Child molestation is not a happy topic, especially when an American college football coach is in the middle of the scandal. You've probably heard enough about the man they call Jo Pa, too much in fact. His kingdom is crumbling and he is partially to blame. I have no sympathy for him and the wall of lies built around his unhappy valley. I want to know where are the stories about the traumatized children and their families?
I am enraged. I am sickened. I am embarrassed, once again, for our country. We are socially inept. We've proven this in several ways. We claim to help the world, yet at home, our residents are flailing. Morality and ethics are lost a midst team jerseys and statistical polls. Blinders must have been on sale this past decade, on the shelf next to the foggy glasses and rosary beads.
Yes, I'm referring to the Catholic mess. The entity who raped my generation of dignity and trust. The church I trusted to teach my children about honor, respect, loving one another, and helping those less fortunate. My fault, I didn't read the disclaimer: 'priests may seem holier than they appear.' The Vatican cover up and the Penn State cover up are huge. Two powerful, public, influential groups who have been revered and praised for good deeds. Two groups of human beings choosing to look the other way, brush under the rug, deny, create excuses, and harm. Once wronged, shame on you. Twice, shame on me. Action is needed.
My interest is twofold. I am a mother. I am a psychiatric nurse. Protective maternal instincts cannot be matched. Like the wild animal charging the invader too close to her babies, this mom feels like kicking butt and taking names. My patients have shared horror stories of child molestation and abuse, sometimes at the hands of their loved ones, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles...stories that explain the psychosis, dissociation, self-hatred, and self-harm of adulthood. Where does the cycle end? How? When?
I promise each of you this: if I see an adult sexually molesting a child, I will be talking to 911 dispatch sooner than that predator can pull up his pants. Period. No second thought. I knew this 22 years ago when my daughter was gracefully growing inside of me. I know this everyday and forevermore. Help is my middle name, even when I may be requesting, I can feel others' pain. Maybe there in lies the motive for my anger today. Maybe my anger is ever present because I so strongly feel the hurt around me. I hurt for the children unnecessarily put in contact with predators, unhealthy adults who were given multiple chances to prey, given permission from their bosses, their confidants, their elders, their bishops and cardinals. I hurt for the children who lost their youth and live daily with doubt, and wonder why they deserve their horror. I hurt for the students at Penn State who do not understand the severity of their university's indiscretions, their judgement clouded by the pedestal's shadow. I hurt for the believers who follow doctrine, blindly and unquestionably, their muteness deafening.
Yes, to be human is to err. I, of all humans, am a walking err. I will not cast the first stone. Too late for that pebble. I'm looking for a rock to chuck, a boulder to roll, a stick of dynamite, anything I can use to awaken senses and knock heads. Wanna' join me?
go green!
peace and love
~L
