Starting Over... and over. and over.

I thank my lucky stars for my life today. And everything in it. I can't stop the friggin' train though. It's rolling up to the station and it's picking up passengers, the crazy train. If I miss my call, no worries, these fuckers come around again. If you've ever ridden the crazy train, you already know it. It comes back around again. So if you miss your train, no worries. Oh. Let me clarify. I no longer live at the train station, and I don't ride the train nearly as often as I have before. But if I need it, I know it will be there. 

My kid, the one who's starting over. Ironically enough, he's starting over for the second time in two years. Last time a romance dissolved. And he lost everything. We still collectively grieve some of this stuff. LPs I gave him, she kept. This time it was not a romance. It was the unholy hell of squatter's rights. My kid's name is on the lease, but he has no safe way, legally or otherwise, to get control back of his apartment or to even safely remove the items we have fought so hard to restock in the last years. 

This makes me sad. And mad. and then I hear that whistle blow. 

Sometimes I feel like a hostage. Bound and gagged and thrown headlong into crazy with no resolve. Life happens. blah blah blah.

My child has been couch surfing for no less than 3 weeks. I can feel it. The ride. the leveling out. the tiny glimmer of hope. the drop, the hopelessness. the helplessness. the feeling of utter aloneness. Plunging deeper into the depths. I have been relying heavily on rock-n-roll to get me through. 

Said kiddo called me the other night crying to tell me that they were getting ready to take him for a mental health evaluation. And that there would probably be a 72 hour hold in his near future. And my sadness was overwhelming.

I've never really wished for normal-ness. I haven't had the desire to do this parenting gig the way other people do it, or to grow my own self up the way that others say to in order to heal and grow that damaged little soul that lives inside of me. When my baby was a baby, he cried. a lot. Colicky. I cried too. We walked, and I rocked and I sang and we cried. And when I'd sifted through all the songs that my daddy sang to me ("You Are My Sunshine," "Heavenly Sunshine," "Behold," "Jesus Loves Me," and all those songs), I started singing..... "don't you know that you are a shooting star, don't you know...." And well, it's our song. I hope my shooting star NEVER burns out. But if it does, I will never move on to loving the next person or thing. I will always love my kid. Just sayin'.... But you know, the whole shooting star thing got me off onto another tangent about how the world needs that one bright star, we need my kiddo's talent and beauty on this earth. 

Did I mention Rock-n-Roll therapy. You know, in the car, turn it up, loud. And then louder. So I'm jammin out and enjoying my drive and BAM! Bad company. And before I know it, I'm bawling. Thinking about my Shooting Star and how much I love my kids. and all that good jazz. 

That was last week Wednesday. I have been regularly boarding the emotional roller coaster train to crazy town since then. Cry. Stablize. Laugh. Sky dive deep into feelings. All that stuff.

I'm a little surprised I can form the words and thoughts at all. Did you know that trauma releases nasty hormones in the brain. And messes with short term memory. And crazy things, like words. duh. I feel more stupider just after typing that. 

My poor kid still needs some stuff. I'm including an updated slide..... 

We've made some progress on some clothing. We found pants, a few dresses, a few shirts, some socks and some things that people wear (or should wear anyway) under their other clothes. Kiddo had nothing. Came out here the other night with a brown bag, her pets and self.