I went to see August on December 21st. The prison system allows for visits every two weeks. His brother was coming to visit on Sunday and I wanted to get to see him as close to Christmas as possible. His father and I had sent him some extra food and clothing items from the ordering system that we can order from back in the middle of November and they still had just arrived. He was excited to show me the new shoes we had gotten him. He said he wasn’t going to wear them until our visit. It was so cute.
I got there a little later than I planned because the traffic was really bad. Families traveling to visit for the holidays since school had just gotten out the day before. I imagined I was the only one on the way to the prison to visit my son. Since he’s been moved it’s over a 90-minute drive to get there. And remembering in the morning to take off all the jewelry I always wear, don’t put on the underwire bra, bring the $20 in quarters and the driver’s license–all the things that will be necessary to get admitted in–is a nerve-racking ordeal.
He was in a pretty good mood when we finally got in the room together. He’s been on a tattooing frenzy recently. Apparently there are some talented artists in there and August has bartered for quite a bit of work all over his body. He has asked for pictures to use as examples for additional work and our visits always include updates about the latest additions to the canvas that is him. I know it could always be worse but the idea of that sweet baby skin getting permanently covered with black ink drives me nuts.
There’s also always some arguing when we visit. His anger and frustration at his situation lives just below the surface. And his solution is far from rational. He wants revenge on anyone he thinks has wronged him and in a violent and impulsive way. He doesn’t care about consequences. And he thinks he could beat someone up and get away with it. His psychopathology lives that deep. He sees no value in not wasting that much energy on those negative feelings. Its the side of him that scares me.
Ending the visits are always sad. This one moreso because of the holidays. I knew I was going home and the next day his brother was coming and we’d have a happy Christmas together. And this past Saturday, my extended family gathered together in Cincinnati. August knew we were going to be together that day.
We talked to August on Christmas Day and he remarked that he was spending another Christmas in prison. It’s been so long since he was home for a Christmas I can’t remember when. The sadness in his voice was so hard to hear. I talked about how it was up to him to make sure it didn’t happen again. He knows. I just don’t know if he can do the work to make the changes he has to make. Reactive attachment disorder runs his brain. I always hate what it’s done to August’s life but this time of the year more than ever.
Maybe next year he’ll be home. Maybe next year I’ll wake up with both of my boys under my roof. I don’t know. Some of that is up to August. And some is up to the powers that be in the justice system of the State of Indiana. But we mark another holiday this way. And I am thankful he is safe and warm and not hungry. Happy New Year to all of you.
Until Next Time,
Shannon
Personality Disorder. For information about it, you can check it out 
Fast forward a few years and you’re sitting in a restaurant in Hollywood, CA where you’ve paid a lot of money to go and you’re trying to have a special moment and you get this:
Much of it is normal sullen teenager but changes have started happening that are not what you expected. There is rage. There is hatred. He’s on medications that treat the symptoms but the cause lives in his body like a parasite you cannot kill.
And words come out of him sometimes like he is possessed. And you wish that he was because then you could blame the devil inside him and not the sweet boy you wish he still was who is now saying he hates you.
When August first got diagnosed I thought, “If I’d just never put him on the school bus…” He learned a lot of his colorful language there. His father and I were very careful not to curse in the house though as his RAD emerged that got harder and harder! When he would be raging and want to push our buttons he would just say, “shit, shit shit” over and over again. That’s when I learned from his psychiatrist that putting soap in a child’s mouth isn’t appropriate any more. As I have mentioned in past blogs we did as much harm as we did good early on in learning about RAD and how to parent August effectively but in that instance it was the only thing that made it stop. This was when he was maybe 10. He went on to use many more curse words but for some reason early on that was his favorite. He seemed to like the sound of it best.
As an adoptive parent you fear hearing your child say, “You’re not my real mom.” It’s like a dagger to the heart. Children have the ability to fill you with more love than you ever thought possible and also take it away in one breath. With August, for better or worse, that became one of the least horrible things he said. He talked in his middle school years about killing us, killing himself, wishing we were dead, all of which prompted his placement in the residential treatment center in Missouri. When we got ready to leave, I hoped for a tearful goodbye to show some signs of attachment and he was able to provide another kick in the gut with, “If you’re not going to take me with you then just leave.”
As a high-school age man-child he felt entitled to use all the curse words he knew. Which were plenty. “Fuck” became a punctuation mark, an adjective, a exclamation, you name it. He didn’t care that it upset me, that only made it more fun. He didn’t care about using it at school or with the police. That adorable face became unrecognizable to me whenever it spoke because it spewed hatred-filled, awful words. He manipulated and threatened and spoke with no feeling in his voice at all. But you could feel all the hurt in every word that came out of his mouth. All the pain he didn’t know how to process. All the loss and anger he feels and doesn’t know what to do with. It’s all in there trying to find an outlet and he is trying with every horrible word to control it. Not letting anyone else help him and making it worse every time he pushes someone away with the hurtful things he says.
Since he’s been in prison much of that has not changed. He’s tried some amazing cons on his father and I to get money. When we don’t fall for them the tirades are pretty amazing but at least now I can hang up the phone.
But more often there are these pleasant, calm phone calls. He asks me first what I’m doing and how I am. We talk about books and movies and my garden and my job. We talk about the family. When we visit together we talk about the past and things we used to do. He tells me about things that happened when he was living on the streets that both scare me to death and break my heart. Both of the phone calls and the in-person visits end with his saying “I love you” first. With a tone that says he means it. Hard to know for sure but I think so.
I’ll take it.
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