The festering wounds of childhood

I grew up in a place where kids made huts out of holes in the ground, old cardboard, and scrap wood cobbled together with (most likely) rusty nails. It was a world where we played on hollow cement tubes, swung on monkey bars, and clambered over playgrounds rife with splinters.

I also lived in a world where evil wasn't pondered, heaven forbid discussed. Sexuality didn't exist, or at least wasn't recognized, except to serve as a warning for the dire things that could happen when it was even contemplated, let alone acted upon. Abuse didn't happen, because friends and family members would never do such things.

Within both those worlds there lived danger. In the land of tree houses and scraped knees, the possibility for death was there, yet so small that I laugh at the overprotection forced upon children now. Parents then understood that childhood meant bumps and breaks and bruises.

But in the 20 years since I was a kid, the world has become so child-proofed. Children are now legally required to sit in a car seat until they are 8 years old. Heck, I doubt I stayed in a car seat past the age of 2, and yet here I am, alive and kicking despite such reckless parental behavior.**

What parents didn't—and often still don't—understand is that the harm from emotional wounds are more devastating that the risk of a fatal injury from childhood play. Death is an ending, while spiritual* trauma is re-suffered every day over the course of a lifetime. But, of course, kids weren't given an outlet for their spiritual grief; instead they were told to tough it out and deal with it, though no instructions for how to do so were ever given.

The reality of emotional and spiritual injury is so much worse than a car accident or broken arm. This is real damage, the kind that festers deep down where not even X-rays or CAT scans can penetrate. It languishes entire lifetimes without anyone knowing it's there. Or maybe they know but refuse to admit that something could possibly be wrong.

And so, tragically, discussion of horrible, terrible, wicked things are avoided, because if we don't acknowledge them, they can't be real.

Sexual abuse doesn't happen in good families.
He isn't verbally abusing anyone; he just has a temper.
Addiction is only for those who use illicit drugs. Good people don't get addicted.
Families can sort of problems for themselves. Just ignore those niggling little things you see. It's none of our business.
Women who behave in any way but a chaste manner shouldn't have an expectation of respect or safety.
Children don't understand adult things.
It's all in your head, so just get over it.

While I am grateful for my (relatively) wholesome upbringing, life was never the Rockwell portrait people forced it to be. I know men and women who've suffered tremendous anguish yet refuse to seek help. If no one speaks about it, it can't possibly be true. Strangers—even friends and family—will never know their lives weren't perfect. Then the world will go on in sunshine and rainbows, and no one will ever have to deal with something so terrible, because things like that don't happen to good people.

Why mention any of this? What good is there in dredging up the past or discussing dark and painful things?

Because people are hurting.
Because the only way to heal a spiritual wound is to bring it into the light.
Because happiness is possible, even when it hurts so much right now to even think of living another day, let alone another 50 years.
Because silence is deadly.

Much has been said in the literary community about the recent argument that young adult books are too dark and corrosive for teens. I won't rehash or even address it here. I will say that life can be incredibly dark and difficult, but it can also be inexplicably good. Even after bad things happen, people can find happiness.

The world must acknowledge darkness and evil, then force it into the light where it can be banished and destroyed as best possible. The resulting wound can then be tended and healed, eventually scarring over to the point where the damage is a reminder but never an impediment. Not anymore. Not again.

Then one day long down the road, those scars can be shown to those still suffering in silent and unacknowledged pain, proving that injuries do happen, but they can also heal. Of that, I am proof.

*"Spiritual" is used in the sense of a person's spirit, without religious overtones.
**Yes, that is sarcasm.