Chapter 2 - Fix my Angel

Sociopath, Reactive Attachment Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder - these are all one in the same to me.  I don’t care what you call it.  Just tell me how to fix my daughter.

There, I admitted it.  I’m part of the problem.  I’m a ‘fixer’.  I always have been.  If there’s the smallest of problems, I’ll bend over backward to make it right.  I call it ‘keeping the peace’.  I’ve learned psychologists call it enabling.  It’s confusing.  Maybe, I’m just getting too old to understand.  I’ve helped my biological son and two daughters all their lives, and they’ve turned out great.  Apparently, when I help Alex, I’m not helping.  I’m hurting her.  Well, really not just her.  Everyone is affected.  My marriage is strained to say the least.  My children are frustrated; I fear they are even resentful.  I don’t have as much time or energy for my grandchildren as I would like.  And somewhere along the way, my friends disappeared.

If I know it’s not right to fix Alex’s mistakes, why do I do it?  Partly, because I’m selfish.  I’m always hoping that she’ll look at me, and the hardness will be gone; maybe she’ll even hug me and whisper ‘thank you’.  Almost a decade and a half later, I’m still waiting.

It wasn’t always this hard.  The first two years were magical.  I felt my life had purpose again.

It was my thirtieth year of teaching kindergarten in a small, rural community when I met Alex.  That’s about 1,200 five and six-year-olds that have skipped into and out of my life.  And though each touched my heart in their unique way, none had gripped my soul the way little Alex did.

She was in foster care when she entered my classroom.  By the end of the year, I would no longer just be her teacher.  I was her guardian.  Alex has been my daughter ever since, but I find it difficult to call myself her mother, because she has never called me that.  When she was little, she called me Miss Jane, and as she got older she shortened it to Jane.  I’ve never heard an ‘I love you, Mom’ from her.  If the experts are right, I never will.

She had been taken from her mother because of severe neglect.  Her father was currently in jail.  Slight mental retardation, schizophrenia, and drugs were just some of the obstacles her mother faced.  The system intervened, terminating her parental rights after years of Alex being in and out of foster care.  She had been taken from and reunited with her mother more than eight times.  Each time the neglect worsened.  Her mother loved her; she just didn’t have the capacity to care for her.

Though Alex was withdrawn, other children were attracted to her.  It was a silent charisma.  They would flock to her during recess.  And when they played, they would do anything she said.  It was if she had orchestrated playtime in her mind beforehand.  She told them exactly what to do, when to do it, and what to say.  For some reason they thrived on it.  Looking back, I think perhaps they were going through what I’m now facing on a different level.  They believed if they did what she wanted, she would accept them.

One particular play time stands out in my mind.  Alex and a little girl, Gina, were playing in the playhouse.  I was eavesdropping as I often did.  Hearing children’s imaginations come to life in a creative way, lights up something inside you.

“You must dance to enter the castle,” Alex commanded.

“Like this?”  The little girl giggled as she did a twirl.

“No!  Like this.”  Alex shook her tiny hips, flipped her hair, jumped up, and performed a low curtsey.  “You must do it just like that.  Come on, do it. Everyone’s watching!”

“Who is everyone?” Gina asked with anticipation.

“Just some people. Dance before they leave,” she insisted.

“Can it be princes and princesses?”

Alex paused.  This part hadn’t been planned out.  Then the lightbulb came on, and she answered proudly.  “No, no, no.  You are dancing for the angel and the bitch.”

My mouth dropped open as Gina’s did too.  Alex looked confused as to why her classmate wasn’t dancing.  Pulling myself together, I hurried over and gently pulled Alex away.  Bending down, so that we were eye to eye, I asked, “Alex why would you say that?”

“Say what?”

“About who Gina should dance for.”

“Because I don’t like to play princess,” she responded innocently.

“Alex, that word you said is not nice.”

Bewilderment covered her face.

“Bitch is not a nice word.  We don’t say it at school or home.”

“Miss Jane, you must be wrong.  ‘Cause in my home, Daddy says I’m his angel and mommy is his bitch.”

A tear slid down my face as I realized this precious gift of a child had seen too much in her five years.  In that moment, I prayed to God.  “Please, help me fix this angel.”

WC - 841

Total wc 1252