The world I enter when I clock in is dark. Not because of the staff, not because of the mental illnesses, nor the location, the families or even the patients themselves, but their stories. When I work, I set aside a large part of myself at the door, or I would become so bitter during the hours I live in that world that I would forget the beauty beyond the hospital walls. I love my job; it brings me joy. But when you have a child so little she can't even tie her own shoes (not that she has laces to tie them with here) telling you in a matter-of-fact tone about how Mommy gets mad sometimes and ties her up and locks her in the closet with tape over her mouth, well, you begin to wonder what the point of trying to help is, if they're going home to that. Almost every child that I have worked with has been abused in some way. They are the forgotten ones, and they know it. They know no one cares; they don't even look up in hope during visiting to see if anyone has come for them. They lash out at anyone and everyone, become oppositional, they become cruel. But inside, they're terrified.
"I'm scared to go home, and I'm scared to stay."
That is their reality.
And yet....
And yet they smile, and yet they laugh. And yet they hope, they grow, they learn.
And if they can do these things, then it is only right that I, blessed as I am, do the same.
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