I'm sorry it's been awhile since I posted anything.  I have no excuse.  I can't say I got busy.  I can say I forgot.  The days blend together in a miasma of all the same until I can't tell if it's a week day or the weekend, but that still isn't an excuse.  Since his birthday A has been having trouble coming to grips with what is expected of him. His showers are now lasting longer than a full day's work.  He washes his hands every few minutes and if he isn't watching something he's up pacing the floor constantly.  I keep getting questions like 'How is he?'  What are you doing to see that he gets his GED?'  What is he going to do with the rest of his life?'  I can seem to make it clear to everyone that I am not in charge of this rodeo.  It's not like he's five years old and I can make him do anything.  He's 18 and the only one who can deal with A's feelings is A.  He has to operate within his comfort zone, not mine, and nothing I say or do will help him expand said comfort zone.  I guess I'm supposed to drag him kicking and screaming to a doctor who will give him the medicine he heeds to cope with life and then force it down his throat so he feels better.  That doesn't sound like it will help to me.  He will get to where he needs to be on his own time.  I'm having enough trouble getting me to where I'm supposed to be.  If I could get myself on track maybe it will show him the way, but until then I can only help me.  He has to be the one to stretch his horizons.  I got him started and I will be there for him if he asks for my help.

    The rages are the hardest to deal with.  It’s like living with the Incredible Hulk.  It happens so fast and usually for the stupidest reasons, like he missed a move in a game, or there isn’t anything to drink except water or milk and he’d rather die of thirst than drink either of those.  When it happens he loses his mind and any semblance of control.  He grabs the closest thing that will do damage and starts hitting.  He has broken so many storage tubs I could support Sterlite or Rubbermaid single handedly.  It doesn’t matter the cost.  I have to admit he has improved and it doesn’t happen as often as it used to.  The first week we lived in our apartment he put his fist through my bedroom door.  Why he picked my bedroom instead of his I don’t know.  If he’s smashed anything handy and hasn’t worked out the anger he turns on himself, hitting his arms and legs and torso as hard as he can.  If that still doesn’t do it he cuts his arms or scratches deep scratches into his face, arms, and chest.  He says only the pain outside can make the inside pain stop.  And he screams at me.  It’s horrible.  I feel like I’m being beaten myself though he never touches me.  There’s no where I can go to escape.  I have to watch it, then clean up the broken mess when he is finished.  I’ve had his clothes scattered and piled all over the floor because he has pounded his storage to sharp bits.  The pressure I feel causes horrific headaches.  His dad keeps telling me he would love to have him come live with him, but I know he couldn’t live with this.  I’d give it a month before there’s a murder/suicide.

As of today I am “elderly,” a “senior citizen.”  I get to order from the senior menu at the IHOP, and qualify for discounts every where.  I’m wondering how this happened.  Did I pass through an invisible gate or doorway into this magical land of being an old person?  I don’t look different.  I don’t feel different.  I don’t feel young anymore, but I’m not ready to be considered “old” either.  What determines old?  A date on a calendar?  Which one?  There have been so many over the centuries.  In 1957, the year I was born, the average life expectancy for a woman was 72.7 years, nearly twenty years older than I am now.  In 2012 that number is 81.73, if you’re healthy nearly ten years longer.  I’m anything but and I’ve already lived longer than many diabetic women.  My heart is clean and healthy despite a cholesterol rate that would kill a lion.  If it weren’t for my flaky joints and regular bouts of heartburn I would say “I’m not old!”  I come from a long lived family.  Illnesses took my grandmothers in their mid eighties, but my great-aunt was 96 and her brother was 93.  My mother was 90 when she passed, my father was 82.  I’ve lived a lot in my 55 years.  I’ve lived in over 30 different places in five different states.  I’ve made and lost track of a lot of friends.  Some of them I’ve considered family.  I guess I’ll spend however many years I have left trying to squeeze a little more life into them, no matter how hard it is.