i don't have a clue what to call this post

Over the past couple of weeks lots of RL friends have started to read here. It's just easier than trying to update everyone individually. Please understand, I'm drained. It's hard to do it just once, here. I can't really do the 20 calls right now.

The weekend was ok. Eldest turned 16 on Saturday. Sweet eff'ing sixteen, right? She managed to get several gut punches from her real life. (For the record, I hate all teenagers. Officially.) So we just kind of laid low. No confrontation. No demands. We catered to what she likes...special trip to the bookstore, a few quiet hours with trusted friends, dinner out at one of her favorite places. It was a fine day, depressing, but fine.

Sunday was ok. It was Mother's Day; I wasn't in the mood for high drama and terror, so again, no confrontation, no demands. Don't want to go greet your grandmother and grandfather who have come to see you? Ok. Skip that step for six hours, they'll understand. Don't want to go to Mass? (Me neither, by the way, I'm a little pissed at the big Guy right now.) Ok. Just join us when we go out to eat? That worked.

Since then, it's been NOT ok. Monday I entered an alternate universe where I went to do in-take at County Mental Health. Why has it never crossed my mind that I would enter through those doors? With what may be the most bizarre sleep deprived, saddened, terrified thought to enter my brain in my life, I found myself thinking, "What does one wear when going to the County Mental Health office? Is that a jeans things or should I try to look nice...as in, NOT crazy?" Then I slapped myself upside the head and thought who gives a rat's ass what I wear?

Eldest melted down in the County in-take process. I don't want to describe it. It just sucks too much. I understand that she's scared. Me too, kiddo.

In the County meetings everything that could possibly be my fault, including the fall of democracy in Cuba and the fact that rain exists, was my fault. This is classic borderline;
borderline's split people. You are black or you are white; in other words, you are all bad or you are all good. Just call me the BLACK HOUSE. I'm as black as can possibly be. When I'm black there is nothing about me she can like or appreciate. I am Satan.

During my final wrap-up paper-work session of these eternal meetings, Eldest befriended some older couple in the lobby. When I came out she was happily, chirping away at them. All smiles and bubbles. The county-lady said, "Wow. Now she's partying it up." (It's not just me. Really. I feel the need to justify that.)
As we were driving home (oh, btw, just note that during this drive Eldest informed me that when she has kids, she's not going to let me see them...would you like to ride my roller coaster?), the hospital called my cell and suggested that they discharge Eldest. I swear to the big Guy that they are lucky I got us home in one piece. I quite nearly fell into a million pieces while driving. I ran up the stairs and called them back out of Eldest's hearing. I'm not sure exactly what I said but you could sum it up as "Fuck NO!" And then I felt like shit because who was I saying that for? Her? Or me? Guilt should go die.

I never got to speak to humans at the hospital but got a cheery message that said something like, "No worries! Maybe we should have a family meeting Tuesday or Wednesday?" Uh. Ya think? (In their defense, they had no idea what a disaster the county meeting was. My call was the first time they were aware of looming problems.)

Monday evening Younger was confirmed. It was a nice time, even if I was in the Big Guy's house again. He still hasn't answered that "why" question I've got going on. Instead of submitting to looming drama, Car-man and I avoided our eldest daughter in the crowd. I think only about 5 people heard when she loudly uttered, "I hate my family." This was because we asked her to take a picture of Younger with the Archbishop. (She brought her camera, we didn't have ours, thinking she would proudly want to play the photographer with her 16th birthday present but nope, she didn't want to take the picture...something to do with lemonade. And no, we can't use her camera. I think I got a sorta decent picture on my phone. Whatever. The day is a fog for me and Younger only got confirmed because that's what she's supposed to do. She thinks I don't know; but I see. I appreciate the effort and she made her Nana happy.)

Today Eldest decided she'd had enough of the hospital. She decided she wouldn't go.

Perfect.

Do me a favor? Just leave me in the middle of the street and let people repeatedly run over me. It would be less painful.

We eventually got her there. I didn't even have to call the police (which is the way it was headed, at the hospital's advice). Instead I got to talk to the hospital personnel from my kitchen, dripping wet and naked but for a stupid towel (why do you always have a SMALL one when you really need the big fluffy one?) A nurse eventually convinced Eldest to come in (small steps). The 20 minute car ride was a joy. If you would like to hear 20 minutes of the meanest things a child can ever say to their mother, let me know. I'll let you ride along next time. I am changing my name to Punching Bag. No. Wait. BLACK Punching Bag. Catchy, no?

It's easy to know it's the disease. It's not so easy not to let all the snippets of truth inside what she says tear out my soul.

I'm headed in for family counseling later this afternoon.

And, hey, if there is a spot to vote for the most depressing blog ever, feel free to go nominate me.