Help For The Helpers by Brenda Shoss To subscribe to Kinship Circle Letters for Animals, email: subscribe@kinshipcircle.org At times I feel like an urban soldier armed with videos and photos. As an advocate for animals, my job is to expose cruelty and apathy. I am their witness, from the first impersonal thrust of a slaughterhouse knife to the final moment they are dismantled limb by limb. I am beside the homeless when a gas chamber takes their anonymous life. My eyes verify the bullhooks, flank straps and spurs used to goad unwilling animals in circuses and rodeos. Millions of stolen souls inhabit my office as I feverishly write letters to demand their protection. Sadie sits nearby with a tightly wrapped electrical cord branded into her neck. A Lab-mix puppy searches for the eyes and head a Michigan teen cut from his body. Amid the monotonous soundtrack of daily life, I hear their cries. What I sometimes don't hear is my husband. Or the phone. Or an inner voice urging me to take a break. It's probably compassion fatigue. Initially, I discarded the term as trendy psychobabble. But compassion fatigue (CF)--the secondary post-traumatic stress experienced by emergency care and health professionals, law enforcers, animal shelter/rescue workers, political activists, and others in contact with trauma victims--includes symptoms that far exceed ordinary burnout. For animal advocates, CF traits may show up as: I cherish animals more than myself. I embrace a victim's pain as if it were my own. I feel isolated. No one can possibly understand what I have seen. My sleep and concentration are interrupted by flashbacks and intrusive thoughts about the animals I've tried to help. I am defensive and sometimes feel hostile or antsy around others. While viewing or working with tortured animals, I have wanted to lash out at the abusers. I am often distraught. I live with a sense of failure that I cannot rescue every one. If a preoccupation with aiding others disrupts relationships, you may be a CF junkie. Over time, confidence, personal life and health can deteriorate. According to author Theresa Wagner, who created the website www.animalsinourhearts.com as a forum for healing, the compassion-fatigued sometimes focus energy on external pain to circumvent their own psychic wounds. "Giving love and support to animals in need is a sacred thing that fulfills a healthy need to help and to love. Along with the rewards, there can be deep wrenching heartache," Wagner says. For Susan Wilson, executive director of the Humane Society of Southern Arizona, the stream of suffering, death, and human stupidity can take its toll. "Like the afternoon the 79th animal came through receiving with one of its ears completely removed to the base of its head with a knife or a razor blade, " Wilson recalls. "When we asked the owner why he hadn't sought veterinary help, he just shrugged. ŚMy kids didn't tell me... I can't afford it... It's just a dog.' But now the dog was flawed, and he didn't want it anymore." Wilson shares a common dream among animal welfarists--to never again euthanize any adoptable animals. But that vision relies upon responsible guardianship, adoptions instead of breeder or pet shop buys, comprehensive spay/neuter programs, and a basic paradigm shift that elevates animals from disposable things to unique individuals. "In such ideal circumstances, experiencing inner peace in the midst of animal welfare work would be easy!" Wagner says. In reality, animal advocates return from the endless front with post-traumatic scars. Many who labor at the political level to instigate reforms for animals in food, entertainment, research, fashion and other industries are perpetually angry or forlorn. CF recovery begins with recognition of its symptoms and the willingness to connect with others. An international network of CF self-help groups, based upon the Alcoholics Anonymous voluntary structure, would not only save the savers, but also strengthen the collective spirit of the animal protection movement. A support system that enables people to vent stored pain, share coping strategies, and occasionally laugh is vital. So are timeouts. In moments when stress overtakes me, I pause to see our backyard squirrels, crows and rabbits as my son sees them: little miracles. His wonder refuels me. I am reminded that the fight for animals is also a celebration of life. SIDEBAR Across The Pond: U.S. And U.K. Activists Share Stories Of Post-Traumatic HLS Shock Brenda Shoss, U.S. Certain images can send even the most seasoned activists over the edge. Nothing prepared me for the volcano that would erupt in my soul when I viewed undercover investigator Michele Rokke's video footage of life inside Huntingdon Life Sciences, one of the world's largest contract research laboratories with facilities in England and East Millstone, New Jersey. Michele, who worked at HLS for seven months, wore a facade of indifference to learn the sarcasm and sadism her fellow workers practiced with effortless brutality. At times, she slipped into rooms unobserved to kiss a doomed beagle goodbye or scratch the pink underside of a grateful pig. She gave each numbered specimen a name--Spud, Joey, Angel, James--and whenever she could, makeshift pieces of human kindness. Excerpts from her journal, "Diary of Despair, Inside Huntingdon Life Sciences" and her video footage left me speechless. I struggled to breathe as I watched HLS techs punch anuncooperative puppy, over and over again. During sleep they came to me, one by one. The beagle with a crude strand of ropey stitches carved into the center of his shaved head. Oozing, bloody, vomiting puppies, pigs, and monkeys asleep on cold, metallic floors. How would they face another day of poison poured down tubes lodged in their stomachs. How would they survive more smashed bones and severed limbs? Who would go to them when their bodies trembled in uncontrollable seizures? No one. I knew I could only pray for the lonely death that would finally release them. This knowledge left me with rage and inconsolable despair. I could not eat, sleep or focus on anything else. So, I wrote--endlessly. I compiled "Inside/Out: Diary of Madness" to chronicle their treacherous lives in pictures and words. I sent letters to every HLS investor, supplier and client. And I traveled to other cities to stand beside hundreds of fellow activists and demand justice. My glimpse inside Huntingdon Life Sciences reconfirmed my commitment to the animals. But, as with many activists who proceed beyond the gates of hell, I emerged with irreversible scars.