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At my wits end.

December 4, 2009 - Michael Palmer
You get home and check your answering machine, sorting through the usual telemarketer messages and you hear an automated collect call from; then you panic. There is a trembling voice talking through tears, you immediately realize it is your daughter and the tone is familiar, she is hurt and in need of your help.

The problem: She has chosen to live in isolation from her family with no home phone, no cell phone and no internet. You have no idea where she lives and even if you had an exact address, it is four hours drive away.

That was my evening; I returned from taking photos at a basketball game and my wife was in a panic, distraught and crying. Her daughter was in trouble and she had now ay to find out what had happened. If you have been reading this blog, you know my son-in-law is a sociopath and this is not the first such phone call.

She called this summer crying and telling us that Mr. Wonderful had thrown her out of the house and she need us to come and pick her up. I was taking photos at the Soap Box Derby and was unable to abandon my post, so I arranged for my nephews to load up and go. Cancel that, the con man went from Mr. Hyde back to Dr. Jeckyl and begged her to stay.

Then they had to leave their love nest/hunting cabin, because it is hunting season so she was planning to come home, save some money and Mr. Wonderful would stay with a friend in Jackson so he could get to work. No, he couldn’t possibly be away from his “Squishy” and baby for a month. I will translate for you, “I don’t have any friends or family that will let me stay with them.”

So they moved to a trailer across from Pickle Town. That was all the information we had to go on when we called the Jackson Police Department dispatcher. What a nice guy, he stayed right with my wife as she rambled on and sent a patrol car to try and find the address we had for them. Surprise! No such address.

The dispatcher then went out of his way to call the Jackson County Sheriff and their dispatcher knew of an old red building along Route 93 called the Pickle Town auction and their were several trailers across the road from there.

The deputy went to that location and did indeed find my daughter, who was there with the baby and Mr. Wonderful. Again a HUGE surprise, she said everything was fine. So….. Why the weeping phone message? What had transpired and why was there no problem? Would she go to a pay phone and call?

Still no word. Hopefully there is actually no problem and all is well. Her mother spent a restless night imaging the worst. Me, I listen to a song that I hope is one of my daughter’s favorites in the NEAR future.

Jo Dee Messina’s My Give a Damn's Busted. The Lyrics state:

“you can say you got issues you can say you're a victim it's all your parents fault after all you didn't pick em well maybe oprah's got time to listen my give a damn's busted

lemme get this straight now your therapist said it was all just a phase a product of the Prozac and your co-dependant ways so, who's your enabler these days my give a damn's busted

I really wanna care l wanna feel somethin lemme dig a little deeper nope, sorry, nuthin”

Me. I am already there.

 
 

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