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.

In Search of a Therapist: Part Two

The second part is always the darkest of the trilogy. The Empire Strikes Back. If you read ISO A Therapist Part One, you know that we've had our ups and downs with mental health professionals. I have struggled with whether to share this part because I have one inner voice telling me not to be too negative. But I have another, bossier inner voice telling me that people who have encountered other crazy therapists need to know that they are not alone. So here goes.

After B, we were thoroughly disillusioned with therapists. B was supposed to be a trauma specialist and was part of the top-referred trauma therapy program in the area - and she was a huge flop.  So we pulled out our Daniel Hughes books, and websites, and every other resource we had and said, we are going to make home the focus of therapy. And then something magic happened: she asked to see a therapist.

At first it seemed like a manipulation, or a ploy, or a set up. She very much wanted to see a woman of color therapist, and we knew we needed a therapist with a strong attachment and trauma background. Not a large population meets those criteria in New Mexico. But then the second magic thing happened: we found a woman of color who had just started a group practice focused on attachment work!

We will call her L. (It is occurring to me just now how good I am at forgetting names.) She did an initial intake at our home and said all the right things. All sessions would be at our home too, as that was her philosophy. We talked attachment theory. We talked pitfalls. We talked lessons learned. She seemed to hear us and have a wealth of experience. Just the interactions in the intake were more real and deep and genuine than any interaction I had seen between my daughter and a therapist... ever. Then at the end of the session, she informed us that she was finishing her dissertation and didn't have time to work with us. What now? Come again? But she had a colleague who was just as amazing who would work with us, and we would meet her at our next/first session.


Alarms should have gone off at that moment. Why would she come to our home and meet with our child if she planned to disappear so soon? Who were we getting passed off to? Why wasn't the new person at the intake meeting? What was their history together that she could so confidently palm us off on her, and her on us?


We should have run, but we didn't. We were optimistic. We wanted it to work so badly that we didn't believe our own lying eyes.

So the new therapist, S, shows up. S is not a woman of color, but she is a woman. And like I said, my daughter is at a moment when she is wanting to do the work. So we proceed. The format is family session, brief alone time, family session. Now I know that some attachment experts and parents say never to allow therapy sessions with the child alone. And I totally get that even though I don't agree - especially as the child reaches adulthood. But I digress.


Second session in, daughter makes a choice to begin talking about her (pre-us) history of sexual abuse. She uses her time with S to strategize about how they are going to open the conversation, and then we come back together and daughter tells us this is what she wants to tackle. We say WOW. This is big. This is hard. I'm not sure that I would have started there, but if that's the call you want to make, we can do it. S says, ooh, time is up. But since we have opened up such a big topic let's get another session on the calendar right away.


That third session comes and we wait. Five minutes pass, 10, 15. We get worried, we are calling, texting, emailing. We hear nothing. No session. No call the next day. The day after that we get a voicemail from S. Apparently the day of our scheduled session was S's birthday, and she hadn't realized that when she scheduled the session, and then the day came and she just didn't feel like working. So she didn't even bother to call? What now? Come again?


We thought to just call it quits right there. But S basically pleaded with us to at least give her a chance to apologize in person. We called L to ask what the hell kind of operation she was running - but no return call. S comes over to our house and apologizes profusely. She knows she damaged the relationship. She knows she made herself the focus of therapy instead of our family and that was a huge mistake. But all that said, they did have a connection and had embarked on some difficult stuff, and it felt worth salvaging. Oh, and could we start coming to her office space because we live so far away.


After much contemplation and another round of calling everyone we know (and a large number of people we don't know) trying to find someone else, we decide to continue with S. We have session #4 at her office, and it goes ok. The next week we go to appointment #5. More progress. We may even be hitting our stride. At the end of the session, she walks us out of the office as usual. When we get out into the street she says, "Listen, our office is closing and our practice is disbanding. So I can't see you any more. If we decide to start practicing again, I'll let you know."

<bleep>

I still think about this episode when I drive past that street. And I have a few observations:
1. S was clearly completely crazy. She did not honor any level of professionalism that one would expect, even for a novice. She was a straight up train wreck.
2. We were clearly in complete denial because we were so desperate for help.
3. Our denial made it impossible for us to see how crazy she was, but I'm guessing even most of you readers were surprised when you got to the end of that last paragraph.

In a way the whole thing was so insane that even our daughter was like, what the heck just happened? In some ways S did less damage than arrogant K or idiot B because we were all three on the same side - she hadn't split us and in fact had given us a common bond of shock and anger toward her. But for heaven's sake. Why even be a therapist?

I promise that our story (or at least the ISO a Therapist part of our story) has a happy ending. But for now I'll just say that I recall S with great enmity, and while I try to have love in my heart for all people, for her... not so much.

Chutes and Ladders

At a meeting yesterday, I told the counselor and the disciplinary vice-principal of my daughter's school that she is not going to have a straight-line kind of life. "And that's okay," I added. I had said that before but this time was different, because I meant it.


When I say "straight-line," I mean this: high school, college, work, maybe advanced degree, work some more. Date, marry, have kids. Entry level, mid-level, boss. These are the ladders that society sets up for us. 


Like a good Asian-American kid, I have spent a lot of time making sure I'm doing all of this right. I'm 37, and I'm near or at the top of the ladder I chose to climb. I am married, and have the only child I will ever have. I live in the only house I have ever owned, and I love it. I am a partner in my firm, which is the only firm where I have ever worked. I have the terminal degree in my field - apart from a very expensive and esoteric designation that I would probably not pursue. 


So when I say that my baby is not going to have a straight-line life, what I'm really saying is, she's not going to do it the way I did it. The way you're supposed to do it.


Until recently, I lived life by the Chutes and Ladders principle. If you're doing what you're supposed to be doing, you're moving toward the top. If you're not, well, then you slide down a few rungs, wait your turn, and start climbing again. But lately I've been thinking it's time to put this model away with my other children's games.

In Search of a Therapist - Part One of More than One

His name was D. He was her first therapist. She was 5 and new to our home. They did mostly play therapy. They played a game called "Stop, Relax and Think." In this game, you practice visualizing safe and happy places and memories, and you occasionally land on a scenario that gives you practice evoking that safety in the context of a more stressful hypothetical.

I love D. Still to this day, the things he said about her and what our life would be like were among the most accurate I have ever heard. He said lying would be a struggle throughout life. He said stealing would persist at least through the teen years. He said we might not... but then again we might. These seemed like bleak prognoses at the time. They were accurate. He was brave to tell us, and he did it gently, with love.

But D's focus was father-son work so eventually he kicked us out of the nest. We then moved on to K.

Silent Treatment

The first thing I noticed was the throbbing. This whah-whah-whah sound, kind of like the inside of an MRI, but faster. And above it, a high-pitched not-quite-ringing, more like a frequency that I can hear, way up high, above the throbbing. Worst when I wake up in the middle of the night or in the morning. I am ignoring it, and then I realize that I am ignoring it - like the ignoring was instinctive rather than conscious. Is it high blood pressure? An inner ear issue?

It gets worse with each passing day. Till I am having trouble hearing over it. Having trouble concentrating and thinking, which is a problem because I think about complicated stuff for a living. A friend at work tells me he thinks I need a few days off. The dark circles under my eyes are genuinely frightening to others.

Finally I google "head throbbing" and the google overlords offer me "head throbbing without pain." Yes - that is exactly what is happening. And bam, I learn a new phrase: silent migraine.

The rebound

She does spot-on imitations. She has a beautiful smile. And she can make you laugh. Oh, she can have you in stitches. And it's genuine humor. Not mean. Not cold. That intelligent, hilarious perspective that comes from really seeing things in the world and understanding humanity. So when we are ignoring it - whatever "it" is at that particular moment - we laugh. 


I call it our rebound stage. It's after the storm, but of course that silent storm is still brewing. And we need to regulate again. We need to get her brain as close to fully functional as possible so she can begin to process the latest trauma she has created. Out of dissociation, through aggression, through avoidance, all the way to... well, to "all the way there."


When a danger passes or a perceived threat ends, the brain flips it into reverse and releases biochemicals to bring itself back into balance. The brain is trying to achieve "homeostasis," a state of metabolic equilibrium between the stimulating and the tranquilizing chemical forces in the body. That allows a person to begin the important work of thinking rationally.


And despite my questions about her, I know I can think rationally. So I need this time to be relatively carefree and painless. I can't play warden right now. I can't be distant, I can't even really be firm. This time feels different because I am doing this for me, for my brain, for my biochemicals, for my sanity.


And I'm pretty sure I'm worth it.

Syllable and Sound

The brain is wider than the sky,           

  For, put them side by side,           

The one the other will include           

  With ease, and you beside.           

 

The brain is deeper than the sea,

  For, hold them, blue to blue,           

The one the other will absorb,           

  As sponges, buckets do.           

 

The brain is just the weight of God,           

  For, lift them, pound for pound,

And they will differ, if they do,           

  As syllable from sound.

-Emily Dickinson

The role that brain chemistry and structure plays in the life of our attachment disordered children is nothing short of amazing. And tragic. Like many, mine has experienced the triple traumas of brain development: prenatal drug exposure, infant neglect, and infant abuse.

Reach Beyond the Break

Today this is my anthem. The message transcends specific religious or spiritual beliefs.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhZhSjbFc-c

Reach Beyond the Break

by Rev. Clay Evans

I want to share with you a story, and I'm sure that many of us can identify.

A young man went swimming the other day

He went out in the deep water.

His father and others were standing on the bay.

When they looked up, this young man was about to drown.

Something had happened while out there trying to swim,

And they saw him going down.

Naturally his family, and especially his father,

Got excited, got nervous, but he didn't know how to swim.

And you know how it is, standing by, wanting to do something for a child...

You're helpless!

So the father reached around and it just so happened there was a rope there.

And he took that rope, and threw it - hallelujah!

And said, "Son, catch hold to the rope."

The young man caught the rope.

The father started to pull him in,

But he looked up, and saw that the rope was breaking.

(Can I get a witness?)

And he cried to his father, "Father, my rope is breaking."

The father replied to the son by saying, "Reach beyond the break, and hold on."
"Reach beyond the break and hold on."
Your rope of hope is almost broke.
Your rope of faith is almost broke.
Your rope of patience is almost broke, but reach beyond the break.
Hold on.
And don't let go your faith.

"She is amazing, you should be proud."

The people who tell us that our sons and daughters are amazing drive us crazy. They are fooled by the pathologically charming veneer. They do not have to live with what we live with. But my RAD parent compadres, I offer you this: they are right. Kind of.


Imagine a car. It's not a top of the line model, because its makers had their own issues. The tires are worn down. There are bullet holes in the body. The air conditioning doesn't work and neither does the stereo. It's only three years old but it has 500,000 miles on it. The windshield is cracked. The rearview mirror is held on with duct tape. So is the muffler.


But here it is, that old beater, driving nonetheless. Not in a perfectly straight line, but getting there. Stopping often. Exuding noxious fumes that make us passengers sick.
I am exhausted and frustrated because this car has so many damn problems. No matter what I do, the thing breaks down every few miles. And if I keep breathing these fumes, it's going to kill me.


And now here you come, in a moment when we happen to be coasting downhill and glistening in the evening sun, and you tell me the old girl is an absolute beauty.


I want to say: Sorry, buddy, but I can't live every moment in the space where I remember that she is amazing for one simple reason: self-preservation. When you call her amazing, it feels like an attack on me because I need that very critical protection. You are an arrogant sucker and I want to scream out every horrible thing she has done in just the past 24 hours.


But, then I remember that they are just believing that what they see is real.


So what I try to say, when I am my best self, is:  Yes, she is amazing. And yes, I am proud. Because I am giving her everything I possibly have to give, and she is doing the very best she can to use it, given those bullet holes, and that duct tape, and those many, many miles. Thank you for reminding me.

Lying prostrate before the mountain

I was talking to a friend of mine about skiing. I told him that I am terrible at it because I can't get out of my head. The minute I pick up any momentum, I think, "Hey, I'm doing it!" And then I promptly fall on my butt. My friend said, "The minute you stop lying prostrate before the mountain, you're done for. The mountain always wins."


Ah yes. Those words rang true. The same it is for our precious girl.


"Your daughter attacked me." As a joke, when she is acting out we each call her "your daughter" - but this was no joke. I raced home. There had been punching, biting through the skin, ripped out hair, broken glass. Then, tears and a slammed door.

I can't fix her.

She is my daughter, and I can't help her. And my inability to see that I can't help her may have cost her years of treatment. Or my unwillingness to admit that I can't help her may have given her the best memories she will ever have. We may have created the moments that she can hold onto when... if...


Or all of the above.


I used to think I understood diagnoses, but I don't. Her diagnoses are Reactive Attachment Disorder and Complex PTSD. As far as I can tell those things can really mean just about anything, and can present in the same way as bipolar disorder, dissociative disorders, even schizophrenia. I used to think I understood diagnoses, but I don't.


I struggle for words to describe the pain of parenting a child of trauma. It is, in itself, trauma. It is a cycle of trying everything you possibly can for as long as you possibly can, and then thinking it is working, just long enough to be devastated when you realized it didn't. It hadn't. It is blaming yourself. It is blaming others. It is feeling constantly misunderstood. It is having a secret. It is hope. It is perpetual prayer. It is punishing yourself for being too optimistic. It is punishing yourself for not believing enough. It is fighting with your spouse. It is isolating.


And yet there are moments. There are moments when you think you might have gotten through to her. When you survived a week or a month that wasn't that bad. And she will try to take that away from you - not just end it, because that is going to happen, the good time is going to end - but she will try to take the good time away, erase it, make you feel like a fool for believing it, make you feel like YOU were hurting HER by letting her experience some small, incremental, relative success. We can't let them take away those moments, from us or from themselves.


I am starting this blog because I have found so much comfort from reading the courageous blogs of other RAD moms. http://www.marvinsgrowinggardens.blogspot.com/ is one. http://letterstoabba.blogspot.com/ is another. There are a lot out there. Thank you, women. You are a source of strength. We have to tell our stories. Remember when I said it is isolating? We have to tell our stories.


Because the truth of the matter is, I can help her, but I can't FIX her. I can be there and I can try to make good decisions but ultimately it's her story. She's not broken - she's just living her life. It's not the life I would choose for her, but good news! I am not responsible for choosing other's people's lives for them.