrina levees that collapsed. Never in my life had I seen such emotion, it was the kind of pain that everyone could feel and no one was able to diminish or subside. By now the crowd had flanked her on every side, attempting to subdue her distress, even more people had assembled because of the pure emotion which exhumed from the already attending crowd. And yet she would not tell anyone what the problem or solution was, it was suppose to be a secret she said, one that she could not break. After an hour and a half she had finally calmed down, and she was up and talking, but still she would not tell the secret. Some of us did press her a little but we didn’t pressure her too much for answers for fear that she would start crying again. Eventually everyone gradually started to leave as soon as we all believed that she was alright. But how wrong we all were, to think that she could have been alright after hearing what we had heard, crying whales of tears and moans that was coming from the pit of ones soul, she couldn’t be well. No, not well enough to leave alone, not well enough to go home by herself, but we fooled ourselves into believing that she was well so she went home alone.
During the next several days I couldn’t get her off of my mind, I know that intuitions are something that you should always pay attention to but I didn’t. It is unfortunate but when I did listen to my instinct it was too late. The girl that everyone came to care for, the girl with the tiny little face and little hands, the girl that was able to cry enough tears to fill Lake Catongca was no more, because as the news report went she had committed suicide because of her life’s history of child abuse.
Because of the repetition of this kind of story and the historical significances prevailing in everyday life I felt compelled to inscribe my rendition of this phenomenon in hopes of spreading some light on this subject and perhaps a cure for future generations. You may not be aware of it but there are two victims in this scenario the abused and the abuser, because the abused will grow up to possibly become the abuser (thus creating new abusers) and the cycle of abuse will continue. The question is how did it start in the first place and where did it come from?
There are many forms of child abuse and we must strive to recognize them, as parents (who were once children) have never had prior training to be parents. Generally people start parenthood as novices, while some parents have a good affect on their children others seem to overwhelm children by many uncanny ways. They may stress them out before the children grow old enough to ever understand what the word stress means. I’ve seen parents talking to their children as if they are street thugs, yelling and cursing at them it’s ridiculous. Cursing at children can lead to a sense of uselessness, a distraught inner child that will always yearn for external love and this by itself can sometimes lead the child to sexual abuse as an adult. The girl that I portrayed in my rendition of such an abuse is fortunately fictional but this phenomenon is as real a life, it is happing all around us daily. In order to end this kind of thing we must first start to train children to be good parents and then we also must retrain parents to recall what it means to be good children. Hitting children is however not always the right thing to do, yelling and punishing them must be checked as well. Hell I train dogs and I know that if you overpower them with to much discipline and not that same amount of praise then you will break them down to nothing and they will become afraid of you instead of respecting you, they will snap and bite instead of wage their tales when you are around. The future that we all want is molded in our own hands as we flex and mold our child to the controllers of tomorrow.
“Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.”
The 4 overlapping categories of child abuse are as follows: physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, and neglect. Each has unique characteristics and requires individual approaches to diagnosis and management.
‘Each week, child protective services (CPS) agencies throughout the United States receive more than 50,000 reports of suspected child abuse or neglect. In 2002, 2.6 million reports concerning the welfare were made out of approximately 4.5 million. The lucky ones survive, but on an average four children die every day as a result of child abuse or neglect, an estimated 1490 deaths in 2004 due to child abuse. 45% of all deaths from child abuse are children under the age of 3, while 36% are children ranging from 4 to 7 years old. In 1994 there were 1,171 cases handled of child abuse, in 2004 there were 33,408. Of those 14,881 where physical, 12,263 were neglect, 5,216 were psychological, and 1,048 were sexual.”
In the world that we live in, our children are all that we have left for the future, no child deserves this kind of childhood.