I’m trying to keep my life in perspective as I wade through defiant, mean children while juggling an admittance to a psychiatric hospital, not for me but for a son, realizing another son got locked up last night for not having car insurance, and learning that a friend of mine has an inoperable mass on her liver.

That absolutely stops me in my tracks. My problems here will someday cease, and will certainly ease up at some point, but my friend is battling for her life. I need to get a grip.

My kids will hopefully overcome most of their issues before the next century and make something of their lives. It’s just a long, hard road to get there.

This time last year I too was facing surgery. I spent a week in the hospital and had a large tumor removed. I’d been losing a lot of weight, had been under severe stress with some very violent sons, and I ended up losing a foot of my intestines. It was almost worth it for the amount of sleep I caught up on, but still the police were involved with my raging 18 year old bipolar son.

I’m absolutely fine now, super healthy; I might get knocked down, but not out.

My very violent sons are not here now, one is in an outdoor wilderness camp, one is in jail and the other is in a crisis center until he goes to a psychiatric placement tomorrow. Thankfully I’ve been able to find a great deal of help.

I just received a request from someone wondering if I can financially support another grown kid who will be entering their program. Hmmm, let’s see, extra money? Are they kidding me? Do they know how hard I work to make this work? I don’t see how we could live any more sacrificially than we already do. Why can’t that grown kid work? Minimum wage jobs, such as McDonalds, are begging for employees.

It seems as if each phone call I receive appears more stupendously outrageous and I politely blow them off when I really want to holler. I’d gotten a call this morning from the mental health facility that I really like, asking me if Jose could join their after-school program.

This is the same place that claimed they were trying to help me find a place for him to stay so that he wouldn’t murder either me or five of my daughters that were on his hit list. And they want him to come out and play? Get with the program, folks.

JEEPERS. I’ve spent two solid months on the phone, emailing, faxing, making requests, calling resources, begging, filling out reams of paperwork, getting constantly turned down, and finally finding help at the state level. Earth to mental health…get real, y’all.