I’ve not been a counselor for long. I’ve only had my limited license a little over a year. Add to that my internship experience and I’ve got a whopping two years of part-time, volunteer counseling under my belt. But in that time, I’ve heard things. Awful things. Things I could never have imagined are going on in my community’s back yard before I started counseling. And, truth be told, things I may not have believed.
Child pornography. Child prostitution. Parents offering their children for sex in exchange for drugs. Gang rapes as an initiation. Not just in the city, but in small towns. In the country. I’ve been to the hospital as a sexual assault survivor advocate for adults. For teens. For children. Nine years old. A six-year-old on Christmas Eve. A three-year-old. Two years old.
Whatever blissful ignorance I used to have is gone. A 15-week-old. Her own father. It doesn’t shock me anymore. It just makes me profoundly sad.