Category Archives: radical attachment disorder

The Formula for Attachment Disorder

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Of course I have wracked my brain about this–has it always been there?

Have there been generations of attachment disorder kids? I don’t think so. I think that RAD is a mostly modern problem, ushered in with the advent of formula for infants, ushered in as quickly as nursing mamas have been ushered out.

Up until the invention of fake breastmilk everyone had assumptions about the survival of infants: for at least the first few months someone with breasts was required.

We see nursing mothers (and surrogates) in great art and ancient sculpture. The baby who survived survived at the breast, able to spend crucial hours close to the face of love.

Attachment disorder is the opposite of that.. At the very most crucial time in a baby’s life, detaching a child from a consistent, nurturing presence is deadly–if not for the body, then absolutely for the soul.

Lots and lots and lots of people have been nurtured and loved and bottle-fed. But make no mistake–the advent of bottle-feeding is at the heart of the change that has robbed our poorest and most vulnerable babies of the love that would grow their souls.

The easiest way to “solve” the problem of attachment disorder is to make nursing a priority in our culture, and start valuing the power of nurture–breast or bottle, babies need snuggle time and a regular source of love.

There is no substitute for love.

When we are weak

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This was over a decade ago. A small storefront church, a young mother speaking.

She spoke about a children’s song–

Jesus loves me this I know/for the Bible tells me so/little ones to him belong/they are weak, but he is strong/

The song is so simple, so elemental, but it is only a portion of a longer hymn few of us know or sing.

We like the idea of Jesus being strong until he requires something of us.

We like the idea of Jesus being strong until he requires us to acknowledge our weakness.

We are weak. All of us. There is not a living creature on the planet who can stave off death, yet we cling to the illusion of our self-sufficiency.

The young mother that day was focused on the call of the Gospel–one man able to save us from death forever, and how to bind that good news to her children, all God’s children.

How many times have you heard a person cry out in grief and pain and then seen people answer–

stay strong/you are strong.

No. You are not. None of are. We are weak. That is the point–we are weak. He is strong.
So when sin and grief and pain hit you hard remember this: the song is true.

We are weak
He is strong
Only his strength can save us
From the swirling darkness of this
Dying world

Numbered with the transgressors

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Not quite four years ago.

It was a watershed moment. I looked around the courtroom at the other bewildered parents, frankly wishing that my (adopted) son was just a weed dealer or boat thief.

He had done so much worse, and to people who were too young, innocent, and precious to deserve such terrible affliction.

I whined to God–why?! Why me? Why us? Why this?

Too much to bear…

That was my line of thinking until steady eyed Jesus reminded me of the thing He had done for me–

…numbered with the transgressors

I was numbered with the transgressors.

The message was clear–if He, blameless God, could be counted with the evildoers, I could stand this terrible heartbreak and shame.

After all, He was numbered for me, an actual transgressor.

We often forget what misery we have bought but not yet fully paid for in our rebellion against Love.

Love, heartbroken for His children. All His children.

My Joy

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John 2:9-10 (NIV)
and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside [10] and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”

Pour the water first
Jesus is coming
Joy.

About That Biker Bar..

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His mind is broken. I know this, but it doesn’t mitigate the pain of what he did to us–his adopted family and especially the young children whose innocence he violated.

I told people about this and they had the uniformly shocked look of a colonoscopy patient.

Especially when I articulated my anger.

I put it this way–

I want to take him to a biker bar and tell them what he did then let then deal with him.

As though I had been to a biker bar…
As though this were a real thing I could do….
As though it would help…

Our relationship has been winnowed down to rare, monosyllabic emails.

Are you ok?
Love,
Mom

I am ok.
Happy bday

We do not trust each other.

So I do not tell him what I would tell you–

the hurt goes on in the lives of his victims. They grieve. We all grieve. And there is a terrible loneliness as well.

I understand that while the bikers are imaginary, a way for me to substantiate the demand for justice, justice itself demands an accounting.

Leaving me the free time to mourn. To grieve for what has been lost and a future in this most uncertain world.

No Threadbare God

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She tells me a story
That haunts me all day
And into the night

About ordinary love

I run a line down memory
Not just mine but hers
Especially hers
All that I did not see

Plays out in normal…
nightmares sometimes happen in broad daylight

Chatty conversations with the devil
Always
Turn into shouting matches

I beg God, please…
Rain down mercy from heaven on these little ones
They do not deserve this

Heal us.

When I catch a glimpse of Him
No threadbare God
Ever
Again.

How to be a failure

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First of all, let me restate for the record:

I am an egregious sinner and a (to quote my adopted daughter)–“failed parent.”

So yeah. Don’t be me:)

Second, a story…

When I first became a parent it was to a 12 year old boy who had been through hell.

He flipped out fast, threw rocks at our neighbors’ cars, and his caseworker told us our only option was to call the police.

Our next two charges we kept, despite the fact that they screamed at the top of their lungs 2-3 hours a day.

We lived in a cute little neighborhood. Imagine our neighbors’ chagrin when the howling started and their tremendous relief when we finally moved.

Imagine being young, reasonably cute and surrounded by a maelstrom of LOUD everywhere you went.

I still can’t believe we did it.

But we did.

Because we believed

In Jesus

Still believe, actually.

Before I wrote this I asked my oldest biological child how how life would have been different for this child and the family if I had followed advice we have encountered over and over about hiding our adopted son’s predations.

The answer was a chilling thing–

If I had, if we had, hidden the crimes against our children and supported their predator, we would have unleashed darkness on our children.

In other words–we had to tell the truth, be the failures in the eyes of family, church, and community to succeed in the one thing that matters–showing our children they are precious.

In fact I would say this to all of them the same–you are precious.

And if you are a threat to yourselves or others I will be the first person to call the police.

Because, my dear, we all deserve the law–it’s gravity and protection.

Beneath a grim and unavoidable Cross.

RAD Memories

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I had a dream a few nights ago. I had no money, no means of buying things. I had been given the task of engaging my adopted daughter (who has disowned me) in a conversation.

Because it is a dream, I choose to discuss an array of roasted and cooked chicken that is behind a butcher’s counter.

I try to keep the conversation very neutral, very chicken-focused.

Because when your kid is RAD that is how you learn to roll…even in your subconscious.

I am going to start laying out my memories of life with my adopted children. Like an old woman pulling sweaters from the attic. I need to organize this thing….the life we lived together.

The first thing you should know is the last thing that happened–she cut me off because she suspected I had reported her brother….suspected him of child abuse.

Ironically, as with so many things before, she unleashed her anger on the alleged reporter instead of facing the crime.

The terrible crime.

Hostage Negotiation?

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The car was dark and I was not driving when he said that he would go head first into a truck if he had to go to prison.

Cell phones cut in and out. Did he say head into? Drive into?

I was not sure how to put words into a string of meaningful units. All I could think of was how awful that would be–a spreading tragedy.

I said,

As your mother I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want you to kill yourself.

I also would prefer he not kill anyone else.

I need to say these things out loud but I also need to say–I think his impulse for self-preservation is very strong.

RAD parenting–no hugs, no learning

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Recently I have wanted to find a book, a blog, a map for what happens to reactive attachment kids when they grow up. I haven’t found it yet and it’s absence in my life has been a reason to keep writing.

No two human beings respond to the same life trauma in the same way. One dude with a lonely, difficult childhood invents physics, another robs banks.

Same with RAD kids. Everyone gets a chance to write the story of their own lives. “My” RAD charges are not writing great stories.

In addition to a tendency to lie rather flagrantly and manipulate people without shame, the RAD adults I know are bullies, using the force of emotion and accusation to intimidate.

I worry about the children in their care.

Children whose babyhood and childhood begin to mirror the lives of their mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts–young people who have not come to terms with their own childhoods and the toxic wounds created by the absence of love.