The Closet
I don’t know where to start. I’m rarely at a loss for words, but today I find myself unable to express the things in my heart.
I often allude to the pain associated with living with someone with a drug problem. It’s a common theme in many of the things I write, and it is not surprising that the things I write often attract people who have had situations similar to my own.
Last night, a young woman who needed to share her story with someone who would understand contacted me. She sent me an email detailing a life full of fear and loneliness. Her words were brilliant. Not necessarily formally educated, but brilliant all the same because they poignantly conveyed a story that was frighteningly honest in its simplicity. Her words were brutal in there depiction of a life mired in shame. Yet, refreshingly hopeful as they revealed a seed of pride eager to grow – a seed hungry for sunlight and water and the caring hands of an understanding gardener.
This child, this 20-something-year-old child spoke of a life spent with a crack addict mother and a crack addict “father”. She spoke of stealing batteries to power a flashlight and cassette player she kept hidden in her closet. She needed that meager little light to read by and the music to comfort her when her "father" locked her in. She spoke of being snatched from the only safe place she'd ever known, thown in the back of a truck, and spirited off to God knows where. She spoke of an aged, disabled grandmother who could not help her, self-centered aunts and uncles who would not help her, and discouraged teachers too beleaguered to help her. This child now housed in a woman’s body described a social system that failed to save her.
This child now housed in a woman’s body is still locked in a closet, trapped in a life of prostitution, held down, regularly beaten, raped, and robed. But she still has her flashlight and that dim light is scanning the darkness, reaching into quiet corners, searching for a little hope. She is so smart. So damaged. So beautiful. So worth reaching out to.
This girl’s story is one we all need to hear, a story that should push each of us to do more for the broken, battered children living secret lives of shame and abuse at the hands of adults driven to the unthinkable by the need to satisfy the cravings of an addict. Little people hidden away in cheap city apartments, wealthy suburban enclaves, and lonely rural farmhouses. Little people trapped in closets not of their making. They are everywhere these children I’m talking about. They are in line in front of you at the grocery store; they are in neighborhood classrooms; they are in your churches; your malls; your streets. They are everywhere and they need to be heard.
Today, I will be their voice. Tomorrow, it is my hope, that you will be their voice, too. But before we can speak for them we must listen to them. And before we can listen to them we must see them. We have to begin looking into the eyes of the children we come in contact with; we have to tell them with a smile and a few kind words that they are precious. We have to burn it into them. We have to live our lives in a way that tells them that we are available to them. That shows them that they are not alone in the darkness of their parent’s addiction. Such a simple thing to do really, but it is a powerful thing.
The little girl I’ve been telling you about carried pilfered books, music, and batteries into her prison closet. Here’s to providing the children we meet substantially more than that.
I often allude to the pain associated with living with someone with a drug problem. It’s a common theme in many of the things I write, and it is not surprising that the things I write often attract people who have had situations similar to my own.
Last night, a young woman who needed to share her story with someone who would understand contacted me. She sent me an email detailing a life full of fear and loneliness. Her words were brilliant. Not necessarily formally educated, but brilliant all the same because they poignantly conveyed a story that was frighteningly honest in its simplicity. Her words were brutal in there depiction of a life mired in shame. Yet, refreshingly hopeful as they revealed a seed of pride eager to grow – a seed hungry for sunlight and water and the caring hands of an understanding gardener.
This child, this 20-something-year-old child spoke of a life spent with a crack addict mother and a crack addict “father”. She spoke of stealing batteries to power a flashlight and cassette player she kept hidden in her closet. She needed that meager little light to read by and the music to comfort her when her "father" locked her in. She spoke of being snatched from the only safe place she'd ever known, thown in the back of a truck, and spirited off to God knows where. She spoke of an aged, disabled grandmother who could not help her, self-centered aunts and uncles who would not help her, and discouraged teachers too beleaguered to help her. This child now housed in a woman’s body described a social system that failed to save her.
This child now housed in a woman’s body is still locked in a closet, trapped in a life of prostitution, held down, regularly beaten, raped, and robed. But she still has her flashlight and that dim light is scanning the darkness, reaching into quiet corners, searching for a little hope. She is so smart. So damaged. So beautiful. So worth reaching out to.
This girl’s story is one we all need to hear, a story that should push each of us to do more for the broken, battered children living secret lives of shame and abuse at the hands of adults driven to the unthinkable by the need to satisfy the cravings of an addict. Little people hidden away in cheap city apartments, wealthy suburban enclaves, and lonely rural farmhouses. Little people trapped in closets not of their making. They are everywhere these children I’m talking about. They are in line in front of you at the grocery store; they are in neighborhood classrooms; they are in your churches; your malls; your streets. They are everywhere and they need to be heard.
Today, I will be their voice. Tomorrow, it is my hope, that you will be their voice, too. But before we can speak for them we must listen to them. And before we can listen to them we must see them. We have to begin looking into the eyes of the children we come in contact with; we have to tell them with a smile and a few kind words that they are precious. We have to burn it into them. We have to live our lives in a way that tells them that we are available to them. That shows them that they are not alone in the darkness of their parent’s addiction. Such a simple thing to do really, but it is a powerful thing.
The little girl I’ve been telling you about carried pilfered books, music, and batteries into her prison closet. Here’s to providing the children we meet substantially more than that.
posted by LightAndShadow at
10:56:00 AM
