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  • I stare through the glass, as the rain sluices down the pane, my faux costume of a normal life painted carefully on for the world to see.
    Yet my feet are stuck like glue, immobilized by my own invisible webs of pain.

    Forty years I fought, like a tenacious lion, or a raging fire. I fought for equality, justice, morality; respect in my life, my families, my friends, the world.
    I daily demanded and rallied for my mentally ill son be given every accommodation and every possibility this world affords him.
    Yet I was met with judgment, disdain, ostracization, and expulsion from our community.

    I diligently tried to screw back in the missing bolts from my 2 marriages, yet it was useless.
    They had each unraveled all over my world, leaving me tangled in their refuse.
    I screamed when my cat was killed; begging him to come to life.
    I dreamed my grandmothers death; telling my Mom the next day Grammy was gone.

    I was eviscerated by my only sister's sudden death, torn to the core and then out the other side.
    I placated the Gods, the police, witnesses to tell me who murdered her - no one could.
    They patronized me with lies, placated me with stories that I knew were not true.

    I continued on my self fueled path of being a vigilante, when my son tried to commit suicide six months after my sister's death.
    I fought tooth and nail, enduring long nights and haggard days, to get him help in residential treatment centers.
    I spoke at naseum with Doctors, directors, therapists - asking them to rescue him from his depression.
    I said goodbye to him at 17, as he was swept up in the mass hysteria of treatment 2000 miles away.

    I moved to Arizona where I thought surely long awaited dreams would come to fruition; an amazing environment, an unprecedented career.
    I was fired for being the fighter I always have been.
    I was terminated for demanding a fair and unprejudiced work place, one where we wouldn't have to lie, steal, or stab each other in the back to stay employed.

    My Dad's brain cancer came back, and I stopped fighting. I could only hold his hand.
    I stayed until the end, being the daughter I wanted to be to him, because I couldn't be that person to my sister.

    I held my dog's paw as he died. I no longer screamed, just uncontrollably sobbed between my four dark walls.
    My son now has severe anorexia, another form of his seemingly pre-destined trip to death. I am numb.

    You could pull the skin off my body, you could walk on me with burning embers, and I would simply mutter, or sigh; but not fight.
    What once defined me as an entity has been purged and eliminated.
    I wait for it to resoundingly land back on my shoulder; I solicit it, I beg for it, but it is gone.

    This one loss, more than all the others, has me trembling with angst.
    The loss of myself, the person I valued, the one I knew, is gone - and I have no idea if it will ever find me again.
    I am at the mercy of my once indomitable spirit.
    A crushing blow to one who used to know how to work life.
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