11/27/2012 My formerly troubled daughter is moving out again. This time, she’s not in trouble, she’s not moving in with a boyfriend, and she’s not angry. She’s simply ready to move out and be out from under my iron fist.

Ha. Iron fist. Since she moved home in the summer, I’ve barely seen her and she chooses not to make time for me. Sure, we’ve had a lunch or two, but she seldom comes home before four in the morning. She’s living a pretty secret life. I truly don’t know what she does with her time and space and I’ve given up trying to figure it out or be part of her world. She is pleasant and we don’t fight ever. I give myself credit for that. I’ve learned to simply reduce the number of questions I ask: #1 because I don’t want to hear the true answers, #2 because I don’t want to fight, and #3 because she’ll just lie anyway.

Here’s what I know—she lost weight, she may or may not be going to school, she pierced her nipples (and showed me), she sleeps all day (if she’s home), and she’s spent a boatload of money on new clothes, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and lingerie. She’s paying for her car, she’s taken some road trips, she broke up with the deadbeat boyfriend, and has rekindled friendships with old coworkers and high school classmates.

She rekindles in an interesting way. One morning I came home from an overnight, and she was in bed sleeping with a guy friend from work, whom she said she didn’t like anymore. He’s too needy and has a strange temper she once told me. Apparently, she couldn’t sleep and he was happy to come over in the middle of the night and talk to her (while spooning) until they fell asleep. How sweet. Plausible? Ridiculous? This was two days after she brought the boy she knew in high school to Thanksgiving dinner—a boy who clearly lusts after her. She went camping with this boy (while still dating the loser boyfriend) and has slept over his house on many occasions. She became reacquainted with this boy, by the way, by frequenting a strip mall liquor store. Nice, huh? It’s not like we live in a hick town and that’s the only place for young people to hang out. This is a big city with fascinating cultural events and activities of all kinds to pique one’s interest. My daughter, since about 16 it turns out, thinks the lowlife liquor store is the place she belongs (when she’s not at her piercing/tattooing “salon”).

So, her lifestyle once again disgusts me, embarrasses me, and makes me sad. I still don’t believe that she’s working at the great job she had for two  years. I’ve offered to bring lunch to her and she talks her way out of it. Sometimes I’ve caught her home at times that she’d normally be at work, and she has an excuse for that too (like, “It was slow and I didn’t want to mess up my great stats, so they let me leave early”). She’s been spending money, paying bills, and fixing her credit problems, so I know she’s making a living somehow, I just don’t think I’m sure how. Lingerie, odd hours, down about 10 pounds, pampering…what’s going on?

If we have to talk bottom line(s), I’m glad she’s moving out. I’m a nervous wreck with her lifestyle and since she’s almost 19, there’s little that I can do about anything. I only have a say in what I’ll tolerate in my home, so it’s appropriate for her not to live under my roof—with my stodgy rules. She can go be on her own, be gross, pierce and tattoo whatever she wants, and leave me out of it. She can smoke and be a slob, clog up her toilet, and fill her fridge with Red Bulls and it won’t affect me. She says she’s got everything under control, doesn’t need any help with decisions, counseling, medical needs, money, school, moving . . . nothing. So good for her.

Here’s what’s going to come of it . . . we’ll have no relationship. Picture an old car being towed, fastened to the truck by a frayed rope. The rope snaps and the disabled vehicle is left behind on the freeway, in the way, more useless than before. That’s where our connection will stand within a few months.

I truly believe that she won’t go to school, she’ll hook up with one useless boyfriend after another—maybe some useless girlfriends—and the distance will grow until I hear that she’s moved to Milwaukee or Long Beach some other strange place and wanted to say hi and send me a picture of her newest tattoo or cat.

I’m sad and I miss the little girl that could’ve been an outstanding young woman. She won’t let me in, won’t let me help. So I’m out and I’m helpless.