I’m Sorry Vivek Doesn’t Understand Child Abuse but Mostly I’m Pissed Off

In Hell. A new ring:

Vivek. He re-opened wounds, ripped out sutures, poured in salt, deepened bruises, abraded old scars. In a grim eternal Dante dusk he is forced to see and hear it all on a 24/7 loop – the cries, the tears, the whimpers, the trembling, the dried blood, the bruised rectum, the torn vagina, the medical reports – a three-year-old with Chlamydia, a Sweetheart Cup where the eight-year-old girl spit semen after he left. [She didn’t tell her mom. She didn’t want him to kill her.] A four-year-old in the magical thinking stage bravely saved himself donning his cape, flying out the window, taking the criminal case with him, but who cares? The words that stand alone with nothing other than the truth they hold.

The pain of the police officer writing it all down, the evidence bags, statements from the siblings who knew, or were forced to watch, and will never forgive themselves even though they were helpless themselves, ultra-violet lights shone on bedding, floors, furniture. After shift holding children, nieces, nephews closer. At night embracing a spouse or a friend in silence. Never saying a word. Emotions long sacrificed on the altar of Tough-It-Out. The officer had hoped for a life of keeping the peace, catching trespassers and purse-snatchers, ticketing speeders, cuffing bar brawlers, discovering what the conman had been up to all along, warning jaywalkers, nabbing bank robbers, only rarely confronting the ultra-violent with lethal force. Serving and Protecting.

And the social worker, the mental health therapist, after work leaving behind in the dark office the pitiful, unconvincing gallows humor that always failed to hide the sadness behind the eyes. Heading for home alone to a second glass of wine and third slice of chocolate cake, re-reading The Awful Rowing Toward God and the poem about baby birds, holding a Faithful Friend and telling the whole sordid thing in hushed tones, popping an anti-depressant or a Xanax before succumbing to a long and dangerous sleep. Helping and Healing.

Doctors, nurses, ER staff, medical transcribers, crisis counselors, go their own ways, too.

Prosecutors, defense attorneys, judges, jurors, court reporters, also.

All of us.

Vivek, like Alex DeLarge and the gang of “droogs,” is forced to hear and see it all – forever.

On Earth:

The survivors. We see them everywhere. The dedicated teacher, the investment banker, the child protection social worker, the school custodian who keeps everything clean and shiny even when no one notices, the short-order cook at McDs, the small shop owner, the wheelchair bound, the single mom with a stack of bills, the vegan who loves every single animal even crustaceans, the immigrant compelled to carry documentation and refrain from speaking Spanish in public.

The large poet with small volumes, the pious and profane, the lost in delirium walking down 8th street loudly raging at no one, the addicted wearing rabbit fur jackets supporting a habit selling their bodies on Burnside, even the comedic genius from Aurora, Illinois who made a fortune but had to set himself on fire before he could believe anyone would ever love him.

The plumber who fixed the leaky bathtub perfectly, the cloistered monk letting it all go, the tarot reader, the police chaplain, the successful conman guru just trying to make a buck, the one-time tree pruner with a part-time gig as a drummer in a Sludge Metal band that made it big, the woman who slept in a tent on Exchange street, at daybreak swiping a hand of bananas from the food cart before high-tailing it out of there.

The research scientist who found the cure, the combat vet hiding in a cabin in Alaska, the MFA graduate, the poor player who struts and frets, the successful businessman who wonders why everyone can’t pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, the genius lawyer, the sensitive beautician who heads off criticism – “I am a beautician, not a magician,” the cake baker, the bored county clerk, the anxious Manosphere guy chugging Total T, showing off swollen biceps to the other guys.

The Civil Rights protestor who still has a Dream, the hater shoving the Stars and Stripes into guts, the forced-smilers, the Jan 6er sing-songing “Nancy, Nancy,” the stock boy who fronts all the canned goods to improve shopping experience, the insurance broker, the drifter, the singer/songwriter – “Hell Is For Children” and “One Day I’ll Be Ten Feet Tall and You’ll Be Nothin’ At All.”

They march on, some soar, some crawl prone through a desert, penitents to some Holy Shrine seeking forgiveness for sins they did not commit.

They keep going through the walks of this life, shoving aside invisible oceans of red roses scattered at their feet.

In Heaven:

The guardian, parent, care-taker, rejecting, cold-hearted, cruel who turned up the volume to drown out cries, who abetted tossing the gun used to force compliance into Young’s Bay now on the sea floor, in the Denial Heap with all the others.

They fled to Georgia with the perpetrator who would never do anything like that. He, she, they “are liars.” Deniers. Betrayers.

Though, if with kisses that did not deny God, they avoided the Pit and were lifted from the Outer Darkness, held close by the angels, Compassion and Forgiveness, who soothe their gut-wrenching sobs, wipe away their tears. In whispers, they tell their stories, the ones they had never told before.

 

Martha Ellen is a retired child protection social worker living on the Oregon coast. 1960s fire still burns brightly. She writes to process the events of her life.