I want to tell you a story.

You won’t like the story because the story is too true.

Too much like your life.

At the end of the story I want you to do something.

Anything.

I want you to stop this madness however you can.

You must.

WE MUST.

Once upon a time a broken boy met a broken girl.

They got along in this broken world because they were broken in the same ways.

When B was a small guy a big guy a family member a loved one decided it would be okay to love B the way adults love each other. B had no choice in the matter.

The girl knew this exact same pain.

But they say that you are your experiences.

I know B.

He is smart.

He is attractive.

I know the girl.

She is friendly.

She is pretty.

If you grew up eating oatmeal you have two choices – as an adult you will either hate oatmeal or adore oatmeal.

If you grew up with curse words and drugs you have two choices- as an adult you will either abstain from both religiously or partake in both constantly.

If you grew up with people who had no boundaries, no concern for your emotional and physical well-being and abused you- then you also have two choices- to advocate for the safety of victims or become an abuser.

The girl became an advocate.

B became an abuser.

They were madly in love.

They had a son and he looked just like B.

They had another son and he looked just like the girl.

They were happy.

They looked happy.

They seemed happy.

THEY WERE NOT HAPPY.

B used to hit the girl. He hurt the girl many times. He dangled the girl over a bridge. He bashed the girl’s face into a table. He told the girl mean things about herself.

He hated the girl.

The girl left.

He loved the boys.

She was very sad.

He wouldn’t let the boys go.

The girl fought and fought and fought like a little engine- but the courts said he was more fit.

He made more money.

He had a bigger house.

He went to college.

To make himself even more respectable to the small minded country folk of nowhere USA B got married.

B had a child with his new wife.

His new wife had a son from a previous relationship.

They both sang together a chorus of how the girl was useless, worthless, stupid and terrible.

The song hung in the tree limbs around the girl.

She was depressed.

B would not let the girl see her children.

Until one fine day, one April day, one Spring day the universe heard the girls wails.

The universe sympathized with the girl.

On this day the girl found out that B was accused of incest.

On this day the girl found out that B was accused of molesting the stepson.

He told during bad touch day at elementary school.

This reminded the girl of the story they both shared.

B had chosen reenactment with the stepson he lived with.

He flirted with the stepson.

He touched and kissed the stepson.

He had sex with the stepson who had reached the ripe old age of 8 years.

He did this off and on for 365 days.

The mighty court, the small minded country folk in charge, not admitting their mistake of course, granted full custody to the girl.

They were sorry.

Everyone was sorry about it.

And B, tortured pathetic B, who never sought help or absolution

Who abused those who loved him because he himself had been hurt

Was sentenced.

Not by the court but by the universe.

The girl is satisfied but not happy.

She is still in pain.

We are all in pain.

We are all responsible.

The stepson is destroyed.

And now he has two choices.

I told you a horrible story.

And I knew that you wouldn’t like the story because the story is too true.

Too much like my life.

I had to make that choice too.

I have been hurt.

My song echoes in the misery trees too.

I chose advocacy.

At the end of the story I wanted you to do something.

I beg you to do something.

Anything.

I want you to stop this madness however you can.

You must.

WE MUST.

I must not let this continue to happen to anyone else.

I hear the crying songs in the trees.

And it must stop

NOW.