* (The Asterisk)

Slowly but surely, she has been working on stuff.*

Tuesday she asked me to block her biological siblings' numbers from her cell phone. This is a huge step. They are a mess and they distract her with their drama and poor choices. I am proud that she is making this decision for herself.

We've been talking in therapy about how she just wants to be normal. I believe her* when she says this was the motivation for stealing the computer - she goes to a private school where every kid has at least a laptop, and usually an iPad and iPhone too. She said that for the month she had that laptop she felt like everyone else, just in that one little slice of her life. No made up reasons why she didn't have one. No asking to borrow. No sitting in the computer lab when everyone else was outside. And I get that. It's hard being so incredibly different all the time. It was hard for me and I was only half as different as she is.

As a nod to this concept I approve a trip to the midnight show of Hunger Games on Thursday, opening night. Because I can't get her a computer, or trust her to drive, or give her all the freedoms that kids her age have and that would actually make her feel normal all the time. Normal for a few days seems like an appropriate compromise.

On cue, I get the email from the Spanish teacher on Thursday that she is failing. Failing Spanish! Even though she loves the class and is constantly talking to her grandmother about Spanish. This is not about the coursework. This is about her "stuff." So I make certain conditions, and she meets them (demonstrated by external evidence), and she goes to the movie.

Saturday, she has a complete meltdown. She has lost a computer file (demonstrated by external evidence) related to her major writing project, due in 10 days. She thinks she can find the strength to finish this year, but she is terrified of her next and senior year of high school. Let alone graduation. Let alone independent living. Let alone college. She wants to give up. I believe her,* and it's scary to see her at such depths of sorrow. Yet, I am encouraged.* She is talking about some serious, real feelings* and in close to real time.* And when I talk to her about what I think is happening with her brain chemistry and what she can do about it, and what is happening emotionally and what she can do about that, she does both.

In short, we seem to be in a very real place* without those scary highs, and with some real* lows. I am growing in my ability to understand her, and she is learning to trust that acceptance and becoming more honest and open.* This has been the goal in therapy. This is what was supposed to happen.

So why was I crying on the way to work today?

I think it must be the crushing weight of the Asterisk.

The Asterisk is that little disclaimer. That part of my brain that is completely aware that I could be getting played. And it is so, so, so, so hard. Because you want the best for them. You want these certain responses and outcomes. Then when you get those same responses and outcomes, you have to figure out whether they are real or part of some conscious or unconscious manipulation. Whether your heart will get broken again. Whether you are letting down your defenses just enough for the sword to get through. Is she just saying what she knows I want to hear so I am less vigilant? So she can achieve small victories like the movie? So she can keep doing some crazy crap that I won't even know about for another week or two?

I read that worrying is like praying for something you don't want to happen. And I agree. I try not to worry. But the Asterisk is not really worrying. It is realism. It's a reminder. It's like carrying around a parachute because you know that at any minute you could realize that you walked off a cliff. The parachute won't stop the fall. Depending on the timing, it may not even cushion the landing. But it's the least you can do, since you've decided to keep walking.

I know the Asterisk has saved my life. I just hope it isn't killing me too.