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.

I admit it, I’m part of the problem.  The great 'fixer' -  that's what I've always been.  If there’s the smallest of problems, I’ll bend over backward to make it right.  To me it is 'keeping the peace'.  Psychologists call it enabling.  It’s confusing.  Maybe, I’m getting too old to understand.  Helping my biological son and two daughters all their lives never seemed to hurt; they've turned out great.  Now they tell me when I help Alex, I’m not 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.  The time and energy I have for my grandchildren has become sparse.  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 refuses to call 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 correct, I never will.

She had been taken from her mother because of severe neglect.  Her father was in jail.  Slight mental retardation, schizophrenia, and drugs were just some of the obstacles her mother faced.  The system intervened, terminating parental rights after years of Alex being in and out of foster care.  Removed from the home, time in a foster home, reunited with her mother was a familiar pattern for Alex.  It was all she know; even what she'd come to expect.  Each time the neglect worsened.  Her mother loved her; but she 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 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.  The lightbulb flickered 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 are wrong.  ‘Cause when Daddy is home, he 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.”


Link to Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - A Glimpse Inside  (18+) Alex begins to show signs we cannot ignore. #1583465 by audra_branson