There are some stories I hear as a therapist I would never repeat.
Not only because of confidentiality.
Because I don’t want someone else, who has not been listening and learning for 20 years, to have to cope with the horror of how parents can abuse their children. Or what an older sibling can do. What children can be forced to watch. To experience.
The loss is irretrievable. Innocence. Gone. Safety. Ripped up and torn apart. Any sense of sanity or reason as to why things happen or what is fair or just – shredded. Maybe every day. Maybe randomly. Maybe when he or she is drunk or high. Maybe when they are stone, cold sober.
For no reason other than they can. And they get away with it.
The blame that roars out of their violence sticks to the child’s spirit like super glue. The fight, for the rest of that child’s life, for some sense of belief in one’s own worth is a steep uphill grind. Shame of what others will think of them “if they knew” haunts them. If they don’t become haters and blamers themselves.
Which, if they don’t, is miraculous. And a testament to a more than resilient spirit.
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