The book

On this particular day, I felt extremely alone. I had built up that day in my own head, believing whole heartedly that I would be coming home with a new sense of purpose, direction, support, and guidance. I had been hanging by the very end of my rope, and thought the rescue team was finally showing up. But instead of beginning the process (and I did expect a process, not sudden cure) of pulling me back up to where both feet would again be able to stand on their own, they just shook the rope. I was barely hanging on to the thing, anyway. It didn't take much of a shake to send me spiraling down to the self pity vastness below.

That day, I did choose to share with the world (the world being the 5 of you who read my blog) my grief. Only words can't describe how I really felt when I typed that post. What you don't know is how my husband reacted when I spilled all to him later that night. I'm aware the publicity I give him here on the blog doesn't really paint the accurate picture of him. The few times I've mentioned him it was because his reaction was not exactly what I needed at the moment. On that night, he was equally blunt and did not indulge me in my pity party. Only, this time, he was right. Maybe he's right every time, but I won't give him that much credit. "What are you so upset about? We know her so much better than they do, anyway. And we know her Creator."

So, we hit our knees. Again. They were still bruised and carpet burned, as I suppose knees should always be. I've clung to the God breathed words of James, who said true wisdom comes only from God, and that he gives when asked. I began to seek out websites and even blogs where mothers share their deepest thoughts and struggles through fostering and adoption. I found this mom, and this site, and Annie suggested a book by these guys. The aloneness faded. I'd chase rabbits explaining all the details, but the short of it is our current financial situation leaves a lot to be desired. My mom graciously ordered the book for me, though, and I'll be picking it up from her tomorrow. I hope I'm not setting myself up for another downfall. You'd think I'd learn not to place so much hope on one event, or book (unless it's God's precious Word). But here I am again, hardly able to stand waiting to peer inside it's cover.

Many of the sites I've found list symptoms of RAD or other attachment disorders. I had seen several lists, but only recently saw some lists that included this symptom: Parents seem hostile and angry.

I'm no psychiatrist. And that symptom has not been explained. I can only speculate what I think it means as a mother of a young girl struggling with an attachment disorder. I can think of a couple of ways that applies. But the biggest thing that struck me when I saw that listed as a symptom was relief. I'm not making this up. I'm not making it out to be worse than it is. I'm not the only parent in the world that outsiders are watching and thinking I'm not being fair to this kid. Yes, she's only 4. Yes, she's as cute as a button. Yes, she can charm and please and has fantastic manners and looks as innocent and sweet as a lollipop. So, when she tells her Sunday school teacher that she can not play with toys because her mommy would be mad and doesn't allow her to play, and when her teacher mentions this to me while my cute-as-a-button RADling watches with utter glee and complete satisfaction, it is still me that looks out of control and ridiculously overreactive as the smoke runs out of my ears. A hostile, and angry response.

It's like that all the time. The action of the child in and of itself does not seem that bad. It is beyond most people's comprehension that one so young can master mind such a scenerio. That she can, indeed, pull the strings of most puppets around her. That sounds so insane. I hear myself. I realize how ridiculous it sounds. And before her placement with us, I'd think anyone who said such was crazy, too. That sweet little face who has been through so much trauma can not possibly be bad enough to elicit those hostile reactions from her mother. I saw what she did, her mom is making it out to be such a bigger deal than it is. She's just being a typical 4 year old. 7 days, I say. Live with me. For about a week. Then we can talk about this.

The flip side of that is, though, that on some level I am hurt. The triangulation (pitting one adult against another), the pushing away, the frustration. And I'm sure there are times when my reaction is not what it should be. It's battle fatigue. Just fatigue. Just plain tired of fighting the fight and trying to be affectionate and loving.

So, that's where we are. It's honest. Brutally honest. As honest as I can possibly be and still preserve the privacy of my baby. I'm beginning to understand. I know she's operating out of fear. I know that no matter how hard she's pushing right now, that there is a tiny beating heart in there that wants my unconditional love. Even if her brain hasn't figured that out, yet. I also know she's worth every tear I shed. She's worth sleepless nights and carpet burned knees. And if your knees aren't already burned, but you'd like them to be, burn them over her. And us. And other mothers who are battling attachment disorders. It's tiresome work.