When her biological father left

she dove head first

into depression.

The counselor provided by

my insurance said

"well, let's just handle

her problems as they come up"

not realizing there were

five screaming meltdowns

just on the car ride over.

(This therapist was in

over her head.)

Her next psychologist

affirmed that she had

depression and anxiety,

and she was referred to a

psychiatrist who

prescribed Prozac

which she took dutifully

for three years

along with cognitive therapy.

Her darkness grew

kudzu-like

into every part of her world.

Then came the snipe hunt

of diagnoses:

oppositional defiance disorder

attention deficit hyperactive disorder

obsessive compulsive disorder

borderline personality disorder…

they had the best of intentions

but they were throwing darts.

The sadness hovered unabated.

Her mood became darker,

more foul, violent

with flamethrower anger

and suicidal threats.

Her room became a cell

and she threw everything

she could

at the walls and doors

trying to escape.

Something hijacked her

and she cried long and hard

into the night, pleading

with me to make it all stop.

Her general practitioner

wanted to rule out

bipolar disorder

so she spent

the summer of 2008

enduring hours of

neuropsychological exams.

The verdict:

dyspraxia

and frontal lobe syndrome.

Yet, on she rages

with a new psychiatrist

who disagrees with 

neuropsych assessment

but still cannot offer

an alternate diagnosis.

The new doctor prescribes

new medicine

and tells her to try and

“get along with

the people you live with.”

I try to hide my disappointment

as I feel we’re all stuck in this:

me, her mother and

this sad, suffering Angry Dandelion.

Unexpectedly,

her mood brightens when she

asks about

her upcoming birthday party.

She’ll be 12

next Friday.