I am lying in bed right now sobbing, which I've been doing a lot lately, and writing to get these twisted feelings out of my head and onto paper. I'm graduating college on Saturday ... wow, great, such an accomplishment. Did you read that in a monotone voice twinged with sarcasm? Because that is how I feel about it. Literally, whatever. I had so many hopes for this semester and everything has fallen apart.

I spent six months in 2012 traveling in Central America. Some of it was for school, some of it was because I wanted to throw a middle finger to everyone who has ever told me I couldn't do something. I planned the whole trip on my own, decided my travel itinerary, applied for an internship, and designed my senior thesis so I could do field work abroad on poverty alleviation, (I've had grad students tell me my undergrad senior thesis sounds like a grad level thesis). It was a monumental test of my independence and a challenge to all the fear I feel in my life. I wanted this trip to not be a generic study abroad experience; I wanted to break away, completely on my own and not rely on anyone else.

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I have read your column religiously for the last two or three years and want to truly thank you for sharing  your insight. I'm not sure even where to start about my situation. In truth, I lied, and not a little white lie but a big compounding nine-year lie. I have never told anyone about this lie because it seems so psychotic.

For starters, I'm an orphan and grew up in the state foster-care system. I was adopted mid-childhood by a woman who adopts and fosters children as her only source of income. This being said she was never a parent but a paid caregiver to an ever-changing array of children. I lived in a town that was small enough that everyone I came into contact with knew my story. I was "The Orphan." This fact defined my life for 18 years.

I dreamed of moving away and going to college from an early age. In my mind college was the place where I could start over and no one would know that I was "The Orphan," no one would have their parents around, and I would just be a normal person. Turns out that was anything but the truth.

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Since the beginning of our relationship, of one year, my boyfriend always criticizes everything. He had a hard time when his father died because of alcohol, when he was about 12 or 13, and he considers himself to be very  mature because of that. I never had such a thing going on in my family. He is socially awkward, and just because the world isn't made for him, and how he wants the world to be, he just stays inside, since then, playing video games all day. He has a very sharp mind, he got into the university to study maths. But he left it. I'm always trying to remind him how smart he is and that he shouldn't leave it behind. He always says, "And what do you know?"

All I know is that I love him and I don't want him to be sad. And he calls me immature. When we are hanging with his friends I almost don't talk in order to avoid his criticism of me later when heading home. When we started dating he said that one of the reasons that he's dating me was that I was very mature. And now he takes it back.

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I've been reading your column for years and it's helped me a lot. Thank you for that.

A recent suggestion that a daughter-in-law who throws outrageous tantrums at the end of visits might have a borderline personality disorder really struck a chord with me. The videos you linked to were so similar to my mother. For example, at least twice a year she'll unleash a barrage of furious and hostile emails and phone calls to me and accuse me of gloating while she cries, being abusive, lambasting her and making her as miserable as I possibly can, never saying anything supportive, being secretive and a user (because I didn't tell her that my husband and I had separated until we knew for sure we were headed for divorce) ... I could go on and on. None of it matches my view of myself at all, though I do tend to close myself off and not react when she screams at me. I used to get really wrapped up in the hurtful things she says, but I'm used to it enough that it mostly gives me a week or two of feeling depressed and like I'm a horrible person, and then I just shrug and carry on.

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Believe it or not, I'm getting low on letters. So talk to me! What's going on in your life? What are you thinking about? Let's write to each other. You write to me, I write back here, for all the world to see. No problem too small! No problem too strange! No ideas too outlandish to contemplate here together! Write to me!

Good Morning Mr. Tennis,

My daughter-in-law is a wonderful mother -- smart, fun and loves my son and their two children -- a very competent person in almost all respects.

She and my son live about 1,100 miles away and we have family gatherings two or three times a year. She is prone to throw screaming, crying tantrums based on minor events and always blaming someone for her distress.

She is not alcoholic or addicted to any drugs but I've seen this type of behavior in alcoholics I've known. These tantrums occur at the very end of our family gatherings and occur with her family as well as with our family. She can't be talked down or reasoned with and if ignored will escalate, often physically leaving the group (walking away).

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I am a single parent looking to get back into dating, and perhaps even to meet someone that I fall madly in love with. As I have not had much luck out there in the real world I have decided to try out online dating websites.

I have an ethical dilemma. My child has a mild intellectual disability. Obviously there are men out there who would be willing to date a woman who already has a child, but when should I mention that my child is not what they may expect (in many wonderful ways, I think). If I mention this upfront, I doubt anyone will ever want to get to know me at all, but if I don't mention it up front I feel like I am being misleading.

Thank you for any insight you may offer,

Single For Nine Years and Counting

Dear Single,

I don't think you are being misleading if, in talking with someone you have just met, you don't immediately mention that your child has a mild intellectual disability.

When should you mention it? You should mention it when you know someone well enough that you feel comfortable mentioning it. As to how to present yourself in this online dating forum, I would avoid wherever possible the tendency to list your attributes and deficiencies, as though you could be reduced to  a checklist.

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Just yesterday, my cat died. I know that will probably not sound like a big deal to many of your readers, but it is monumental in my world. He was not just any cat. He was the kitten I was tasked with caring for when he was less than a week old. His eyes weren't even open yet, and he had been abandoned in the dog toy aisle of a PetSmart. I was working at the vet clinic next door, and was planning on adopting another dog. I was allergic to cats. I said I'd foster him for two weeks ... and up until yesterday, I would follow that sentence by saying, "and almost eight years later, I have a cat." Now there is nothing but hurt.

I bottle-fed him every two hours, and I made him pee and poo. He had no mother, and I have never been anyone's mother ... nor will I ever be. Except his. I taught him how to use a litter box, and I taught him and my dog to get along. On his own, he learned to sit in response to both voice and hand signals, just by watching the dog. He would come when called, and one day he decided to walk on a leash because he simply didn't want to be left behind when we took the dog out.

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My nephew just lost his job, the second time in two years. He held his first job for almost 20 years and then in 2011 his company cut back. He got a second job, but this has not worked out. I was also unemployed in 2011. My nephew offered me financial assistance and he was the only family member who did. Fortunately, I did not have to take anything from him. I would like to help him now by giving him a check for $5,000 to help him get through this -- but will I be hurting his pride? Should I just stay out of it?

Generous but Sensitive

Dear Generous but Sensitive,

Was your pride hurt when he offered to help you? It sounds like you felt grateful -- and surprised that he was the only one in the family who offered. Perhaps he will feel as you did.

Why didn't the rest of the family offer to help you? Were they thinking, "Oh, don't offer to help, it's a matter of pride"? A lot of good that did.

So offer to help. Offer to help and if you are refused then find little ways to help anyway. Find things you can do. It may be that a lump sum of $5,000 is not needed yet, but let him know the money is available if he needs it.

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As reported by USA Today, for almost half of the nearly 13,000 women researchers interviewed, their "first union" was living with an unmarried partner -- not marriage. The survey also found that marriage was the "first union" for less than 25 percent of women, down from 39 percent in 1995.

Other findings include:

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Exactly two years ago my mother died. I went to the hometown to take care of things and then my girlfriend joined me for the funeral. She acted her part great, but there was something in the air.

After the ceremony we went home, and as I got undressed and lay on the bed I was thinking, "Now I can fall apart, and cry and mourn." In that exact moment, my girlfriend approached me and said that when she was preparing for travel to the funeral, she found an opened box of condoms. She was on the pill; I used them for hygienic purposes in our lovemaking that she didn't know about, and she expects me to explain it.

The next three hours is a blur. I finally managed to ease her concerns, but the moment for mourning was lost. And I can't get over it.

My relationship with my mother was a difficult one. Lately I had thought of her as the always demanding monster who took away the best years of my life. And in the moment the monster died, when I was to be free at last, another one took its place and presented her demands.

I didn't cheat on my girlfriend, but it was this moment I felt that that sacrifice on my part was wasted.

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Two months ago my brothers and I reconnected with our 17-year-old half-brother via Facebook.  None of us have seen him since he was a little baby.

He's in high school in Idaho and he plans on going into the military and then to be a police officer after that. Recent FB posts of his scare THE CRAP OUT OF ME. He's started posting pictures of drawings he's done of people and animals with bloody eye sockets. Drawings of children with bloody stumps and eye sockets. Pictures of himself holding a shotgun and an assault rifle that apparently his mom or his stepdad bought for him. A picture of a police officer beating somebody with a caption saying, "I will protect and serve THE SHIT OUT OF YOU," and him saying that's the cop he wants to be.

At first I wanted to comment about how I'm a liberal activist and police brutality and blah-blah-blah. Then I just felt fear, and I stopped and didn't write anything. I haven't blocked him yet because I want to talk it over with my full brothers, and I don't want to call attention to myself just yet. UGH. SO SCARY. What if he's one of those kids who's going to shoot up his school? What if he's going to be a creepy cop who abuses his power? What do I do? Take screen caps and send them to his school? So scary.  So, so scary.

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Over the past few months, I have written this letter a dozen times. At moments, I would give anything for someone to wave a wand and let me know what I should do, but at the same time, I cannot bring myself to believe there is an easy solution to my issue.

Apparently, I am unlovable on certain levels. When I write this, I do not just mean as a person, but also the efforts of my hands.

My parents were both pedophiles, and I grew up feeling less real than that life-sized doll my mother bought me at age seven so I could have a "friend." When puberty finally rendered me into a monster to them, I was relieved -- but the abuse never stopped. It just changed character. Suddenly I became irredeemable and disgusting. My older brother spent most of my childhood tormenting me, which typically made my parents laugh or chastise me for not fighting back. Even though it pained me beyond words, his uncontrolled anger made me cut off contact with him when I did the same with my parents. My ex-husband spent 12 years of our 14-year marriage encouraging me to be on fertility meds while he knew he had taken measures to never have children (measures about which I knew nothing) because "God told him that He wanted me to be alone." I only found out what he had done when I hit menopause early. God's hatred was how he rationalized his actions when asking me for the divorce. For six months between that request and the marriage ending, he told me nearly every day that he had never loved me or wanted me or even liked me. He had married me out of pity. Given my family, no one else would ever be able to want me. It has been four years since then, and I have only now begun to date again. Finally, I thought I had found someone with whom I could at the very least enjoy physical contact and to whom I could give some delight, and yet he broke up with me so he could go back to the woman who had pureed his heart.

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President Obama loves “Where Is the Love?" by the Black Eyed Peas:

"The photographer has her iPod playing the Black Eyed Peas song 'Where Is the Love?' It is a mid-tempo hip-hop lament about the problematic state of the world. As the First Lady and an aide laugh together over some inside joke, the president starts nodding his head to the beat: 'Who picked the music? I love this song.' "

As a freshman state senator, the president lived in such a dump that he had to get a hotel room when the first lady would visit him:

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I've followed your advice columns for quite some time now and have been compelled to write for quite some time.

I am a woman in my early 20s, just getting my start in the creative field of my dreams in a large city 800 miles away from home. I've fought my way to the top of my class in every instance, and the past year has been filled with amazing opportunities and work that I never imagined would come my way. I have a long-distance boyfriend and several wonderful friends in this city. The eight months or so that I've been working have been some of the greatest, and worst, months of my life.

The transition from school to work was very rough, and I spent much of my summer holed up in my bedroom and attempting to shut out the world. Not being around other people daily as in college was, and is, quite hard and my relationship with my boyfriend suffered as I spiraled emotionally. Shortly after, I began seeing a therapist and for the first time in my life brought up the sexual abuse that I suffered at the hands of my older brother when I was around 6 years old. The abuse continued for many years, even after my parents walked into a compromising situation in the first few months of the abuse. They have never spoken about it since.

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Thanks for your thoughtful column. I'm not sure what advice you can offer me, but I feel compelled to write.

I'm a happily married woman in my mid-40s, with three children ranging in age from 8 to 15. I am well-educated and work full-time in a rewarding job, and I feel very fortunate.

Twelve years ago our baby daughter passed away at 11 months, as her brain never developed properly, but she was never diagnosed. Long ago I made peace with her death and only raise it now because it taught me to appreciate the present.

I love my family dearly, and my children bring me great joy.  So what's the problem then? I worry that I've brought them into a world whose future holds overpopulation (for which I myself feel a bit responsible) and global warming. My children have such bright futures ahead, which may be completely devastated by these global crises.

I feel guilt at having brought them into the world, and yet I can't imagine not having them in my world. I feel so hopeless that I am unable to make the world a better place for them. My happiness in the present is marred by my heartache thinking of their future.

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About 10 years ago, not too long after 9/11, and suffering a serious health problem, I decided to move my family from the West Coast where I had lived for 25 years, to the East Coast where I was born. My wealthy, older sister had just purchased a "fixer" home along with a two-bedroom cottage in a toney town. The idea was that we would rent out the cottage while I recovered, our children would attend wonderful local schools, and the cousins could get to know each other a little better.

At first, the situation was ideal. My sister and I would often cook together and share meals, while her workaholic husband worked his typical 18-hour days. Because my husband and I were paying a below-market rental rate for the cottage, we agreed to fix it up, to make up the difference. After work, my husband and I put in a new kitchen, a new bathroom, and flooring in the cottage, and I landscaped the property. After two years, however, and just shortly after all the renovations had been completed, my brother-in-law announced that he was putting the property up for sale. Unknown to us at the time, he had shrewdly predicted the housing bubble crash, and so it had been his intention all along to sell. Needless to say we were shocked. When the property sold one month later, we scrambled to find another place to live, but all the rents in the toney town proved to be too expensive. We tried to find something cheaper farther out, but the places that we could afford turned out to be little more than slums, with schools that were truly awful. Eventually, we decided to settle in the South, close to a well-known IT corridor, where we reasoned my husband would be able to find work in his field, and the homes were affordable. What a mistake! After living here for seven years, we have absolutely no social life. Our neighbors, after discovering that we were from California and don't go to church, totally ignore us. I have had some of the worst experiences I have ever had here, so much so, that I no longer work, and rarely leave home. In the meantime, my formerly uptight, and patrician New England, sister has moved to the West Coast, has had several cosmetic surgeries, has dyed her hair blond, has gotten green contact lenses, and calls herself an "artist." I might add that although I have never had a face-lift, I do have blond hair and green eyes, and used to (before I moved to the South) enjoy creating artwork. On a weekly basis, my sister tells me about all her new friends, how much fun she is having, and how "Southern" I have become, which is so not true. She also tells me all about California, and tells me I don't understand West Coast culture, even though I lived there for 25 years and am still married to a laid-back California guy!

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This letter is super-long even by my standards. In comparison, the reply is not actually so very long but it is all sort of one long uninterrupted piece, which I hope you will examine structurally and see how I am connecting clauses with semicolons and looping recursions and looping recursions and looping recursions, trying to create an unbroken thread even as it meanders and loops and recurs and recurs and loops and recurs.

Hi Cary.

I'm a big fan of your work. I read all your new advice pieces because, regardless of how I relate to the letter-writer, I always find a ubiquitous nugget of beauty and hope in your responses. When I saw your call for more creativity-related letters, I felt like this was my moment to try and write to you myself.

I'm 28 years old. I've been reading since age 2 and began writing not long after that. I love it with all my heart; it is the craft that defines me. I was determined to be the youngest novelist and be published at age 13, and while I did indeed finish a murder mystery novel (I use the term loosely) by then, of course it was not in any condition to be published. But ambitions for my writing have been high since I can remember. And more than that, no matter what trouble I've faced in my life — and I've faced quite a bit — writing has always been there for me, to save me. But suddenly it's becoming difficult in a new and frankly traumatic way.

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This is about my birth father, whom I found when I was 34, and how to have a relationship with him, if at all. He split the scene in 1971 when I was a baby.  

First some history: Things were not good between him and my mother (teen parents). When he got a low draft number, he quickly entered the Navy, and I never saw him again. My mom, newly divorced and with a small infant, remarried a man who turned abusive. By the time I was six, he had adopted me and I had a half-sister two years younger than I was. Unfortunately, my mom was getting beaten up regularly.

She courageously left him (when I was six), and he started molesting me during each visit we had with him. My mom remarried again, and then that stepfather started molesting me. The police found out, and by the time I was 12 no one was abusing me anymore. The second stepfather did come home after about a year (county jail-work furlough program). We did some family counseling, which was over by 13. As I became an adult, I started to go back to therapy. I got my B.A. (in child development), married my best friend, did some more therapy. My mom left that guy and found the man she should have spent her life with, a sweet man who treats her very well. And I found a way to deal with toxic people -- I cut them out entirely from my life.

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