We think nothing of yearly visits to the doctor for physical well-being. No one thinks twice when someone says they’ve sought help for a physical condition–except perhaps care or concern. But it’s much different for someone suffering from a mental or emotional illness or discomfort. Comments are readily given–a co-host on a talk show might laugh and call the other manic. Mental health problems are seen as derogitory and degrading. Someone who suffers mentally or emotionally is likely to hide behind a screen of normalcy so that he or she is not seen as less capable or worthy. It is so important that we as a society make a pathway for those suffering to come forward and seek help early. We do this by being more accepting and even honoring those who come forward. To be shunned by the illness, and then by society too, can cause reaction in the hurting one–such as hiding, self-medicating, addiction and even crime.

It seems that mental and emotional problems often have early life beginnings–often in the developing mind. And it is here where a whole life can go off-track. Wouldn’t it be prudent to have more than yearly physical check-ups–that we also have yearly check-ups for mental health for school-age children? Such a check-up would identify if a child were retreating into him or herself, if there were depression, anxiety or fear–it would even identify if bullying was going on in that child’s life. And if we didn’t look at mental and emotional problems with dispise, we wouldn’t be accusing parents if there was a problem, but offering aid. Further, if there were a problem, help could be offered without concern for warping the child’s mind as some might see such help. Mental health workers do not invade but help guide through difficulties allowing for the patient’s own path. Early detection would help keep the path clear and that healthy deveopment could continue, and a life could be productive and happy.

In turn, such check-ups would provide more jobs in the community, help children to grow to become a resource to society, and in the end use up less resources when they become adults–they would thrive instead of trying to survive. Further, our schools would be safer.

May horrors remain secret—

trials be only for growth.

May hot coals only warm you,

you will be held in love’s oath.

Cry sweet baby—it’s okay.

Small scrapes are all you should know.

Call to me when all is dark—

I’d hide the night—let stars glow.

May beauty shine on your path—

rose aroma be your air.

I’ll walk ahead, take the thorns—

oh world, press on me your care.

—Merry-go-rounds and toy tops,

bouncing balls and teddy bears,

bedtime stories, Mom and Pop,

and Partridges with their pears—

Christmas has come with wishes—

may you wish with starry eyes,

make angels in sparkling snow,

sip cocoa as giggles rise.

God, hide the world from this child.

It’s my place to fix the woes.

I’ll stand strong and face the wind—

shield innocence as it blows.

When you get a glimpse of real life, it makes you speechless. By real, I mean the horror that can be out there—the things we don’t want to see. But this thing in Connecticut is pounding in what is worst possible of such reality. The things that happen to innocents should never be—how could they be? My heart is broken.

(Preface from the book: Child Alone)

Why did I write this book? I’ve asked this of myself many times. It is an essential question for any memoirist—mainly to be sure the work is not racked with emotion that causes destruction. That would be the result if a memoir were written from an unhealed perspective. I can’t say that I am fully healed, but I feel I have been able to move away from the situations described in this book to a place where controlled writing, with retrospection and understanding, can come in—a place where, hopefully, this book can help others.

In the beginning, I think, I just wanted to share my pain. I wanted understanding from others, and it felt so important to me that the truth be known about what really happened in my life. I felt such hurt and loneliness in carrying the truth inside for no one else to see. Yet, it had felt easier somehow to accept judgment from others when they misunderstood the events than to tell them the truth—because of how horrible I had perceived myself. When I learned more about what my role really was in the different situations of the past, then I began to share more. And I think sharing and understanding has worked hand-in-hand to bring me to where I am today.

I’m not in a perfect place. I still blame myself for what happened in some ways, still have hard days, still work on learning more. It’s hard to know if anyone from a harsh background ever really achieves “normal.” But then again, as it has been said, being human is being a work in progress. I look to the people who seem more normal to me—or those who are healthy—going on about their lives through the stages of growing up, getting an education and a job, having children, then grandchildren, and retiring. I see the seventy-year-olds in their usually secure, settled, and relaxed lives. They have their problems, as we all do—but these are normal problems. Their worlds somehow seem so ordered. Then there are those who are less healthy, who are in different ways stuck in their lives, unable to move mentally or physically. Children who have been abused know exactly what their real world is all about—but even as adults, they often cannot muster the strength, stamina, courage, or organizing ability to make changes in that world.

I read a statistic somewhere that 25 percent of foster kids don’t graduate high school. But I’m sure many have also found school to be the most sane place they’ve ever been. I worked hard to grow and learn, and I have achieved a master’s degree in writing. Writing started as a way to learn and heal—but it has grown into a method to help others heal. That is the ultimate goal in memoir: using experience to help others. But I have one further hope—that this book can be a bridge between the people who live normal lives (and can work and organize) to the people who are hurting (those who can see the disasters but who are confused and scared, who don’t know how to change the condition the world is in). Perhaps those who can work can help those who are lost. I wrote this book with this in mind: to bring the minds and worlds of the hurting to the minds of the healthy and able.

Recently, an urgency has come to this mission. As I visited one of my brothers, I sat on his porch and listened to his six-year-old stepdaughter, Penny. She was reaching her arm out to throw some litter over the fence and paused, looking me in the eyes. I quietly said, “You don’t want to do that.” She pulled back, uncertain, and then looked for another option of what to do with it. I extended my hand, palm up, and said, “I’ll take it.” She was delighted. After placing it in my hand, she ran off to play and then kept running back to tell me little details about her play.

Six months later I would learn of the abuses she endured. And I wonder why, even with my understanding, I could not look deeper into her eyes and see what was there—and stop what was happening to her. For many years I strove to communicate with the caseworker from my youth to tell him what had happened to me. Eventually, I grew angry that he could not see it for himself. Then I thought, If even I could not see it in that little girl, how could I have expected it of him? But, hopefully, with this writing, I can show you what the world is like for many children today—and maybe you will be able to see it and feel it, and then work to either stop it from continuing or help those who endured it to heal.

There is a little child in all of us, and it seems that is especially true of one who has been abused. I don’t know psychology, but it seems that the child inside the abused person continues to cry out for matters to be resolved somehow, for the understanding of others, even for self-understanding. The problems inside intertwine with, and sometimes cause, problems in living as an adult. The strain in living everyday lives for these people can even pile up into physical illness. I’ve written this book to take you into both the mind of the child and the mind of the adult of that same child—which are inextricably intertwined. I hope I have done it in such a way that you as the reader can experience it from the abused person’s point of view and feel compelled to act. Child Alone is a title that refers not only to the child caught up in the dark loneliness of abuse but also to the adult grown from such a background who feels lost and has few resources or ideas how to cope, heal, and live.

The abuse for Penny has stopped—thank God for that—but she has a whole life of coping with it ahead of her. Getting counseling, especially early on, will help her, but the taint on her life is set. My story seems an old one, but it is still repeating today, and we need to step up, take action, and stop it. And we need to help each child heal and live—no matter that child’s chronological age.

I sit here now before this computer trying to write—it is my part in this battle against abuse. I tremble and stammer, trying to summon the courage for what I know will be a large project—one much greater than setting words to manuscript—but then I remember the uncertainty deep in little Penny’s eyes, and I type.

My ancestors were there at that first Thanksgiving—about 13 generations back. That seems like a long time. It’s around 380 years. The Revolution around 237 years ago, the civil war 147 years ago. They are all such big numbers. But I remember clearly talking to a man when I was 4 (50 years ago). The man was elderly and told me of when he was a boy coming across country on one of the last wagon trains. Here in 2012 I remember speaking to a man who was on one of  the wagon trains! We are not so far away from when cars were invented. In the blink of an eye we will be speaking of the early 2000′s like they are so far away. Stop a moment and enjoy right now. There is much to be thankful for.