Even a Klondike bar isn't going to cut it.

Write what you know.  Write what you know.  Write what I know?  What do I know?

I know that I am tired.  Today I am wearied by the Mom who has postpartum depression and a personality disorder.  I am wearied because she does not want help.  That is her right.  I am also wearied because she has three children and doesn't understand the gamble.  That is a gray area.  She doesn't understand what I understand.  She has had a very difficult and traumatic and unfair life.  I understand that the odds are stacked against her.  She is desperate to feel secure and loved but doesn't know how to make that happen for herself.  She is a walking hallowed shell.  Her emotions and attachments change like the wind.  I also understand that her six year old is mimicking her mood swings and that the odds are stacked against him unless something gives.  I understand how she feels disgusted by her infant because of her depression.  I also understand what's happening in that little brain that is being chronically denied what it needs.  I understand that I don't want anything to do with that mess, in my heart.  What if they walk away and I never know what happens?  What if she does something to those kids and I will have to blubber over multiple failed attempts to engage her in service?  What if I just tried harder?    I want to walk away.  And what kind of person does that make me?  Does that make me one of those haggled on TV anonymous yet clearly guilty of failing the person with mental illness that has caused so much hurt and trauma and policy changes in our country?  Is that me?  I want to walk away. There is nothing easy or pretty or simple about this case.  It will be irritating and frustrating and unfair to me and the children and the family the entire time.  It is a lose lose lose.  I know that I can't just walk away.  Beyond that, I don't know.