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DaRk AnGel : Why Home : November 2006 : Maybe I Care Too Much....

Maybe I Care Too Much....

I am not sure why I have the keys to the lock - but the door still will not open.

The frustration grows that others like me feel from time to time and the more I fight to over come it, the deeper it digs in.

I always referred to it as writers block. Where the words are just not flowing through to meld together nicely in hopes that someone reading them will envision what I describe and more than that - live the moment as I see it.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a festival and as I sat listening to the music and watching the faces of the strangers go a trio caught my attention. Off to my right a woman around 40 was walking towards me and in tow were two young girls in their early teens. They stopped a dozen or so feet away. The older woman was very - very unhappy. Her demeanor and her scowl was directed towards one of the kids. Her eyes were filled with anger and her lips still chased the one girl that departed and towards the restroom.

I wondered if the woman was mad because the kid had to use the restroom.

At that moment the band took a break. I could her the older lady telling the remaining child how angry that she as at the girl in the restroom. How unappreciative the other girl was. How with all she did for them, how could they treat her this way. The daughter still with her was silent and staring at the ground the whole time as she leaned against the wall.

The woman held in her hand held a wooden plaque that said "Pam Loves Ricky." It was one of those ones that are done with wood burning and varnish. Actually very nice. I had seen them when I walked around earlier and thought of getting one of "me love the dogs" or vice versa.

As the woman smoked her cigarette I studied her face. It was hard and much too old for her years. There was a story in each wrinkle of a pain that had scarred her heart.

She opened her mouth and yawned without raising a hand politely. It was then that I saw in a mouth of good looking teeth except that the front bottom middle two were gone. My heart saddened.

I had thought that maybe the wooden plaque was the point of controversy, that maybe the daughter had purchased it for her boyfriend and the mother was upset by that. But my heart and my gut knew already her story. I had seen it many times before.

The daughter that had gone to the restroom returned. Now I could hear what their conversation was. Seems that the child was upset at the thought of that plaque going up in the house. The mother had purchased it for her boyfriend and intended to display it in their house. The daughter resented this symbol meant to prove her love and loyalty.

"See it is burned in wood - it is true.. Please do not hit me again. I submit. You win…". These were the unspoken words.

It sickens me that men hit women that they claim they love. And it angers me that there are women who are more afraid of being alone than of being beaten and do not leave. Subconsciously they are condoning the bad behavior and reinforcing that they are in fact worthless to themselves and to everyone.

Why does this occur so frequently these days? Why do we have to have battered women's clinics in every city? What went wrong in our social processes that allowed it to become so rampant and so every day? People whisper and titter when they see a woman with black eyes, but no one offers an ear or a soft shoulder.

Many years ago I intervened when I came across a man who was holding a woman down, him straddling her and punching her in the face. The coward of course never once took a swing at me. I informed him that the police were on the way and he tried to run. At that point I put him down and I knelt on his arms to secure him.

The next thing I remember was the emergency room. I had a concussion and needed 18 stitches to close up where she hit me with a brick. Friends of mine who saw it said she screamed "He is my husband, you leave him alone" from her bloody face before she beaned me with a brick. They all told me that they were sure that I had learned my lesson, and now knew to not get involved.

As I watched the lady and the two young girls leaving I remembered mumbling to my friends back then that I agreed, that it just wasn't worth it.

Now I apologize publicly for lying to them…

It is not in my nature to want to be a hero. It is not bravery. It is a weakness. I know pain. Physical and emotional and I was taught it well. I am just a person who cannot stand by and see others in turmoil or hurting.

I guess it is what I wished would have happened for me in my painful youth. Someone kind would have cared.

Are we too busy to be kind and compassionate, even to strangers? Or is it fear that stops people from getting involved?

I wonder if someone that would not help a woman being beaten or abused because they did not know her.. Well I wonder if they would approve a stranger passing by in a circumstance like that if it was their wife sister or mother?

Maybe I care too much?

Maybe not…