“Why can’t it be me? Why can’t it be me? Why can’t it be me?” she screams at the top of her lungs over the blaring music. I run into the bedroom to find her standing on the bed whipping her Johnson and Wales uniform around, kicking pillows and crying. I scream her name over and over, but it is as if she is possessed.

Tears obstruct my view as I make my way across the cluttered room. I hold her and try to calm the river of tears flowing from her eyes. She has no idea how much she has frightened me, how much she continues to frighten me.

Drugs, eating disorders, psychiatric problems, post-traumatic stress, flashbacks; it seems as if every time she overcomes one obstacle a new one appears. Both for her, and for me. They give her drugs and tell her she will be normal again, but nothing is ever normal. She lays her head on my lap as I put my arms around her and tell her everything will be fine. I listen to her story. I always listen. But when will I start taking action?