No one could possibly even begin to comprehend the atrocities children suffer at the hands (and more) of a child molester, most often a close relative. No one could understand except, of course, another victim. The disgust, the shame, humiliation, and the guilt that these souls carry with them throughout their lives cannot be measured, certainly not by any who have not suffered through a similar experience.
Many of these casualties growing up in the 1950's, 1960's and '70's were kept quiet by those closest to them, who knew but kept silent, believing they could simply ignore what was going on right under their noses, never listening to the cries late into the night and never seeking justice for these hurt and lonely children.
Over the next 40-50 years, the children became adults. Along they way, so many turned to drugs or alcohol as means to escape the horror of their memories, to escape the guilt by drowning them in to silence, in to a haze of chemicals to dull the pain, surfacing now and then to awaken the dark memories and open old wounds that never seem to heal.
Sometimes the obstacles of living such a life seem insurmountable and our minds and hearts cry out to be healed … no one listens. But today, Theresa will seek out the grave of her molester – a relative! – and brand him for the world to see as she affixes the small, engraved plaque that reads simply, "Child Molester" to this hateful man's headstone. I pray that the epoxy holds until the end of the earth. And I pray, as she slaps that brass plate just above his name, that my best friend, my 'anam cara', will be able to finally close the door on those awful memories, of the filthy old man who touched that little girl so long ago and darkened her beautiful, innocent heart.
Leave it there, my friend, and come home to help lead others like us find healing and closure in their lives and their hearts – show them that they, too, can have the last word.
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