Girl Storm. 23 Feb 2015.

None of this is easy.

All of it is necessary.

Most of it is done against a constant barrage of conflict and confusion and hurt.

Such a hurt.  

Don’t tell me this too shall pass.

Don’t tell me someone else is at fault.

Do not tell me how good a mother I am as I stand watching my child wrestle against her emotions and lash out spitting venom and hatred at the usual lifeboat that is me.

She would rather turn blue and sink then grab the familiar, predictable hand of comfort and safety.  In this storm, she is a ship asea with no sails, crashing wildly into everything in her path. I am trying to steer clear of the rocks and not invite further damage or misinterpretation of the sky.

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