More bruising is making my shoulder purple. It's almost as if some of the markings held back, perhaps to ease the psychological trauma. I'm getting so much advice from well-meaning family members, friends and coworkers. Of course my kids have forbidden me to return to community mental health. Boy have the tables turned. Both these kids--one from my womb, the other from another--were teenage monsters. Now they're loving, concerned young adults who are taking my beating far worse than I am. Ben--he's a brand new daddy and should be rejoicing in the birth of his son. Instead, he's dwelling on what could have happened to me. Chelsea, on the other hand, is in the process of cleaning out their spare bedroom. Her husband agrees with her that I should live with them. I didn't anticipate doing that for at least another 10 years. Now I just don't know. I can't seem to find me underneath the lumps and bumps and bruises. I know I'm still in here. somewhere, but I feel . . . I don't know . . . disconnected?
I'm 62 and I look 62 and though it didn't please me when I was 52 and discovered I looked 52, over the last 10 years I've adjusted. I've even let my hair turn a natural gray, silver and hideous strawberry blond. Don't know where that comes from. Hell, I'd dye it all gray if they made gray hair dye. They don't. I'm off of some weird tangent--I'm fully aware of that. The point is, at 62 I work with some pretty scary people. And on Tuesday, for the very first time, I didn't what to do: what steps to take: what should come next. I felt old and impotent. Thank God I remembered the bionic knee. Titanium. I had a knee replacement 3 years ago and let me tell ya--they'll be able to dig me up 30 years after I'm laid to rest in the ground, remove my knee and use it on someone else. Perhaps a poor person.
The Bad Guy is still in jail but I have real concerns about how long they'll keep him. What he did to Roger, another one of our clients and myself had nothing to do with his mental illness. I don't think it had much to do with drug abuse, either. This guy is a sociopath and when they let him out he'll hurt and probably kill someone else. He liked hurting us. I saw his face when he was hitting Roger and he was smiling. The papers and the courts will blame mental illness--schizophrenia in particular. I've worked with schizophrenics my entire career and they are not the dagnerous time bombs people seem to think they are. I'm going to write about Maggie Anne tomorrow. Or maybe later on toniught if I can't sleep again. I want you to meet her. I don't even know who you are. Aren't words amazing? I've always beieved there's magic in the letters we use to describe who we are and what we're feeling. (Now that sounds like me. This is good.)
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