WHO DO WE BLAME?
Well I knew it wouldn’t be long before our high divorce rate and single families were invoked as one of the reasons behind the mindless criminal rioting and violence that has gripped so many of Britain’s cities in the last few days. To quote from one source: “Many involved seemed to fit a picture of youngsters from broken families marginalised by society.”
Others of course have been identified as a teaching assistant, a chef, a graphic designer, a fork-lift truck driver, a car salesman, a university student and so the list goes on. Broken homes my foot; these people were greedy and opportunistic, rightly deserving to be punished by our criminal justice system.
Comments
If divorce caused crime, then the Philippines would be a utopia when it actually has a relatively high level of violent crime.
Additionally, Malta – which is due to introduce divorce legislation in October – would be set to descend into chaos. Instead the sleepy Mediterranean island still seems relatively, well… sleepy.
Put simply, high divorce rates are not to blame.
As a young child experiencing a divorce I felt responsible. I did not have the life experience or instruction necessary to understand or cope with what was happening to me. The people I relied on, my parents, my lifeline, were afraid to talk to me and tell me the truth. I was a smart kid and capable of understanding but was not getting complete information from the people who I was instinctively tethered to. Because of the lack of truthful communication I came to my own conclusions. It was obvious where my father was coming from by the evidence at hand, he left me and mom for another woman, he had started a new family, I was clearly unwanted and undesirable. Mom had to survive, this further complicated matters in that new men were brought into the home, this further compromised my standing as a person. The new men had their own motives and did what they had to in achieving their goals. At this point I was living a lie, my only ally, my mother, could not fill the shoes of what a boy needs, a father. I was interested in girls, boats, guns, coins, junk, and etc, you know, stuff moms don't understand. I needed someone to talk to and support me, I needed a father to teach me the truth about life and not drop the ball. I needed a parent to stick with me through thick and thin and show me they cared, only then could I muster the strength to care myself. Instead I was given a psychologist, further proof that something was wrong with me. I remember thinking the following as I proceeded to destroy myself; if someone would care I would stop.
This author is now 50 years old.