Army of Mom

So this is how liberty dies ... with thunderous applause.


Blubbering Idiot

Gees. Sometimes I want to smack myself. There is a reason I never became the hardened investigative journalist I aspired to be. I'm too soft-hearted. I was on the phone doing an interview about an incredible place in Fort Worth - The WARM Place (which offers peer support groups for children who have experienced a death in their lives) - when I just started crying. (I did stop and finish the interview and I wasn't boo-hooing big time, just the tremble in my voice and the tears in my eyes)

Yep, that's real professional. But, that is me. I have been this way my whole life. I'm so super sensitive to other people's struggles. It makes life hard sometimes, too, because I empathize so much that it hurts.

In some ways, I think it makes me a better writer. My sources, often, feel more comfortable toward me. I've been told I seem more human and they feel more open talking to me because they know I can understand their pain and simply because I care.

It is just so hard to be that neutral reporter when I'm telling these stories. How do you re-tell the story of a child finding her parent dead from a suicide? How do you do that without crying? I can't. I guess I'll never be that ace reporter (I'm sitting here still weeping after this interview - that was when I let it out). But, you know? I gave up worrying about that long ago. I would rather hold the hand of the source I'm interviewing than to hear their tales without caring.

It is funny, I still exchange Christmas cards with people I wrote stories about more than 15 years ago. I wrote about the most painful things in these women's lives - one about her 2-year-old's battle (and subsequent death) with cancer; one about the brutal murder of her 10-year-old daughter (and trial of the killer); and one about her efforts to bring recognition to victim's rights (her pregnant daughter was killed by the daughter's estranged husband). I created a bond with each of these women. As a mother, how could I not imagine their pain and heartache? How could I not tell their story without a piece of my heart in there with it?

God love 'em. Now, I need to pull it back together and start making calls about the top issues with fertilizer for growers (swear to God, that is the other story I'm working on). Maybe talking about crap is more attuned to my mood after that.

*taking deep breaths* Yeah, I'm better. Ok, a little. :)


Post a Comment

<< Home