Until

I haven't written in a long time. Let me catch you up. I left off in September 2012. Believe it or not, I don't even remember what events caused me to write that September blog and declare that I was near the limit. Clearly I made it through.

In December 2012, our girl stole a laptop from her school. This was her umpteenth and final strike as far as the school administration was concerned. I remember their asking me if I thought she would do better for the rest of the year. I remember saying, "No, and in fact I can guarantee that if you let her stay, there will be more incidents. She is terrified to graduate. She will work hard against that success. If you let her stay it must be with that understanding." They were done. She was expelled. Kind of amazingly, after a brief mourning period, she picked herself up off the ground. By February 2013 she had passed the GED and gotten a job at a major retailer. Summer 2013 was up and down. She failed her summer class, the first attempt at college courses, but did well at work. At her other mom's house she stole and went through some very intimate items that made it evident that she could no longer go back and forth between our houses. So it was just the two of us until she got her own place, with a roommate, in November. Everything seemed to be going great, until...

Until.

The word "until" is very often followed by "December." Unlike Christmas, the self-sabotage season never really ends. But there does seem to be something special about December. It could be what they call an anniversary reaction. (Here is a great article on the science of anniversary reactions.) Of course we have no idea what the anniversary is.  Or it could be a self-sustaining cycle: disturbance in December, gets cleaned up by spring, good feelings kick in by May-June but cannot be sustained for more than 5-6 months. So again, disturbance in December. This cycle may be creating its own anniversary reaction.

Until what hardly matters. The few people I have told about this all said the same thing: "And you were just able to start relaxing." And I thought of what David Banner said in the Avengers movie, when asked the secret for keeping "the other guy" (the Hulk) under raps: he's always angry. And that is exactly how I keep plugging away at this RAD parenting thing. I never relax. I never believe my own lying eyes. I never allow myself to imagine the best without calling to mind the worst. But I've written about that before. Then I called it "the asterisk." Another word for it is "until."

So this time the "until" was until she got caught within 10 minutes of pointlessly pocketing a gift card, got fired, got her first official criminal charges. Until success caught up with her and feeling good just felt too awful, and she had to get back to her comfort zone. Success was a rare condition. Stealing was an old reliable. Like all humans, she gravitated toward the familiar.

Through it all, I believe in this person. Not just because it's my job, but because I see it. I see it in her ability to have relationships, which so far surpass the expectations for a person with her background that it boggles the mind. I see it in the spaces between the untils, which get a little longer and a little better each time. I see it in her ability to regulate after dissociation, to work in therapy, to work the rest of the time too. 

But that doesn't mean I don't get angry. At her but not just at her. At her mother. At the child welfare system. At myself. I get angry but I tend to short circuit when I stay angry. I struggle with anger as an emotion because it is very uncomfortable. It feels out of control to me.

So... maybe that's what I am supposed to learn. Maybe until I get comfortable with anger, she will work to make me angry because that was the cosmic deal we made for this lifetime. Maybe, now that the consequences are all on her, I need to focus on my own damn until. Maybe, at the very least, I can show her how to kick that desire to run into the comfort zone. Can't hurt to try. Challenge accepted.

Se acebo (It's over)

It has been three months since my last post. 

Most of this is because she left for the summer. She came back in mid-August. Things have been on a steady downhill slide.

I've been thinking about the "Cycle of Abuse." Usually it's characterized by four phases: an incident, followed by reconciliation, followed by calm, followed by a period of tension building. Repeat. You could call that the last 12 years of my life. So here's the hard question: am I just a victim of this child's abuse?

That's right, I said it.

We know these kids are victims. That doesn't mean they can't also be perpetrators. They call it secondary PTSD but it's worse than that. The infliction of pain is intentional. Yes, the kid is mentally ill, but aren't all abusers?

The worst part of it is the realization of what a textbook victim I have become. "Victim feels the need to concede to the abuser." "Abuser blames victim for provoking the abuse." "Victim believes the abuse is over or the abuser will change."

Even as I type this I feel guilty for thinking and expressing these thoughts. But I have these isolated moments of clarity. And I don't like what I see.

I was raised in an abusive home. I don't remember a lot of reconciliation and calm. Seemed like we were in a perpetual loop of tension building and incidents. I was numb to it. I didn't even hate the abuser, most of the time. I just wanted him gone, or dead. I didn't think he had primed me for a lifetime of abusive relationships. Most of my romantic relationships were abundantly loving. But here I am, nearing the end of a decade plus of abuse. So perhaps I did sub-consciously seek it out.

I am very tired. I feel helpless to stand up to my abuser. I feel so much guilt and sadness.  I don't know that anyone who has not raised a kid like this can understand what I mean, but I feel confident that most parents of RAD kids know exactly what I mean. So when is enough enough? When do we get a chance to be human again? When is it the right thing to do, not just for ourselves but for the kid, to say "I'm done"?

The Family Business

Battery. Robbery and conspiracy to commit robbery. False imprisonment and conspiracy for same. Arraignment. Notice of intent to claim alibi/entrapment.

So reads the kid's biological brother's online court records.

Armed robbery with a deadly weapon, 2+ offense. Possession of a firearm by a felon. Parole violations.

So reads the kid's mom's online court records.

I don't know what that is like for her. To know that your brother and your mother are in jail and prison. Do you wonder if crime is in your DNA? Or do you know they are different people with different stories, people who are ultimately more independent of you than the people who are actually in your life now? I do know what it is like to be the child of an addict, and to feel that coursing through my veins. On a bad day it feels... inevitable. On a good day it feels like a lot to have overcome.

For me, it's scary. I don't think she will end up on that road, but I don't know. No parent knows. I have met fabulous parents whose kids seemed to have been dealt a winning hand, and yet they still lost their babies to drugs, crime or abusive relationships. The US Department of Justice says children whose parents are incarcerated are six times more likely than their peers to be incarcerated as adults, and 1 in 10 will be confined while still a juvenile. More than half of the population of confined juveniles have a parent who is or was incarcerated. Now, many of those kids are in the home through which a parent is cycling in and out of prison. And many others of those kids are out of that home but are living with family members who also live a lifestyle that is close to the edge. They are not in prep school. They do not listen to Whitney Houston. Their parents are not us. They are not her.

I guess we chalk this up to just another question mark to live with, another difficulty to overcome.

Oh yeah, and it makes me f*ckin angry as hell.

Excuses, excuses

I try not to be a "do as I say, not as I do" parent. Now, "Do as I say, not as I did" is a whole different ball of wax - why shouldn't she get the benefit of experienced hindsight? It's present hypocrisy I'm trying to avoid.

So here's the dilemma for the day: How do I tell her that she needs to open up and be more honest and trusting when she has made me close up (more) and be (even) more reserved and less trusting? Strike that. No one makes me do anything. But I have chosen to react to our life together by shutting out the outside world.

Case in point - I have a very dear friend who lives a couple of time zones away. He knows smatterings about my life. That I am living separately from my wife. That the kiddo had a dramatic episode about two months ago and things have been hard since. The health problems. So he emails once in a while and he left me a voicemail last week. I didn't make time to return the call. He emailed and I wrote back with an excuse. He called. I texted. Finally I relented and called him back. I refused to talk about myself. I asked all about him. He was honest. He tried to turn the call back to me and I bobbed and weaved.

We've known each other for over 20 years. He clearly cares. And he only knows me. No divided allegiances. No other relationships to protect. And it's not just him. It's my mother, my sister, my friends, my coworkers. Why is this so hard for me?

Here are some excuses I have used:
- No one can understand RAD parenting unless they've been through it.
- People are hurtful even when they're trying to be helpful and I don't need more hurt.
- I don't have time.
- People don't really want to hear it.
- People will judge me.
- I want to protect her relationships with people.
- There's so much to explain, it's impossible.
- It will make things awkward in our relationship.
- They will keep asking me about my issues and I don't want another person to answer to.
- These folks are my escape - I don't want to have to talk about my crap with them.
- This is what I pay a therapist for.

Here's probably the truth: it's hard. It's so hard. It makes me proud of her. And it reminds me I've got work to do.

Faith

"Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother."

- Kahlil Gibran

I was walking down some steps. Not even full steps, but those little steps outside of a building heading to the curb. I took a hard fall and sprained my ankle and foot pretty severely. Crutches, immobility. Then two trips in a row that I could not reschedule, both of which involved large amounts of walking. The ankle and foot took twice as long to heal. Then a full-blown migraine. Took me out of work for a day. Then bronchitis/ pneumonia. Took me out of work for four days. Fever. A lot of sleeping. A lot of crying. A lot of frustration.

Although I had tremendous help from family and friends during this time, I have rarely felt so alone. Some loneliness is from the outside in - you see something or hear something and it reminds you of someone who is far away, and you cannot reach them, and you feel lonely. But this was loneliness from the inside out. The loneliness has been monumental, striking, and frightening.

In some ways it is progress. I rarely allow myself to feel the depth of my loneliness. If what I'm telling the kid is true for me too, then it's better to feel it than not to feel it, whatever "it" is.

Staring at this loneliness feels a bit like staring at the sun. But at least a part of it - like those spots of light and and darkness that are still there when you close your eyes - comes from this ludicrous adventure called being a mom. And it's more than having a life too crazy to tell anyone about. It's more than being too exhausted to hear the "helpful" reactions of well-meaning friends and family. It's more than cancelled plans and trips.

Parenting my RAD child has been an exercise in holding two contradictory secrets deep within my soul. The first secret is that she is a damaged, difficult, often cruel, often out-of-control person who can't be trusted. When we are connected and enjoying our time together I hold this secret tight because if I let it out, the moment will be lost, and these moments are ultimately all we have. The second secret is that she is beautiful, funny, brilliant, compassionate, and capable of achieving anything she sets her mind to. When we are in the thick of things, I hold this secret tight because if I let it out, I'll be disappointed and depressed and I'll let my dreams and expectations destroy the compassion that can only come from acknowledging her reality and her limitations.

Secrets are isolating. And having a secret from oneself... well, it's lonely. From the inside out. Two weeks with no one but my own sweat and phlegm as company has given me ample time to contemplate the reality of holding two such contradictory concepts at once without letting one eclipse the other. Bottom line: it hurts.

Then in searching the internet I came across the opening quote from the poet Gibran. And it reminded me of my two secrets, the twins that inhabit my Gemini brain. Truth is I've been thinking a lot about faith recently. I was burned by faith. I was blinded by faith. At least that's what I told myself. It may still be true. But holding a grudge against faith has not been very productive for me.

So maybe it's time to revisit faith, in her role as the constant companion of my close friend doubt. Maybe if I can encourage them to play well together, life will stop knocking me on my ass. There's only one way to find out.

* (The Asterisk)

Slowly but surely, she has been working on stuff.*

Tuesday she asked me to block her biological siblings' numbers from her cell phone. This is a huge step. They are a mess and they distract her with their drama and poor choices. I am proud that she is making this decision for herself.

We've been talking in therapy about how she just wants to be normal. I believe her* when she says this was the motivation for stealing the computer - she goes to a private school where every kid has at least a laptop, and usually an iPad and iPhone too. She said that for the month she had that laptop she felt like everyone else, just in that one little slice of her life. No made up reasons why she didn't have one. No asking to borrow. No sitting in the computer lab when everyone else was outside. And I get that. It's hard being so incredibly different all the time. It was hard for me and I was only half as different as she is.

As a nod to this concept I approve a trip to the midnight show of Hunger Games on Thursday, opening night. Because I can't get her a computer, or trust her to drive, or give her all the freedoms that kids her age have and that would actually make her feel normal all the time. Normal for a few days seems like an appropriate compromise.

On cue, I get the email from the Spanish teacher on Thursday that she is failing. Failing Spanish! Even though she loves the class and is constantly talking to her grandmother about Spanish. This is not about the coursework. This is about her "stuff." So I make certain conditions, and she meets them (demonstrated by external evidence), and she goes to the movie.

Saturday, she has a complete meltdown. She has lost a computer file (demonstrated by external evidence) related to her major writing project, due in 10 days. She thinks she can find the strength to finish this year, but she is terrified of her next and senior year of high school. Let alone graduation. Let alone independent living. Let alone college. She wants to give up. I believe her,* and it's scary to see her at such depths of sorrow. Yet, I am encouraged.* She is talking about some serious, real feelings* and in close to real time.* And when I talk to her about what I think is happening with her brain chemistry and what she can do about it, and what is happening emotionally and what she can do about that, she does both.

In short, we seem to be in a very real place* without those scary highs, and with some real* lows. I am growing in my ability to understand her, and she is learning to trust that acceptance and becoming more honest and open.* This has been the goal in therapy. This is what was supposed to happen.

So why was I crying on the way to work today?

I think it must be the crushing weight of the Asterisk.

The Asterisk is that little disclaimer. That part of my brain that is completely aware that I could be getting played. And it is so, so, so, so hard. Because you want the best for them. You want these certain responses and outcomes. Then when you get those same responses and outcomes, you have to figure out whether they are real or part of some conscious or unconscious manipulation. Whether your heart will get broken again. Whether you are letting down your defenses just enough for the sword to get through. Is she just saying what she knows I want to hear so I am less vigilant? So she can achieve small victories like the movie? So she can keep doing some crazy crap that I won't even know about for another week or two?

I read that worrying is like praying for something you don't want to happen. And I agree. I try not to worry. But the Asterisk is not really worrying. It is realism. It's a reminder. It's like carrying around a parachute because you know that at any minute you could realize that you walked off a cliff. The parachute won't stop the fall. Depending on the timing, it may not even cushion the landing. But it's the least you can do, since you've decided to keep walking.

I know the Asterisk has saved my life. I just hope it isn't killing me too.

On Acceptance and Change (and Optimism)

One of the gifted therapists in my life reminded me last week that the central question is, "Acceptance or change?" This doesn't mean we only do one - often acceptance of reality must precede the ability to change. But we were talking about a different situation (my job) and the point was I'm not a hand wringer. In that situation, I need either to accept the bad with the good or give up the good to get away from the bad.

This past week has been a challenge to my general optimism. And I've been thinking: is optimism based on the concept of change or acceptance? My brand of optimism consists of thinking through the alternatives, focusing on and directing energy toward the best, and acknowledging and being prepared for the worst. Golly that sounds exhausting when I say it aloud. No wonder I'm so tired.