One of the biggest fears chewing away in my gut is getting that phone call.
Not the prank, abusive calls we've been getting from whoever it is my daughter has befriended in her vague, socially inept manner of not recognising predators vs real friends.
It's that phone call, the one all parents of a mentally unwell/unstable person have lodged in the back of their brain.
We don't discuss it as a rule, too stupidly fucking frightened that to give it voice will breathe life into it and make it fact.
But, after the initial abuse recently my husband aired what I'd been thinking and fearing for several years.
That phone call from police or hospital.
Or worse.
I'm almost glad to have an excuse to have the phone off the hook at the moment; she's very obviously unstable at the moment and has not-very-nice people as her friends who are only too happy to indulge in her childish, imagined vendetta against a loving family who have done nothing to hurt her.
I've mentioned it once, out loud, and now I'm spewing it out in all its acidic gut-gnawing glory to the net, to get some relief from this insidious screw of fear that's turning ever tighter in my brain.
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