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.