At my day job, I represent the Department of Family and
Protective Services in cases involving abused and neglected children. Lately,
my job has been harder than usual.
We see terrible cases, terrible facts, facts where it’s
almost impossible to believe that one human being could treat another that way,
never mind an adult treating a vulnerable child they should be protecting in
that way. And lately, the after-effects
of that severe abuse has been in-your-face apparent in my cases.
It’s
heartbreaking.
It makes it hard to go on, to keep fighting and trying the
cases, when by the time I get to fight for these kids, the damage is already
done.
And sometimes that damage seems irreparable.
Don’t misunderstand me.
We slap on the bandages, and the
tourniquets. We have hospitals for the malnutrition and broken bones. We try
counseling, and residential treatment centers, medications, and group therapy
for the psychological wounds. We find new, loving families for these children
who have never experienced that simple right.
But sometimes, (more often than I can bear lately) it seems
that no matter what we do, no matter how much plaster we slap on the cracks of
the psyche, we can’t heal these kids. We can’t shore up the injuries they’ve
already experienced. We run out of options, we run out of ideas, and so we just
keep plastering over the cracks as they appear—suicide attempts=a stint in the
state hospital, self harm = medication tweaks and more counseling, perpetrating
the abuse they experienced against other kids in the new home = removal and
counseling for everyone ad nauseum.
But these children deserve the effort, no matter how
hopeless it seems.
And sometimes, against all odds, they eventually heal. They
find a way to live fully, to be happy, to recognize the wrongs that were done
and somehow move beyond.
That’s why I keep fighting beyond what I think I can bear, bucket of plaster and
trowel in hand.
So how does this relate to writing?
It has to, right?
After
all, this is a writing blog.
It’s simple.
Sometimes, I feel like my stories are children.
And sometimes, I feel like I’ve performed a disservice in writing those
stories, that they’re flawed and riddled with cracks. The black moment is
misplaced, the characters aren’t fully rounded, the writing is simple crap.
Sometimes,
I’m right, and I want to give up on the difficult stories, to shove them into
that desk drawer we all have for hiding things we don’t want to deal with
because they’re to hard to fix.
But these are my stories. They are an expression of the
unique way I see the world, and because of that, they matter. Your stories matter just as much. And really,
stories are easier to fix than most things in life. We have all the tools. We
have communities of wonderful writers willing to brainstorm, and spitball and
beta read and help in every way they can.
So I challenge you to drag out the
story you’ve stashed. Pull out your mortar and your trowel and start fixing the
cracks. Choose hope that you can make that story shine and get to work.
Your story deserves it.
