Being a mother will do many things to one's heart. Among the most memorable and wrenching are making it leap from one's chest and causing it to break in the turn of a moment.
My daughter's problems have escalated since she was 11 years of age.
Yesterday afternoon she ran off away from us without telling us where she was going. At 17, she has a maturity barely passable for 12, yet, she is the most dangerous sort. Nothing is more wise than knowing one knows nothing. Likewise, nothing is more deadly than one who knows nothing but feels they know it all. At 17, this is whom she is, the state of being in which she stagnates.
She told us she had been abducted and raped. In the wrenching of my heart and gladness to see that my daughter was alive, for a brief moment, I believed her. Yet as her story unfolded, it made less and less sense. As its absurdity grew, I realized with a heavy and sorrowed heart that she had chosen the rape story because of the past, -- my past. She chose it knowing that this scenario would cut me to the bone. A vicious and perverse lie told to enlist my empathy, it was told with complete apathy.
I do not know her anymore. I do not know her.
Sorrow.
-Gypsy
