Closed doors, both physical and metaphorical, have often felt like the most sacred cornerstone in my criminally dysfunctional birthright. Criminal enough to be on the literal Homeland Security Watch List. My mother parented through her closed door and it has only gotten uglier from there. My father and his clients did their unspeakables behind their closed doors. In the blahs of my current yaddahs, I have 5 middle aged bachelors, 3 of them parents with children in protective custody, asking me to read their doors. My over developed flight instinct is nagging me to get in my car and take my closed doors to the open highway where the scenery changes throughout the day. I amnae too interested in reading yet another hallway of closed doors. Alas, those GK's in protective custody are a powerful fly in that ointment.

Sorting. . .

Am I making enough sense for anyone to offer support and/or experience?