Reflections From A Former Child Abuse Investigator

I noticed some chatter by a few Twitter friends yesterday about a Feral Girl found in Plant City FL. Curiosity piqued, I asked what they were referring to, since I've been to Plant City (mighty good strawberries down that way). Apparently Oprah did a show about this girl. When this little girl was rescued by authorities, she was found in deplorable conditions, and at the age of seven she acted like she was two. Go ahead and read the article...it's a long one, and heartbreaking, but quite eye-opening.

As I read it, I was taken back to when I used to be a child abuse investigator. It's not a job I talk too much about because really, who wants to hear about child abuse? I saw horrible things...things that most mainstream people never in their wildest dreams could imagine. So many of us believe that everyone lives like we do; nice and happy in vanilla Suburbia. But it ain't so. I've seen shocking things, frightening things, disgusting things, things that made me sick to my stomach and full of rage. It was the worst.job.in.the.world. I used to come home and cry after work....I'd spend my days off full of dread and anxiety, knowing I had to return to the office the next day. It was truly the worst job I've ever held, and two years was all I could handle.

My position was referred to as an "Emergency" case worker. When calls came in to the Child Abuse Hotline, I was one of the Social Workers who did the initial investigation. I had two weeks to figure out a game plan, or close the case file. My coworkers and I also rotated on a call list for the two-hour response cases. Those were the ones where an immediate threat to safety was suspected. Due to the immediate and short-term nature of my role, I never got involved with the families I met. I was in and out, and if further services were required, I passed them off to a long-term case worker. On the one hand I liked it this way. I was glad I didn't have clients getting too comfortable with me. But on the other hand, I never knew what happened to the kids I met each day. If I removed a child from their parents, I never got to find out what happened down the road. If I closed a case because I simply didn't have enough legal footing to do anything, I never got to find out if the situation improved or worsened. To this day I still wonder about some of the families I met; the neglected children who I wasn't able to legally help.

The media makes it appear that cases such as the Feral Girl are rare. Sadly, they aren't. The Feral Girl is an extreme, yes. But there are untold numbers of children living in the same filthy homes (trust me, I've seen them. I've squashed my fair share of roaches and stepped over piles of dog poo while on investigations. I've helped clients clean maggots off their kitchen countertops so they had a clean place to prepare a meal that night. I've moved couch cushions only to find collections of needles and rusty spoons). So many children aren't provided love, aren't guaranteed safety, aren't cherished and enjoyed by their families. And each one carries those scars with them into adulthood.

I think that's one of the main reasons I'm such a bleeding heart liberal, and why I believe in second chances. We're all quick to agree about the devastating effects growing up in such conditions can have on these children. Yet we forget those same arguments when the children become adults. As a society we rally around the children and want to help and protect them. But when these kids become adults who develop drug habits, lead lives of petty crime and antisocial behavior, we're all too quick to toss them away. A little compassion is all it takes, my friends. You just never know what another person has been through.