PostSecret

I am definitely late to the PostSecret party, but I'm now thoroughly addicted to it. I wish that there were archives, and if there are someone please tell me! Or maybe I can find one of those sites that archives the Internet and see if I can find old updates. Now, the first thing I do on Sundays is read the page.

Today one of the secrets got to me: I work at a battered women's shelter. I understand why your husband punched your lights out.

That's actually a pretty well-kept secret of the trade. I, too, have done my time in a domestic violence shelter, as part of my internship for my master's degree. I have to admit that I absolutely dreaded it there. Not only was it a sad, sad place, but some of those women, damn, they really were disagreeable, mean...

I mean, the logical part of me knew that there were definite and true reasons for their behavior, but sometimes it just got to me. It's hard to be supportive to someone who just really doesn't want help. Plus, there was the fun, never-ending fear that one of these ladies would tell their abuser where the shelter. This did happen, probably more often than I was made aware. And let me tell you, leaving the shelter at night, after conducting children's therapy (read: babysitting. How can you counsel a group of 15 kids ranging from infants to 15-year-olds? A: You can't. You just try to keep them for killing each other. Remember their life experience.) I got to go to my car in the dark. You zig, you zag, you pray.

Yeah, so I understand what that secret-sender means. And I'm impressed that she can go back to work each day. It's soul-grinding work.