The last few days haven’t exactly been kind to me. My anxiety has seemingly decided to come back with a vengeance; my own thoughts are my absolute worst enemies now. I can’t listen to the national news without wanting to scream. The whole thing with Aziz Ansari blew up on my Facebook feed, bringing up some old and very deep scars. Then, we have what happened on Wednesday.
Prime and I caught the first rumblings of the story early Wednesday morning, of the seventeen year old girl who got help for her siblings. Later, we would learn that the family of thirteen had been horrifically abused by their parents and those same parents have now plead not guilty to the charges filed against them.
My anxiety was bad before. But hearing this story, hearing what had happened to this family, made it a lot worse. I feel awful for those siblings, but doubly so for the one that ran back to that house.
Because I would have done the exact same thing. I would have gone back. Because the hell I knew was a lot less worse than the hell I didn’t know. Because my mother told me that the world was a terrible place, that foster families were abusive and that I was better off staying where I was loved. Like that sibling, who followed their sister, looking for help, I would have been too frightened, too immobilized by fear to go much farther. Because I knew that if I were caught, if I were found, the punishment would have been too much for me to bear.
I understand why that child went back, ran back to that house. Because I would have done the same. Because it was all I knew. Even though I wanted out, I was terrified of that way out. I couldn’t take those first few steps to free myself.
That bothers me. Hearing what happened to this family, tears me apart. So much can happen behind closed doors, so many things that we don’t know.
It’s simply too much.