The scattered and tattered scraps of clothing, personal items, toy pieces and even kitchen utensils--these used to inhabit their proper places and fulfill their useful tasks--now lie strewn and bereft of utility or future value.
I stoop for the 14th time this morning to pick up these pieces of their lives; I am putting them into a large trash bag and ridding my home of their broken energy. The children I tried to help are torn apart by the tornado of hurt that rules their lives and wounds all bystanders.
These objects bear silent witness to the child's grief and the adult's volatile self-hatred. The injuries to the soul are not healed; they only fester and explode in toxic venomous anger misdirected at the innocent and the helpers. Pain, blame, self-hatred all form partners in the cycle of abuse.
Yo te salvé del páramo y tu me muerdes la mano. How tragic that those who need help the most bite the helping hand extended to them. What were my motives in extending that hand? Was I being selfish or unselfish?
And now as I piece back together the tatters of my soul and mend my house, I fight the anger and resentment bubbling up inside. If I allow it to permeate my thoughts, then I lose the battle.
A year later, I can breathe, and I have far fewer regrets. So what if they took advantage of my good efforts and my stable home? They knew better than I that they weren't functional enough to be here, and yet I was able to provide a stepping stone and some respite while they regrouped and moved on to the next stop in their tragic young lives. Such was my life with the Aguilar family . . . sigh.
Two years later, I have no regrets. I acted on faith and good will. I wasn't exceptionally astute but now they all have their place in the world and hope springs again.
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