It's been a year.
One year ago today was the last day our son set foot in this home, the last day he woke up under our roof, the last day he was so close that I could touch him...
...and yet my touch could do nothing to soothe the long-buried rage that erupted from deep within.
One year ago today was the last day these walls...and our little children's eyes...lay witness to the violence that had become almost commonplace in the months before.
Violent rage had become the routine.
So sad, looking back. Sad that our little ones knew what to do when he flew out of control.
Go to the school room.
Close the door.
Strap the baby into his booster seat.
Pick out a movie.
Turn it up loud.
Wait for Grandma to get here.
My parents, ten minutes away, had been "on-call" for much of the summer. One year ago today, Grandma was here, in the room with the kids. Papa was upstairs helping Scott with Mr. J.
Angry and frightened and more traumatized than I realized at the time, I had been firmly instructed to get away, go downstairs. I was pregnant, and he had already threatened to kick me in the stomach more than once. It would be months before I would stop involuntarily jumping at the slightest sound.
Trauma goes both ways, you see.
The traumatized child becomes the traumatizer.
The victim becomes the aggressor.
And the family that refuses to give up on love will come out on the other side with the battle scars to show for it.
We will never be the same.
Some changes have been good, have taught us to be more like Christ...
...to rely more fully on Him.
But other changes are just layer upon layer of hurt and fear and pain and uncertainty...
...making me long for Heaven.
One year ago today, we called the police, and they came.
When they left, they took our son with them.
A difficult day, to be sure, but also a day of relief.
It's been a year of peace and healing.
Of letting our guard down and actually living again.
We've been able to reflect, reevaluate, and gain new perspective on the events of last summer.
We've been able to breathe.
Our son is not grown up yet. He's not secure and healthy and happy.
He still needs us.
May this time of refreshment prepare us for whatever lies ahead.
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Monday, September 30, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Motherhood
This exact moment, begging to be frozen in time.
Sitting here, fragrance of toddler poo spread like a blanket on the inside of my nose and throat; dry heaves wondering if a green smoothie looks any different on the way back up.
Sitting here, heart beating an angry rhythm, watching a poop-covered tub-occupant clumsily wash himself with a bar of Daddy's soap; little chunks of number two bobbing in the wake.
Deep breaths, Mama, deep breaths.
Blood pressure slowly descending now.
Initial fury at discovery of finger-painted masterpiece subsiding.
Canvas: crib
Medium: crap
Frequency: third time in as many months
Calming down now.
Calming down tubside while sitting on the throne, of all places.
I love me some irony.
Nursing a baby, working through frustration with one available hand pecking words tumbling out, directing little puppeteers from room adjoining, and bathing a toddler covered hands, legs and cheeks (both sets) in greenish poo all while sitting on (sitting on, not using, mind you) an ugly 1970s greenish-gold toilet.
My life is less than glamorous.
And now I'm looking at my toddler, soap slipping between wrinkled fingers, getting away from little hands. Fingers grasping, soap jumping. Grasping and slipping and jumping. And laughing. Eyes smiling, squeals of delight, chubby cheeks all pushed up in million-dollar grins carved out of caked-on poo.
Frustration is lost.
How I love those poo-covered cheeks, and that poo-covered little boy who just yesterday was the nursing baby in my arms, and now uses manners and builds with "yegos" and is washing up all by himself with Daddy's green bar of soap.
And I look away for a moment, more words pecked out, and suddenly he's screaming, bubbly hands rubbing eyes all over. Soap in eyes, stinging, hurting. And guilt. My poor baby, why on earth did I give you Daddy's soap? Tear-free was far from my mind when I plopped you in that tub.
Rinsing and screaming and rinsing and screaming and shaky breaths drawn from still-sobbing lungs. Mama makes it better, but Mama is so sorry she gave you that soap in the first place, little man.
Hour lost in scrubbing and playing and hair-washing screams that can never be avoided, and singing "scrub your toddler" songs. And then drying and cuddling, wrapped in arms and a towel, I love on my sweet-scented barely-bigger-than-a-baby. This wonderful, frustrating two-year-old, who knows his own mind and yet makes no sense at all; with the joy of discovering life dancing alive in his beautiful long-lashed blue eyes.
And I know I'd scrub poo off him for a thousand years if he needed me to.
This is motherhood. At its best, and at its worst. This is my life, replayed over and over inside the core of each day coming end on end. Anger, laughter, pride, fury, frustration, joy, guilt, and endless work, smiles, cuddles, love and wonder. Always the wonder.
My heart overflows.
Sitting here, fragrance of toddler poo spread like a blanket on the inside of my nose and throat; dry heaves wondering if a green smoothie looks any different on the way back up.
Sitting here, heart beating an angry rhythm, watching a poop-covered tub-occupant clumsily wash himself with a bar of Daddy's soap; little chunks of number two bobbing in the wake.
Deep breaths, Mama, deep breaths.
Blood pressure slowly descending now.
Initial fury at discovery of finger-painted masterpiece subsiding.
Canvas: crib
Medium: crap
Frequency: third time in as many months
Calming down now.
Calming down tubside while sitting on the throne, of all places.
I love me some irony.
Nursing a baby, working through frustration with one available hand pecking words tumbling out, directing little puppeteers from room adjoining, and bathing a toddler covered hands, legs and cheeks (both sets) in greenish poo all while sitting on (sitting on, not using, mind you) an ugly 1970s greenish-gold toilet.
My life is less than glamorous.
And now I'm looking at my toddler, soap slipping between wrinkled fingers, getting away from little hands. Fingers grasping, soap jumping. Grasping and slipping and jumping. And laughing. Eyes smiling, squeals of delight, chubby cheeks all pushed up in million-dollar grins carved out of caked-on poo.
Frustration is lost.
How I love those poo-covered cheeks, and that poo-covered little boy who just yesterday was the nursing baby in my arms, and now uses manners and builds with "yegos" and is washing up all by himself with Daddy's green bar of soap.
And I look away for a moment, more words pecked out, and suddenly he's screaming, bubbly hands rubbing eyes all over. Soap in eyes, stinging, hurting. And guilt. My poor baby, why on earth did I give you Daddy's soap? Tear-free was far from my mind when I plopped you in that tub.
Rinsing and screaming and rinsing and screaming and shaky breaths drawn from still-sobbing lungs. Mama makes it better, but Mama is so sorry she gave you that soap in the first place, little man.
 |
| I couldn't resist taking a picture. Call it payback if you will, but I have the feeling this photo will pop up in the future. |
And I know I'd scrub poo off him for a thousand years if he needed me to.
This is motherhood. At its best, and at its worst. This is my life, replayed over and over inside the core of each day coming end on end. Anger, laughter, pride, fury, frustration, joy, guilt, and endless work, smiles, cuddles, love and wonder. Always the wonder.
My heart overflows.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
New Hope of Spring
Last fall was undeniably one of the worst seasons we've experienced in our history as a family. Circumstances felt so bleak at times that it was difficult to see joy in any situation, impossible to grasp it, hold onto it, and coax it out from beneath the dark veil that clouded every aspect of life.
Our family was so traumatized last fall that we were scarcely able to function. The pain, anger and uncertainty bled over into everything we did, everything we said, everything we felt, and for one of the first times in my life, I understood what it meant to feel desperately hopeless.
But we were never completely without hope.
While we were exhausted and afflicted, God sent others to hope for us. They prayed for us, prayed with us, held our hands, and listened to the mourning of our hearts. They brought us meals, brought us groceries, offered to watch our children, accompanied us to meetings and appointments, and sent us cards and letters of encouragement. They helped us financially, and committed to it in the future as well. They thought of us, Bibles in hand, and shared scriptures that lifted us up when we were at our lowest.
The people of God loved on us like crazy, and it was beautiful; the body of Christ working together the way God intended.
One of the most beautiful things that was done for us in the midst of our darkness was done by some precious friends, friends with a rambunctious young family much like our own. They drove an hour just to be with us, and spent time filling the garden around our house with bulbs that would bloom in the spring. They prayed over each of those bulbs as they planted, and they reminded us that spring comes after every dark season, and spring is filled with new life and new hope.
I was moved to tears often as I thought about those bulbs during the winter. Our son's behavior was still out of control at his school, and I kept thinking "Okay, God. Spring is almost here!" I eagerly anticipated the day when we would see the first shoots of life springing from those bulbs, breaking through the dirt and on up towards the sun.
And that day finally came - the week before we left to visit Mr. J at school for the first time. Coincidentally (and by coincidentally I mean not coincidentally in the least), it was around the same time that we heard the first positive news from the staff at our son's school.
Mr. J appeared to be trying.
Scott and I had a great visit with our eldest son over Easter weekend. We played games, toured the school, talked cordially about nothing serious, and introduced Mr. J to his new baby brother. There were no deep conversations and no apologies, but there were no fits of rage or irrational behavior, either. There were even a few moments of tenderness, when our son couldn't keep the tears from running down his face, and when he let me comfort him. When we had to say goodbye on the final day, we left him sitting at the table, head buried in folded arms, sobbing. I did the same in the parking lot.
Yet in spite of all the tears, or perhaps because of all the tears, I finally have a new hope of my own.
The biggest sign of hope God has given us is that somewhere between last fall and this spring, our son has moved from "I'll kill you if I come home" or "I'm never coming home" to "When I come home...".
He's written that he wants to change his life so things will be different when he comes back, and although he's still struggling frequently with anger and irrational outbursts, he seems to be recovering more quickly, picking himself up, and trying again. We remain hopeful.
Spring is here at last.
If you are one of those people that brought hope to our family last fall and continue to do so as we walk this difficult journey, we thank you and love you more than we could ever express. Please continue to pray us through this process, specifically for Mr. J's continued change of heart, and for his eventual emotional and mental healing. He still has a long way to go. Please pray that we can offer grace and unconditional love in spite of everything our family has been through.
Our family was so traumatized last fall that we were scarcely able to function. The pain, anger and uncertainty bled over into everything we did, everything we said, everything we felt, and for one of the first times in my life, I understood what it meant to feel desperately hopeless.
But we were never completely without hope.
While we were exhausted and afflicted, God sent others to hope for us. They prayed for us, prayed with us, held our hands, and listened to the mourning of our hearts. They brought us meals, brought us groceries, offered to watch our children, accompanied us to meetings and appointments, and sent us cards and letters of encouragement. They helped us financially, and committed to it in the future as well. They thought of us, Bibles in hand, and shared scriptures that lifted us up when we were at our lowest.
The people of God loved on us like crazy, and it was beautiful; the body of Christ working together the way God intended.
One of the most beautiful things that was done for us in the midst of our darkness was done by some precious friends, friends with a rambunctious young family much like our own. They drove an hour just to be with us, and spent time filling the garden around our house with bulbs that would bloom in the spring. They prayed over each of those bulbs as they planted, and they reminded us that spring comes after every dark season, and spring is filled with new life and new hope.
I was moved to tears often as I thought about those bulbs during the winter. Our son's behavior was still out of control at his school, and I kept thinking "Okay, God. Spring is almost here!" I eagerly anticipated the day when we would see the first shoots of life springing from those bulbs, breaking through the dirt and on up towards the sun.
And that day finally came - the week before we left to visit Mr. J at school for the first time. Coincidentally (and by coincidentally I mean not coincidentally in the least), it was around the same time that we heard the first positive news from the staff at our son's school.
Mr. J appeared to be trying.Scott and I had a great visit with our eldest son over Easter weekend. We played games, toured the school, talked cordially about nothing serious, and introduced Mr. J to his new baby brother. There were no deep conversations and no apologies, but there were no fits of rage or irrational behavior, either. There were even a few moments of tenderness, when our son couldn't keep the tears from running down his face, and when he let me comfort him. When we had to say goodbye on the final day, we left him sitting at the table, head buried in folded arms, sobbing. I did the same in the parking lot.
Yet in spite of all the tears, or perhaps because of all the tears, I finally have a new hope of my own.
The biggest sign of hope God has given us is that somewhere between last fall and this spring, our son has moved from "I'll kill you if I come home" or "I'm never coming home" to "When I come home...".
He's written that he wants to change his life so things will be different when he comes back, and although he's still struggling frequently with anger and irrational outbursts, he seems to be recovering more quickly, picking himself up, and trying again. We remain hopeful.
Spring is here at last.
If you are one of those people that brought hope to our family last fall and continue to do so as we walk this difficult journey, we thank you and love you more than we could ever express. Please continue to pray us through this process, specifically for Mr. J's continued change of heart, and for his eventual emotional and mental healing. He still has a long way to go. Please pray that we can offer grace and unconditional love in spite of everything our family has been through.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Mine
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have cried tears of joy as soon as I knew you were growing inside me.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have stayed up late at night dreaming about you: who you would be, what you would look like, who you would become. I would have sung lullabies to you, and Daddy would have read books to my tummy as I rocked gently in my rocking chair.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have walked through the baby store, hand in hand, making plans for you. I would have been so proud of my big baby belly, and thrilled with each tiny kick from inside. As the time grew closer for you to come, we would have been so excited; we hardly would have been able to wait to meet you.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy would have held my hand, lovingly urging me on as I struggled to bring you into the world. Your first cry would have filled us with a joy like no other, and I would have cried happy tears as I held you in my arms for the first time. Recognizing my voice, you would have looked up at me with your beautiful, trusting brown eyes...
...and you would have known instantly that I would love you forever.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have held you close to my heart: nursing you, covering your downy baby head with millions of tiny kisses, marvelling at all your perfect little fingers and toes. I would have held you for hours, drinking in your warmth and your sweet baby smell.
If you had been mine from the beginning, your new-baby cry would have broken my heart. I would have spent hours soothing you, if you needed to be soothed. I would have rocked you and held you and changed you and fed you and burped you and kissed your sweet baby face another billion times.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have spent hours looking into your darling face. I would have cooed at you and smiled at you, and Daddy and I would have gazed down at you with love in our eyes, and we would have celebrated those first little sounds that you made...and every little thing you did after. When you rolled over, sat up by yourself, clapped your chubby hands, spoke your first words, took your first steps...we would have been right there cheering you on.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have kept you with me always. I would have made up a gazillion silly little songs to animate our days together, and I would have read books to you and dressed you up and put tiny little bows in your hair. As you grew, I would have taught you your numbers and your colors and your ABCs, and I would have pushed you on the swings at the park. You would have laughed and squealed in delight, and looked at me with your beautiful, chocolate brown eyes...
...and you would have known that Mama would love you forever.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you would never have worried that someday, you might be abandoned. You wouldn't, deep down, think that you're worthless and unlovable.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you wouldn't feel the need to control everything. You wouldn't be so full of anger and fear and you wouldn't have the need to fight against me and Daddy and against everything we ask you to do.
If you had been mine from the beginning, things would have been so much easier for you...and for me...and for our family. You would have been a happy, care-free child. You would have let the adults worry about adult things, and you would have spent all your energy on simply being a child.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you would trust me, and you would trust my decisions.
You would trust that I'll love you forever, no matter what.
It's been a tough day, huh, kiddo?
It was the kind of day that makes me cry out to God, asking Him to take away the suffering I see in your heart. The suffering that's in my heart, too. I wish life could be easier for us, and especially for you, dear one.
But I know you're going to make it.
We're going to make it.
I believe in you, and I believe in us.
We're fighters, you and me.
Oh, girl. How I wish you had been mine from the beginning.
No matter how many days like today we have, no matter what you do or how angry I am or how horrible you feel, I promise you...I'm so thankful that you're mine now.
Mama loves you, Butterfly.
And I'll love you forever...no matter what.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have stayed up late at night dreaming about you: who you would be, what you would look like, who you would become. I would have sung lullabies to you, and Daddy would have read books to my tummy as I rocked gently in my rocking chair.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have walked through the baby store, hand in hand, making plans for you. I would have been so proud of my big baby belly, and thrilled with each tiny kick from inside. As the time grew closer for you to come, we would have been so excited; we hardly would have been able to wait to meet you.
If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy would have held my hand, lovingly urging me on as I struggled to bring you into the world. Your first cry would have filled us with a joy like no other, and I would have cried happy tears as I held you in my arms for the first time. Recognizing my voice, you would have looked up at me with your beautiful, trusting brown eyes...
...and you would have known instantly that I would love you forever.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have held you close to my heart: nursing you, covering your downy baby head with millions of tiny kisses, marvelling at all your perfect little fingers and toes. I would have held you for hours, drinking in your warmth and your sweet baby smell.
If you had been mine from the beginning, your new-baby cry would have broken my heart. I would have spent hours soothing you, if you needed to be soothed. I would have rocked you and held you and changed you and fed you and burped you and kissed your sweet baby face another billion times.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have spent hours looking into your darling face. I would have cooed at you and smiled at you, and Daddy and I would have gazed down at you with love in our eyes, and we would have celebrated those first little sounds that you made...and every little thing you did after. When you rolled over, sat up by yourself, clapped your chubby hands, spoke your first words, took your first steps...we would have been right there cheering you on.
If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have kept you with me always. I would have made up a gazillion silly little songs to animate our days together, and I would have read books to you and dressed you up and put tiny little bows in your hair. As you grew, I would have taught you your numbers and your colors and your ABCs, and I would have pushed you on the swings at the park. You would have laughed and squealed in delight, and looked at me with your beautiful, chocolate brown eyes...
...and you would have known that Mama would love you forever.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you would never have worried that someday, you might be abandoned. You wouldn't, deep down, think that you're worthless and unlovable.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you wouldn't feel the need to control everything. You wouldn't be so full of anger and fear and you wouldn't have the need to fight against me and Daddy and against everything we ask you to do.
If you had been mine from the beginning, things would have been so much easier for you...and for me...and for our family. You would have been a happy, care-free child. You would have let the adults worry about adult things, and you would have spent all your energy on simply being a child.
If you had been mine from the beginning, you would trust me, and you would trust my decisions.
You would trust that I'll love you forever, no matter what.
It's been a tough day, huh, kiddo?
It was the kind of day that makes me cry out to God, asking Him to take away the suffering I see in your heart. The suffering that's in my heart, too. I wish life could be easier for us, and especially for you, dear one.
But I know you're going to make it.
We're going to make it.
I believe in you, and I believe in us.
We're fighters, you and me.
Oh, girl. How I wish you had been mine from the beginning.
No matter how many days like today we have, no matter what you do or how angry I am or how horrible you feel, I promise you...I'm so thankful that you're mine now.
Mama loves you, Butterfly.
And I'll love you forever...no matter what.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Angry
One of my sisters is dead.
Not my biological sister, not either of my sisters-in-law, but my sister nonetheless.
One of my RAD sisters, who understood the heartache of loving a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder. Understood the pain and the long road, the uncertainty and the suffering that seems to have no end.
One of my sisters, DEAD, presumably at the hands of her RAD daughter.
I didn't know her well. Had never, in fact, even met her. We were bound together only by a support group full of parents raising children with RAD....all sharing that invisible bond of friendship that comes from finding someone...finally...who understands.
This group of friends has supported me in ways that no one else could, giving me that calm understanding and sometimes needed advice; a safe place in which to vent the strongest of emotions.
Every frustration, every failure, every horrible day, every small victory.
Shared trials and triumphs.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Tears.
They pass no judgement, for they are also on the frontlines, living the same uncertainty as I.
And now one of us is dead.
Today this hits me incredibly hard. It has, after all, been only a few months since my own son threatened to kill me...and my husband...and our baby son. Sure, it's easy to pass those threats off as simply a way for our son to manipulate; an attempt to get his own way and force us into action. Such threats are usually just that. Manipulation attempts.
But sometimes they aren't. And then what?
I'm angry right now. Angry that no one seems to take us seriously...the hurting, stressed, vigilant, exhausted and abused parents of these emotionally impaired kids. 'If only we loved those poor kids enough. If only we were more structured as parents, or less structured, or more permissive, or less permissive, or more understanding, or more forgiving, or more this or more that. If only, if only, if only.'
So many people pass judgement and yet would be unable to stand up for a moment in the shoes of a RAD parent.
Yes, I'm angry.
Angry that there is so little help to be found for these traumatized kids.
Angry that so many mental health professionals have no training in attachment issues and don't understand RAD enough to make a difference.
Angry that we spent months making phone calls to everyone and anyone that would possibly listen, and yet our family, church family and close friends are the only ones that came to our aid.
Angry that our insurance (which is considered the best) won't pay for the only therapist in our area that specializes in adoption, attachment and RAD because the letters after his name aren't the "correct" letters.
Angry that the adoption medicaid that is supposed to pick up the cost of anything our child needs has also refused to pay for our therapist simply because the insurance company would pay for someone else...none of whom specialize in adoption related issues.
Angry that insurance refuses to pay a cent for residential treatment for our son's severe mental illness, or any mental illness for that matter, but would gladly pay if he was an alcoholic or a drug addict or had an eating disorder.
Angry that the adoption agency and the foster care system from which our son came have no resources or motivation or desire to help.
Angry that the state of Michigan was going to force us to bring our violent, threatening son home for in-home counseling before they would help in any way. They are more willing to put our five little children (and ourselves) in danger than to part with a single dollar.
Angry that even if the state of Michigan HAD agreed to fund treatment, it would not have been at a facility that specializes in RAD because they are all more than 200 miles away. No exceptions would be made.
Angry that the only option the state of Michigan gave us if it was truly too dangerous to bring him home for counseling was to "Let the Juvenile Courts have him." He is mentally ill and needs help, for crying out loud...not JAIL!
Angry that the only way to get him into a facility that could help him through the Juvenile Court system was to actually abandon our son to the courts, leaving us open to charges of neglect.
Angry that no one seems to take mental illness seriously until an entire first grade class is murdered, or the parent of a RAD child is found stabbed to death in her home.
And I'm angry that there is now one less person on the planet that understands what parents like us go through. One less, instead of one more. When what we desperately need are more.
It wasn't that many years ago when autistic children didn't get the help and intervention they needed, when insurance refused to pay for necessary, life-altering therapies, and when people didn't really understand what it meant to be autistic. It wasn't too many years ago when children with learning difficulties were labelled "retarded" and were given no extra help...no chances to succeed to the best of their abilities. Mercifully, these things are beginning to change.
How many systems will have to change, how many people will have to die, before children with mental illness get the help they need? When will the insurance companies and the state agencies begin to care about what is best for the families and not about the dollars involved? And all those parents...the ones in my support group, who are persevering through the worst...when will their concerns be taken seriously?
Today I am rattled. I hate to admit it, but whenever I hear a story like this, my heart skips a beat. It hits too close to home, because my family is walking a similar path as that of this poor woman who lost her life.
God, please don't ever let that shattered family be mine.
________________________________________________________________________
Sister, you truly had a Joyous Heart. Thank you for trying to make the world a better place and for all of your efforts on behalf of a traumatized child. Thank you also for your input and your many words of encouragement. You will be missed.
Not my biological sister, not either of my sisters-in-law, but my sister nonetheless.
One of my RAD sisters, who understood the heartache of loving a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder. Understood the pain and the long road, the uncertainty and the suffering that seems to have no end.
One of my sisters, DEAD, presumably at the hands of her RAD daughter.
I didn't know her well. Had never, in fact, even met her. We were bound together only by a support group full of parents raising children with RAD....all sharing that invisible bond of friendship that comes from finding someone...finally...who understands.
This group of friends has supported me in ways that no one else could, giving me that calm understanding and sometimes needed advice; a safe place in which to vent the strongest of emotions.
Every frustration, every failure, every horrible day, every small victory.
Shared trials and triumphs.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Tears.
They pass no judgement, for they are also on the frontlines, living the same uncertainty as I.
And now one of us is dead.
Today this hits me incredibly hard. It has, after all, been only a few months since my own son threatened to kill me...and my husband...and our baby son. Sure, it's easy to pass those threats off as simply a way for our son to manipulate; an attempt to get his own way and force us into action. Such threats are usually just that. Manipulation attempts.
But sometimes they aren't. And then what?
I'm angry right now. Angry that no one seems to take us seriously...the hurting, stressed, vigilant, exhausted and abused parents of these emotionally impaired kids. 'If only we loved those poor kids enough. If only we were more structured as parents, or less structured, or more permissive, or less permissive, or more understanding, or more forgiving, or more this or more that. If only, if only, if only.'
So many people pass judgement and yet would be unable to stand up for a moment in the shoes of a RAD parent.
Yes, I'm angry.
Angry that there is so little help to be found for these traumatized kids.
Angry that so many mental health professionals have no training in attachment issues and don't understand RAD enough to make a difference.
Angry that we spent months making phone calls to everyone and anyone that would possibly listen, and yet our family, church family and close friends are the only ones that came to our aid.
Angry that our insurance (which is considered the best) won't pay for the only therapist in our area that specializes in adoption, attachment and RAD because the letters after his name aren't the "correct" letters.
Angry that the adoption medicaid that is supposed to pick up the cost of anything our child needs has also refused to pay for our therapist simply because the insurance company would pay for someone else...none of whom specialize in adoption related issues.
Angry that insurance refuses to pay a cent for residential treatment for our son's severe mental illness, or any mental illness for that matter, but would gladly pay if he was an alcoholic or a drug addict or had an eating disorder.
Angry that the adoption agency and the foster care system from which our son came have no resources or motivation or desire to help.
Angry that the state of Michigan was going to force us to bring our violent, threatening son home for in-home counseling before they would help in any way. They are more willing to put our five little children (and ourselves) in danger than to part with a single dollar.
Angry that even if the state of Michigan HAD agreed to fund treatment, it would not have been at a facility that specializes in RAD because they are all more than 200 miles away. No exceptions would be made.
Angry that the only option the state of Michigan gave us if it was truly too dangerous to bring him home for counseling was to "Let the Juvenile Courts have him." He is mentally ill and needs help, for crying out loud...not JAIL!
Angry that the only way to get him into a facility that could help him through the Juvenile Court system was to actually abandon our son to the courts, leaving us open to charges of neglect.
Angry that no one seems to take mental illness seriously until an entire first grade class is murdered, or the parent of a RAD child is found stabbed to death in her home.
And I'm angry that there is now one less person on the planet that understands what parents like us go through. One less, instead of one more. When what we desperately need are more.
It wasn't that many years ago when autistic children didn't get the help and intervention they needed, when insurance refused to pay for necessary, life-altering therapies, and when people didn't really understand what it meant to be autistic. It wasn't too many years ago when children with learning difficulties were labelled "retarded" and were given no extra help...no chances to succeed to the best of their abilities. Mercifully, these things are beginning to change.
How many systems will have to change, how many people will have to die, before children with mental illness get the help they need? When will the insurance companies and the state agencies begin to care about what is best for the families and not about the dollars involved? And all those parents...the ones in my support group, who are persevering through the worst...when will their concerns be taken seriously?
Today I am rattled. I hate to admit it, but whenever I hear a story like this, my heart skips a beat. It hits too close to home, because my family is walking a similar path as that of this poor woman who lost her life.
God, please don't ever let that shattered family be mine.
________________________________________________________________________
Sister, you truly had a Joyous Heart. Thank you for trying to make the world a better place and for all of your efforts on behalf of a traumatized child. Thank you also for your input and your many words of encouragement. You will be missed.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Facade
I'm not feeling particularly eloquent at the moment, but that probably has to do with going to bed at one-thirty and waking up at five. I'm not even sure that I have a whole lot to say that I haven't already said. But I somehow feel compelled to write what's on my heart in the hopes that it might help someone understand our situation. Or maybe...might help someone understand their own situation with a traumatized child...before it's too late.
We're beginning to realize that we've never truly known our son, not for the entire six years that he's been with us. He isn't the child we've thought him to be: the one with the sense of humor that matches ours entirely, with interests in the same sports, the same taste in music, the same clothing styles, the same opinions, the same strong-held Christian beliefs.
We're beginning to see that that child never really existed at all.
He was a facade.
Mr. J has spent his entire six years with us pretending to be what he thought we wanted him to be. Pretending to be the "perfect" child for us. In his eyes, a miniature Mom and Dad. If he played the part well, he knew we would leave him alone. We wouldn't try to "fix" him like we did his sister, we wouldn't put him in more therapy or try to parent him differently. He would get all the benefits of happy family life without ever having to talk about who he really is or about how he really feels. Without ever having to acknowledge that he isn't perfect or that he struggles or that he isn't what he desperately wants to be: "normal".
And if he was good enough, he would never have to be corrected or disciplined or be made to feel as if he wasn't solely in control of himself and everything to do with his life.
Perfectly in control, perfectly poised, he played his part so convincingly that after that first hectic six months with us, we only ever saw glimpses of the sickness that lay beneath the surface.
A perfectly crafted surface.
A surface that, as his body is beginning to swarm with the new hormones of adolescence, he can't hold together anymore.
The facade is gone.
He held it together for six whole days this time. Sure, there were times when we could see the anger boiling in his eyes, but he held it in check for six days. That's a record for the past few months, but we all knew it wasn't going to last. Last night, Mr. J went off again. About power. About having no control over what we will or won't give him, when he thinks he deserves whatever he wants because he's been mostly "good" for six days.
Control. Calculated control. He got angry before dinner, yet chose to push it down so he could enjoy family movie night, pizza and ice cream. As soon as it was over, he let it all out. On purpose. Calculated and controlled. The police arrived as he was trying yet again to break his window out, and they got to his room just in time to hear him threaten to kick me in the stomach so he could kill our baby.
I don't think our family can take much more of this.
Sobbing six-year-old, hugging a cat on her bed, not understanding why her big brother is screaming again. Nothing happened! Why is he so angry?
Wide-eyed ten-year old that's still too fresh in her own healing to comprehend what's going on, but reaches out to hug her Mama when she sees the tears coming.
Sweet four-year-old that misses his big brother and keeps calling for Mama and Daddy from his bed, scared to be without us, hearing the rage from the other room.
Oblivious one-year-old, innocently repeating "Bubba! Bubba!" as his brother screams and pounds and swears and threatens.
Precious tiny baby boy, little miracle, receiving a death threat before he even lays soft gray eyes on the world. Is his world even safe?
We have to protect them.
We have to protect our family.
And we have to protect Mr. J from himself.
We can't do this anymore.
Please pray that we find the direction God wants for us, that it becomes painfully clear, and that doors are supernaturally opened for us to get our son and our family the help and the respite that is needed. We know that God is in this and that He has been from the beginning. He will not abandon us now.
We're beginning to realize that we've never truly known our son, not for the entire six years that he's been with us. He isn't the child we've thought him to be: the one with the sense of humor that matches ours entirely, with interests in the same sports, the same taste in music, the same clothing styles, the same opinions, the same strong-held Christian beliefs.
We're beginning to see that that child never really existed at all.
He was a facade.
Mr. J has spent his entire six years with us pretending to be what he thought we wanted him to be. Pretending to be the "perfect" child for us. In his eyes, a miniature Mom and Dad. If he played the part well, he knew we would leave him alone. We wouldn't try to "fix" him like we did his sister, we wouldn't put him in more therapy or try to parent him differently. He would get all the benefits of happy family life without ever having to talk about who he really is or about how he really feels. Without ever having to acknowledge that he isn't perfect or that he struggles or that he isn't what he desperately wants to be: "normal".
And if he was good enough, he would never have to be corrected or disciplined or be made to feel as if he wasn't solely in control of himself and everything to do with his life.
Perfectly in control, perfectly poised, he played his part so convincingly that after that first hectic six months with us, we only ever saw glimpses of the sickness that lay beneath the surface.
A perfectly crafted surface.
A surface that, as his body is beginning to swarm with the new hormones of adolescence, he can't hold together anymore.
The facade is gone.
He held it together for six whole days this time. Sure, there were times when we could see the anger boiling in his eyes, but he held it in check for six days. That's a record for the past few months, but we all knew it wasn't going to last. Last night, Mr. J went off again. About power. About having no control over what we will or won't give him, when he thinks he deserves whatever he wants because he's been mostly "good" for six days.
Control. Calculated control. He got angry before dinner, yet chose to push it down so he could enjoy family movie night, pizza and ice cream. As soon as it was over, he let it all out. On purpose. Calculated and controlled. The police arrived as he was trying yet again to break his window out, and they got to his room just in time to hear him threaten to kick me in the stomach so he could kill our baby.
I don't think our family can take much more of this.
Sobbing six-year-old, hugging a cat on her bed, not understanding why her big brother is screaming again. Nothing happened! Why is he so angry?
Wide-eyed ten-year old that's still too fresh in her own healing to comprehend what's going on, but reaches out to hug her Mama when she sees the tears coming.
Sweet four-year-old that misses his big brother and keeps calling for Mama and Daddy from his bed, scared to be without us, hearing the rage from the other room.
Oblivious one-year-old, innocently repeating "Bubba! Bubba!" as his brother screams and pounds and swears and threatens.
Precious tiny baby boy, little miracle, receiving a death threat before he even lays soft gray eyes on the world. Is his world even safe?
We have to protect them.
We have to protect our family.
And we have to protect Mr. J from himself.
We can't do this anymore.
Please pray that we find the direction God wants for us, that it becomes painfully clear, and that doors are supernaturally opened for us to get our son and our family the help and the respite that is needed. We know that God is in this and that He has been from the beginning. He will not abandon us now.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Broken Little Child
He threw a rage at the hospital tonight. A big one. He kicked and screamed and threw a chair at the receptionist. His super-human fury-driven strength required five men to contain, an empty "time-out" room, a bed with restraints, a "burrito wrap", and some emergency medications. And somehow, he still managed to spit on people, hit, and slap the doctor across the face.
Of course, we've seen this sort of thing before. Many times. At home. We aren't surprised by his actions, just surprised that he finally lost control enough to show this very real side of himself to other people...the same people he's been trying to convince that he's perfectly compliant and well-mannered. He wants them to believe that this is our problem and not his.
We stand by the truth. We are not, have never been, and never will be perfect parents, but the responsibility for the behavior our son chooses does not belong to us. It belongs to him and him alone. The responsibility for the trauma that caused his brain to work the way it does also does not belong to us. It belongs to another set of parents that failed him many years ago.
And yet, I concede to my son's way of thinking on at least one point. Although not in the area of responsibility, this problem does belong to us as well as to him.
Because we love him.
___________________________________________________________________________
Tonight, as I was putting our other kids to bed, Miss M, who is our troubled son's biological sister and who is currently winning a long battle with an attachment disorder, got really serious.
"Mom, why did you adopt us if it was going to be so hard?"
"Girlie, we've talked about this before. Everything that's worth doing- everything really important - is hard."
"Do you wish you could change it?"
"Sweetie, I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever go back and not adopt you, because then you wouldn't be my daughter."
I walked over to her bunk bed, reached up, cupped her head in my hands, and planted a few kisses right in the middle of her forehead. Those big brown eyes as dark as chocolate were sparkling with genuine joy as my voice filled with tears and I said to her,
"You are mine. Forever and ever, you are mine. No matter how hard things get, you are my girl. Forever."
"I love you, Mom."
"Love you, too. Now go to sleep!"
There was a time, less than two years ago, when I no longer had any idea what I was fighting for. When I felt like giving up. There was a time when that same little girl that hungers so much for her Mama's love and approval couldn't get through the day without throwing a tantrum about something, without hitting or biting or screaming, couldn't let her guard down long enough to show us the real Miss M that she kept hidden inside.
There was a time when all things felt hopeless, when every thought of our daughter brought on panic and despair, when constant talk of her dominated our marriage, and when we couldn't see God working through all the pain and anger and frustration.
There was a time when I couldn't see the scared, broken little girl underneath all that spewing hatred; the little girl that I now love with all my heart.
___________________________________________________________________________
I am convinced that there is a terrified, broken little child inside every traumatized, angry, unattached child.
Inside my son.
It's that thought that allows me to feel sorrow for him tonight, in an out-of-control rage against people that he doesn't know and have done nothing to him. How scared and panicked and all alone that little child inside must feel! And as silly as it sounds, he's never been without my husband and me when he's been in one of his rages. Does he care? Does he feel abandoned? Does he even notice?
I know God is working in this situation. I don't know how yet, but I do know that when all seemed lost with Miss M, He showed up in amazing ways...in His own time. He's healing my daughter. He's changing who I am. He's strengthening my marriage and my faith and my family, and best of all, He's reminded me what - who - I am fighting for.
That scared, broken little boy or girl inside every traumatized child is His precious child. Not ours, but His...created beautifully and wonderfully in His image and for His glory.
And they are people worth fighting for.
Of course, we've seen this sort of thing before. Many times. At home. We aren't surprised by his actions, just surprised that he finally lost control enough to show this very real side of himself to other people...the same people he's been trying to convince that he's perfectly compliant and well-mannered. He wants them to believe that this is our problem and not his.
We stand by the truth. We are not, have never been, and never will be perfect parents, but the responsibility for the behavior our son chooses does not belong to us. It belongs to him and him alone. The responsibility for the trauma that caused his brain to work the way it does also does not belong to us. It belongs to another set of parents that failed him many years ago.
And yet, I concede to my son's way of thinking on at least one point. Although not in the area of responsibility, this problem does belong to us as well as to him.
Because we love him.
___________________________________________________________________________
Tonight, as I was putting our other kids to bed, Miss M, who is our troubled son's biological sister and who is currently winning a long battle with an attachment disorder, got really serious.
"Mom, why did you adopt us if it was going to be so hard?"
"Girlie, we've talked about this before. Everything that's worth doing- everything really important - is hard."
"Do you wish you could change it?"
"Sweetie, I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever go back and not adopt you, because then you wouldn't be my daughter."
I walked over to her bunk bed, reached up, cupped her head in my hands, and planted a few kisses right in the middle of her forehead. Those big brown eyes as dark as chocolate were sparkling with genuine joy as my voice filled with tears and I said to her,
"You are mine. Forever and ever, you are mine. No matter how hard things get, you are my girl. Forever."
"I love you, Mom."
"Love you, too. Now go to sleep!"
There was a time, less than two years ago, when I no longer had any idea what I was fighting for. When I felt like giving up. There was a time when that same little girl that hungers so much for her Mama's love and approval couldn't get through the day without throwing a tantrum about something, without hitting or biting or screaming, couldn't let her guard down long enough to show us the real Miss M that she kept hidden inside.
There was a time when all things felt hopeless, when every thought of our daughter brought on panic and despair, when constant talk of her dominated our marriage, and when we couldn't see God working through all the pain and anger and frustration.
There was a time when I couldn't see the scared, broken little girl underneath all that spewing hatred; the little girl that I now love with all my heart.
___________________________________________________________________________
I am convinced that there is a terrified, broken little child inside every traumatized, angry, unattached child.
Inside my son.
It's that thought that allows me to feel sorrow for him tonight, in an out-of-control rage against people that he doesn't know and have done nothing to him. How scared and panicked and all alone that little child inside must feel! And as silly as it sounds, he's never been without my husband and me when he's been in one of his rages. Does he care? Does he feel abandoned? Does he even notice?
I know God is working in this situation. I don't know how yet, but I do know that when all seemed lost with Miss M, He showed up in amazing ways...in His own time. He's healing my daughter. He's changing who I am. He's strengthening my marriage and my faith and my family, and best of all, He's reminded me what - who - I am fighting for.
That scared, broken little boy or girl inside every traumatized child is His precious child. Not ours, but His...created beautifully and wonderfully in His image and for His glory.
And they are people worth fighting for.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Powerless
I'm finally going to try to post something, although I warn you that I'm not feeling the least bit up to the task. I fear that my ability to string two thoughts together in written form is currently buried beneath a thousand other things - thoughts, feelings, worries, half-finished prayers, anger, sadness, regret, confusion, heartache, panic, pain, hopelessness, fear.
I don't know how to explain what Scott and I are feeling right now, don't even know if there are words big enough and powerful enough to capture our present reality. I can only say that there is no escape. Not in laughter, not in a date-night movie, not in a good book, not in a beautiful day spent with loved ones and happy kids and flowers and sun. Not even in sleep. Especially not in sleep.
No escape. None.
My Bible, my cute little purple Bible, has become my safety and my life. I find myself carrying it around with me throughout the day, needing desperately to keep it near. Purse, couch, van, table, bed. I panic when I cannot remember where I left it. Frantically searching, scrambling around in near tears until it's been found, until it's once more in my possession, once more alive and vibrating in my hands. I feel the weight of it like almost never before: a physical weight, not an imagined one...giving testament to the enormous truths within that describe both the heaviest of life's burdens and the entirety of life's hope.
And yet, so often I feel powerless to open it.
Nothing has changed with our son since I last wrote, except perhaps that he seems to be giving up on himself and is even more defiant. He is still a volcano biding his time until his daily eruption, which comes faithfully with little or no provocation. He seems unable to equate any consequences as having come from his own choices, believing that everything is happening to him and not because of him.
After being discharged from the inpatient program last Tuesday, he held it together for all of a day and a half before raging again on Thursday and being admitted to the day program again on Friday. And after refusing his medication and threatening to bite me "like you've never been bitten before" (don't worry, he was restrained at the time), we checked him in as a full-time patient again at about midnight last night. On our daughter's birthday.
And so life goes on for us. Calmer for the moment, yet with a piece missing that is our eldest son. I cling to my husband, who clings to me, and together we cling to God and cry out for His mercy. And we laugh, and we pray, and we live, and we love our kids and play with them, all the while hoping that they don't notice that our smiles fall short of our eyes.
And I carry my Bible with me. Although there are many of these days that I can't bring myself to read a single verse, when I can't process the letters that are spilling from the pages and can't even begin to drink deeply of its truths, I trust that God will give me exactly what I need.
I am powerless, but He is not.
Please continue to pray for us.
I don't know how to explain what Scott and I are feeling right now, don't even know if there are words big enough and powerful enough to capture our present reality. I can only say that there is no escape. Not in laughter, not in a date-night movie, not in a good book, not in a beautiful day spent with loved ones and happy kids and flowers and sun. Not even in sleep. Especially not in sleep.
No escape. None.
My Bible, my cute little purple Bible, has become my safety and my life. I find myself carrying it around with me throughout the day, needing desperately to keep it near. Purse, couch, van, table, bed. I panic when I cannot remember where I left it. Frantically searching, scrambling around in near tears until it's been found, until it's once more in my possession, once more alive and vibrating in my hands. I feel the weight of it like almost never before: a physical weight, not an imagined one...giving testament to the enormous truths within that describe both the heaviest of life's burdens and the entirety of life's hope.
And yet, so often I feel powerless to open it.
Nothing has changed with our son since I last wrote, except perhaps that he seems to be giving up on himself and is even more defiant. He is still a volcano biding his time until his daily eruption, which comes faithfully with little or no provocation. He seems unable to equate any consequences as having come from his own choices, believing that everything is happening to him and not because of him.
After being discharged from the inpatient program last Tuesday, he held it together for all of a day and a half before raging again on Thursday and being admitted to the day program again on Friday. And after refusing his medication and threatening to bite me "like you've never been bitten before" (don't worry, he was restrained at the time), we checked him in as a full-time patient again at about midnight last night. On our daughter's birthday.
And so life goes on for us. Calmer for the moment, yet with a piece missing that is our eldest son. I cling to my husband, who clings to me, and together we cling to God and cry out for His mercy. And we laugh, and we pray, and we live, and we love our kids and play with them, all the while hoping that they don't notice that our smiles fall short of our eyes.
And I carry my Bible with me. Although there are many of these days that I can't bring myself to read a single verse, when I can't process the letters that are spilling from the pages and can't even begin to drink deeply of its truths, I trust that God will give me exactly what I need.
I am powerless, but He is not.
Please continue to pray for us.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Hang On
I wish God would give me just a glimpse of the future. Of what my son's future will be. I wish I could see for just a second that someday, everything will be okay.
I just want something to hang on to.
These past few weeks - months, really - have been some of the most uncertain of our lives. Our home has turned into a sort of twisted war zone, with unprovoked hostility hedging in on every side. Every word has become an argument, every request has become a fight, every demand has become a full-blown rage.
Each "I love you" has been met with hatred and fury.
Thus has begun our life with a traumatized and Attachment Disordered child on the brink of adolescence.
We've seen it all before...kind of. We've seen the anger and the disrespect and the hatred, we've heard the screams, felt the kicks and the bites and the scratches and the pulling of hair, dealt with the heartache and muscle-ache of restraining a child-turned-animal as he unleashes every ounce of venom from within....unleashes it on those who love him the most.
Yes, we've seen it all before, but not quite like this.
He's never thrown furniture before. Toys, yes. Small objects, yes. But never a lamp. Or a chair. And never in the direction of his pregnant mother.
We've never had to call the police on him before.
He's never refused to go anywhere with us before, much less to church; never jumped from his loft bed to escape, needing to be chased through the house and forcibly put into the van.
He's never jumped from a moving vehicle before, never run in stocking feet through a cornfield and had to be chased down by his father.
He's never kicked his sisters and thrown pop bottles in the direction of the baby, insisting that he doesn't care if he hurts him.
He's never treated his grandparents with the same hatred and disrespect that he usually reserves for us.
He's never had the Elders of our church pray over him. He's never needed to be moved into an empty room with nothing more than a mattress and bedding, for his own protection, and never needed an alarm on his door for the protection of everyone else.
I've never felt the need to hide my knives before.
And he's never been checked into a mental health facility.
Until today.
I haven't written for many weeks now. Just like the groanings of my soul that have replaced my words uttered in prayer, there is no language to express the feeling of hopelessness that lingers in our home, the evil that seemingly permeates our walls.
My son is tormented. I see it in his eyes.
We are tormented, too...and sometimes, when the knots in my chest...and in my husband's chest...threaten to choke out all hope, when we feel nearly sick to our stomachs with anxiety and can barely cope...some of these times, we are tempted to believe Satan's lies that our son will never be healed, that our family will never be happy, and that we will never be good enough parents.
But God's voice can drown out all others.
We hang on to Him.
His peace envelops our home when there is no peace to be found.
His love surrounds us when we cannot give love on our own.
His strength endures long after our own strength is spent.
He is our protector, our shield, our stronghold, and our very hope.
While not free from the world's pain, we are free from despair and hopelessness.
Our son can be, too, if he chooses to believe it.
His future is not devoid of hope, even now.
And that gives me something else to hang on to.
Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Come near to God and He will come near to you. James 4: 7-8a
Our children's struggle (consequently our struggle) with Attachment Disorder and trauma is physical, mental, and spiritual. We have seen this evidenced over and over throughout the past six years. We are seeking help from our church community as well as from the medical community, as we strongly believe that RAD (as well as other mental health issues) cannot be solely "fixed" by the ways of the world. Our children, who endured so much pain and trauma in their early years, need to be equipped to fight off the spiritual attacks they encounter and the memories, dreams, and fears that haunt them. Our kids need to learn to hang on to Jesus.
I just want something to hang on to.
These past few weeks - months, really - have been some of the most uncertain of our lives. Our home has turned into a sort of twisted war zone, with unprovoked hostility hedging in on every side. Every word has become an argument, every request has become a fight, every demand has become a full-blown rage.
Each "I love you" has been met with hatred and fury.
Thus has begun our life with a traumatized and Attachment Disordered child on the brink of adolescence.
We've seen it all before...kind of. We've seen the anger and the disrespect and the hatred, we've heard the screams, felt the kicks and the bites and the scratches and the pulling of hair, dealt with the heartache and muscle-ache of restraining a child-turned-animal as he unleashes every ounce of venom from within....unleashes it on those who love him the most.
Yes, we've seen it all before, but not quite like this.
He's never thrown furniture before. Toys, yes. Small objects, yes. But never a lamp. Or a chair. And never in the direction of his pregnant mother.
We've never had to call the police on him before.
He's never refused to go anywhere with us before, much less to church; never jumped from his loft bed to escape, needing to be chased through the house and forcibly put into the van.
He's never jumped from a moving vehicle before, never run in stocking feet through a cornfield and had to be chased down by his father.
He's never kicked his sisters and thrown pop bottles in the direction of the baby, insisting that he doesn't care if he hurts him.
He's never treated his grandparents with the same hatred and disrespect that he usually reserves for us.
He's never had the Elders of our church pray over him. He's never needed to be moved into an empty room with nothing more than a mattress and bedding, for his own protection, and never needed an alarm on his door for the protection of everyone else.
I've never felt the need to hide my knives before.
And he's never been checked into a mental health facility.
Until today.
I haven't written for many weeks now. Just like the groanings of my soul that have replaced my words uttered in prayer, there is no language to express the feeling of hopelessness that lingers in our home, the evil that seemingly permeates our walls.
My son is tormented. I see it in his eyes.
We are tormented, too...and sometimes, when the knots in my chest...and in my husband's chest...threaten to choke out all hope, when we feel nearly sick to our stomachs with anxiety and can barely cope...some of these times, we are tempted to believe Satan's lies that our son will never be healed, that our family will never be happy, and that we will never be good enough parents.
But God's voice can drown out all others.
We hang on to Him.
His peace envelops our home when there is no peace to be found.
His love surrounds us when we cannot give love on our own.
His strength endures long after our own strength is spent.
He is our protector, our shield, our stronghold, and our very hope.
While not free from the world's pain, we are free from despair and hopelessness.
Our son can be, too, if he chooses to believe it.
His future is not devoid of hope, even now.
And that gives me something else to hang on to.
Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Come near to God and He will come near to you. James 4: 7-8a
Our children's struggle (consequently our struggle) with Attachment Disorder and trauma is physical, mental, and spiritual. We have seen this evidenced over and over throughout the past six years. We are seeking help from our church community as well as from the medical community, as we strongly believe that RAD (as well as other mental health issues) cannot be solely "fixed" by the ways of the world. Our children, who endured so much pain and trauma in their early years, need to be equipped to fight off the spiritual attacks they encounter and the memories, dreams, and fears that haunt them. Our kids need to learn to hang on to Jesus.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Thankful for Grace
I'm nice most of the time.
I'm happy most of the time.
I'm striving to follow Christ most of the time.
But when my guard is down, I can be evil.
In the moments after my anger is provoked, I can turn into something far less flattering than what I want to be. Like a doctor-jekyl-and-mister-hyde type monster that impulsively says or does the first thing it's capable of doing. Like I've lost all control for those few seconds...or minutes...until I remember who I am in Christ and surrender my emotions to Him.
I've said some pretty awful things to those I love in those blinded seconds. I've been mean, ridiculous, unforgiving, hurtful, hateful, spiteful, revengeful, and worse.
UnChristlike.
My husband is used to my periodic short angry outbursts, the stupid things I say when I'm frustrated, the ones that I don't really mean at all once my emotions switch from anger to sadness to remorse to shame, when I hang my head and cry. Honestly, I don't think he takes me very seriously anymore, which maybe I've used as an excuse not to change. After all, he knows I don't really mean it. And it's over so fast that I'm the same happy, funny person in no time...sometimes before he even realizes what's going on.
In a strange parallel, I awoke this morning to a tattling 6-year-old whose sister had just told her that all her stuffed animals were dumb and that she wouldn't play with her for a year. Pretty obviously ridiculous, right? Wonderful Christian mom that I am, I had a discussion with my nine-year-old daughter about how her words and actions reveal what is truly in her heart. If the things she chooses to say and do are mean, untrue, and serve no purpose except to hurt or control, then what does that say about her heart? Is the desire of her heart to truly serve and follow Jesus? If so, shouldn't the things she says to other people reflect that?
One of my better talks, if I do say so myself.
Feeling smug, I got breakfast ready and then went to check my email, finding a note that my husband had forwarded me concerning a scheduling conflict we're trying to resolve between a dress rehearsal for our church's childrens' choir (which he directs) and our daughters' ballet recital. There was something in the email (it turned out to be an error) which I could have simply asked about, but instead I instantly jumped to the conclusion that he didn't care as much as I do that he attended the recital. Within seconds, I had hammered out an impulsive, uncaring, and disrespectful comment. I even had the thought while typing, "Well, this isn't very Christlike, Lisa.", to which I shot back "Oh, well!" and violently hit send.
It was then that I realized that I sent my reply to the church secretary instead of to my husband.
{insert crickets chirping}
Did I really just do that?
Yes, in fact, I did.
Oh. My. Goodness.
HORROR.
As I found out this morning, emails, unlike words, can't be taken back.
Wait a minute. Words can't be taken back either, can they? I just think they can. I think that when I've calmed down, apologized, and gone back to being the "Good Christian Girl", that my impulsive comments have left no mark on my marriage or my children.
This simply isn't true.
And after the initial embarrassment of realizing I'd just sent a nasty reply to an innocent church secretary, I also had to humble myself and claim a few other blatant sins.
1. I did NOT control my tongue (or in this case my fingers). Rather, I lashed out in anger.
2. This is definitely NOT the first time it's happened. I'm a repeat offender.
3. I did NOT respect my husband by calmly questioning him and giving him the opportunity to clarify.
4. I am a great big hypocrite.
Ouch.
I accept this humiliation as discipline from a loving God who finds me worthy of teaching and molding. I am humbled, and I'm profoundly thankful for the grace of my Father, my husband, and a certain secretary. I'm committed to working on it, taking the advice I gave to my daughter this morning and applying it more consistently to my own life...changing my heart from the inside out.
I don't want to be a hypocrite; I don't want to teach my children one thing and practice another, nor do I want to misrepresent Christ with my actions.
But since I'm a work in progress and am bound to stumble on occasion, I ask one thing of you:
If you ever get a nasty email from me, please graciously disregard it...and then forward it to my husband. There's a good chance it was meant for him.
Matthew 12:34 (ESV)
I'm happy most of the time.
I'm striving to follow Christ most of the time.
But when my guard is down, I can be evil.
In the moments after my anger is provoked, I can turn into something far less flattering than what I want to be. Like a doctor-jekyl-and-mister-hyde type monster that impulsively says or does the first thing it's capable of doing. Like I've lost all control for those few seconds...or minutes...until I remember who I am in Christ and surrender my emotions to Him.
I've said some pretty awful things to those I love in those blinded seconds. I've been mean, ridiculous, unforgiving, hurtful, hateful, spiteful, revengeful, and worse.
UnChristlike.
My husband is used to my periodic short angry outbursts, the stupid things I say when I'm frustrated, the ones that I don't really mean at all once my emotions switch from anger to sadness to remorse to shame, when I hang my head and cry. Honestly, I don't think he takes me very seriously anymore, which maybe I've used as an excuse not to change. After all, he knows I don't really mean it. And it's over so fast that I'm the same happy, funny person in no time...sometimes before he even realizes what's going on.
In a strange parallel, I awoke this morning to a tattling 6-year-old whose sister had just told her that all her stuffed animals were dumb and that she wouldn't play with her for a year. Pretty obviously ridiculous, right? Wonderful Christian mom that I am, I had a discussion with my nine-year-old daughter about how her words and actions reveal what is truly in her heart. If the things she chooses to say and do are mean, untrue, and serve no purpose except to hurt or control, then what does that say about her heart? Is the desire of her heart to truly serve and follow Jesus? If so, shouldn't the things she says to other people reflect that?
One of my better talks, if I do say so myself.
Feeling smug, I got breakfast ready and then went to check my email, finding a note that my husband had forwarded me concerning a scheduling conflict we're trying to resolve between a dress rehearsal for our church's childrens' choir (which he directs) and our daughters' ballet recital. There was something in the email (it turned out to be an error) which I could have simply asked about, but instead I instantly jumped to the conclusion that he didn't care as much as I do that he attended the recital. Within seconds, I had hammered out an impulsive, uncaring, and disrespectful comment. I even had the thought while typing, "Well, this isn't very Christlike, Lisa.", to which I shot back "Oh, well!" and violently hit send.
It was then that I realized that I sent my reply to the church secretary instead of to my husband.
{insert crickets chirping}
Did I really just do that?
Yes, in fact, I did.
Oh. My. Goodness.
HORROR.
As I found out this morning, emails, unlike words, can't be taken back.
Wait a minute. Words can't be taken back either, can they? I just think they can. I think that when I've calmed down, apologized, and gone back to being the "Good Christian Girl", that my impulsive comments have left no mark on my marriage or my children.
This simply isn't true.
And after the initial embarrassment of realizing I'd just sent a nasty reply to an innocent church secretary, I also had to humble myself and claim a few other blatant sins.
1. I did NOT control my tongue (or in this case my fingers). Rather, I lashed out in anger.
2. This is definitely NOT the first time it's happened. I'm a repeat offender.
3. I did NOT respect my husband by calmly questioning him and giving him the opportunity to clarify.
4. I am a great big hypocrite.
Ouch.
I accept this humiliation as discipline from a loving God who finds me worthy of teaching and molding. I am humbled, and I'm profoundly thankful for the grace of my Father, my husband, and a certain secretary. I'm committed to working on it, taking the advice I gave to my daughter this morning and applying it more consistently to my own life...changing my heart from the inside out.
I don't want to be a hypocrite; I don't want to teach my children one thing and practice another, nor do I want to misrepresent Christ with my actions.
But since I'm a work in progress and am bound to stumble on occasion, I ask one thing of you:
If you ever get a nasty email from me, please graciously disregard it...and then forward it to my husband. There's a good chance it was meant for him.
Matthew 12:34 (ESV)
You brood of vipers! How can you speak good, when you are evil? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.
James 3:5-6 (NIV)
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. 6 The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.
James 3:5-6 (NIV)
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. 6 The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The Doorway of Anger
I never used to be an angry person.
Don't get me wrong. I've never had trouble expressing anger when I actually felt it, but for the most part, I've always been a happy-to-live-each-moment kind of person. Opinionated, true. Willing to argue a valid point, yes. But not angry.
Not until I started mothering my traumatized children.
I know perfectly well that all children are frustrating, that they all disobey and manipulate and argue from time to time, and that even the nicest, most compliant kids are prone to the occasional tantrum. I have normal kids, have seen normal kids in action, and am perfectly aware of what they're capable of.
But I'm not talking about normal kids.
If you've never raised a traumatized or mentally ill child, a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder like mine, or Autism or FAS or a handful of other problems, I really don't feel like explaining what it's like right now. I've tried to explain it, I've tried to get people to understand, but no one does unless they've experienced it themselves. We've gotten a lot of "advice" from well-meaning parents that are doing a great job with their normal, healthy children (like "try counting to three...it works every time" and "all children need is love and consistency" and "just find their currency" and "maybe it's just food allergies"). But at this point, we just smile and say thanks and choose to forgive because we know they just don't get it.
We didn't either, until we got our kids. And then we understood what it really meant for someone to do absolutely whatever it takes to make you angry. To try to force you to hate them. To try to make you lose control, because all they want is to feel more powerful than you. The ability to control your emotions is cocaine to them, and RAD kids are addicts.
There I was at the beginning, having never heard of RAD, letting these sick children play with my anger and feed it and nurture it like a pet, all the while making them sicker. And then we have a diagnoses, and the pieces start to fit together, and I learn that I'm not supposed to let them make me angry.
And yet I can't stop being angry.
When we were in therapy for Miss M, I learned that a huge number of mothers of RAD kids are diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), having endured trauma themselves by simply raising their traumatized children. We discussed it, filled out evaluations for it, and the therapist felt certain that I suffer from PTSD.
But so what? It doesn't change anything, does it? Just because anger has a reason, it doesn't make angry words any less detrimental, and it doesn't mean you can pretend the problem is not there. It still has to be dealt with, and in many ways, especially as my kids' behaviors are falling more frequently into the "normal" category, God has been doing great things in His quest to eradicate impulsive anger from my life.
But just when I think I've got it under control, a week comes along like this one and I'm reminded how close my anger is to the surface. And I see how much I need God.
As only God could arrange it, the topic of our sermon this past Sunday was anger. It was a great sermon, full of wisdom, but the one point that was engraved on my heart went something like this: Anger itself is not a sin, it's a doorway. When you're angry, the door is opened, and someone IS going to walk through it. Will it be Satan? Will you allow him to control your anger? Or will you give it to God, so He can show His power in the midst of your weakness?
I desperately want to let God control my anger. I want Him to use it to make me more like Christ. Yet my daughter is refusing to respect my authority, her healing is backsliding, and she's provoking me every chance she gets. I've completely lost it with her twice in the last six days, allowing Satan to take my anger and run away with it, blinding me. And even when I haven't blown up, I can still feel the anger eating at me, feeding my resentment towards her and crippling our ability to bond. It's been a bad week, and something has got to change.
And so I ask for your help. Would you consider praying for me? When my door of anger is opened in the coming days, as it undoubtedly will be, please pray that I'll be able to let God in first so He can work His wonders in my heart. And when Satan comes barging through the door, pray that I can kick his sorry butt from here to kingdom come.
Don't get me wrong. I've never had trouble expressing anger when I actually felt it, but for the most part, I've always been a happy-to-live-each-moment kind of person. Opinionated, true. Willing to argue a valid point, yes. But not angry.
Not until I started mothering my traumatized children.
I know perfectly well that all children are frustrating, that they all disobey and manipulate and argue from time to time, and that even the nicest, most compliant kids are prone to the occasional tantrum. I have normal kids, have seen normal kids in action, and am perfectly aware of what they're capable of.
But I'm not talking about normal kids.
If you've never raised a traumatized or mentally ill child, a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder like mine, or Autism or FAS or a handful of other problems, I really don't feel like explaining what it's like right now. I've tried to explain it, I've tried to get people to understand, but no one does unless they've experienced it themselves. We've gotten a lot of "advice" from well-meaning parents that are doing a great job with their normal, healthy children (like "try counting to three...it works every time" and "all children need is love and consistency" and "just find their currency" and "maybe it's just food allergies"). But at this point, we just smile and say thanks and choose to forgive because we know they just don't get it.
We didn't either, until we got our kids. And then we understood what it really meant for someone to do absolutely whatever it takes to make you angry. To try to force you to hate them. To try to make you lose control, because all they want is to feel more powerful than you. The ability to control your emotions is cocaine to them, and RAD kids are addicts.
There I was at the beginning, having never heard of RAD, letting these sick children play with my anger and feed it and nurture it like a pet, all the while making them sicker. And then we have a diagnoses, and the pieces start to fit together, and I learn that I'm not supposed to let them make me angry.
And yet I can't stop being angry.
When we were in therapy for Miss M, I learned that a huge number of mothers of RAD kids are diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), having endured trauma themselves by simply raising their traumatized children. We discussed it, filled out evaluations for it, and the therapist felt certain that I suffer from PTSD.
But so what? It doesn't change anything, does it? Just because anger has a reason, it doesn't make angry words any less detrimental, and it doesn't mean you can pretend the problem is not there. It still has to be dealt with, and in many ways, especially as my kids' behaviors are falling more frequently into the "normal" category, God has been doing great things in His quest to eradicate impulsive anger from my life.
But just when I think I've got it under control, a week comes along like this one and I'm reminded how close my anger is to the surface. And I see how much I need God.
As only God could arrange it, the topic of our sermon this past Sunday was anger. It was a great sermon, full of wisdom, but the one point that was engraved on my heart went something like this: Anger itself is not a sin, it's a doorway. When you're angry, the door is opened, and someone IS going to walk through it. Will it be Satan? Will you allow him to control your anger? Or will you give it to God, so He can show His power in the midst of your weakness?
I desperately want to let God control my anger. I want Him to use it to make me more like Christ. Yet my daughter is refusing to respect my authority, her healing is backsliding, and she's provoking me every chance she gets. I've completely lost it with her twice in the last six days, allowing Satan to take my anger and run away with it, blinding me. And even when I haven't blown up, I can still feel the anger eating at me, feeding my resentment towards her and crippling our ability to bond. It's been a bad week, and something has got to change.
And so I ask for your help. Would you consider praying for me? When my door of anger is opened in the coming days, as it undoubtedly will be, please pray that I'll be able to let God in first so He can work His wonders in my heart. And when Satan comes barging through the door, pray that I can kick his sorry butt from here to kingdom come.
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