Thinking Logically Seems Impossible for Attachment Disordered Kids

Are you kidding? Logical thinking.
Are you kidding? Logical thinking.
For years, I have struggled with what I believed was a character disorder. I can’t make up my mind because I just don’t have the ability to think logically. It affects every relationship in life. But, there is hope if we can identify and work together.

Dear friends through adoption…

Last week, Bob and I were painting my office. I got all the color chips and showed him the best colors.

Within two hours, I changed my mind, and by the next morning, again. The following day, other colors and then back to the first.

“I just can’t track with you!” Bob said, leaving the room, shaking his head. This tendency has been a huge stress between us over our 51 years of marriage. Yes, adoption is surely a lifelong journey.

Then, I proceeded to hit myself over the head with a Bible verse….let your “yes” be “yes” and your “no” be “no.”

Why couldn’t I do that? Was I a wimpy Christian? What would God think about my spinelessness, not only on paint colors, but lifelong choices? Would he reject me like my birth mother did at reunion?

For the first time I realize that this inability to think logically is symptomatic of reactive attachment disorder.

Later, with paint colors strewn over the floor, Bob and I talked about attachment disorder and reached a new understanding. Shame rolled off me, like water over Niagra Falls.

Just before choosing the paint, Bob held up different colors repeatedly and so patiently to help me decide.

I felt understood.

No shame.

We can work on attachment disorder as a team now…at least this symptom of it.

Oh, and by the way, God has a special place in his heart for those of us who struggle.

Love to all…

 

The Game Changer for My Attachment Disorder

The Unwanted Adversarial Relationship

Trauma=Smoke Alarm in Brain

Can you imagine waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of your smoke alarm? Panic, right? Hasten to turn it off, right? Hate the loud, disturbing sound, right?

Adoptees and foster children live with a smoke alarm in their brains everyday, but no one knows it. Therefore, it doesn’t get turned off.

It goes off the moment we are taken away from our birth mothers. Or, for foster kids, multiple alarms go off over a span of time.

No one knows about the smoke alarm, nor do we.

We just live with it and it shows up in learning disorders, anger and rage issues, inability to think logically, sensory issues, stealing, lying, etc, etc.

What a relief it was for me to learn about this…even at the ripe old age of 72. Suddenly, all the stupid, wrong, clumsy, impulsive, idiotic things I have done throughout life washed away.

I felt God’s unconditional love.

I could see myself as a precious baby, a teen that had special needs that weren’t met, and an adult who has worked so hard to appear normal.

What a relief.

(Credit: Shefalie Chandra: Smoke Alarm)

 

My Set-Up for Reactive Attachment Disorder

 

Warm tears landed on my newborn body, like a spring rain.

I wanted to feel them forever.

To my once-orphaned delivery doctor, life was something to be celebrated, to shed happy tears over.

I couldn’t wait to feel his tears again.

What was it about those tears that soaked into my soul? Were they saturated with hope and comfort? Were they bright lights at the end of the traumatic tunnel of living my first nine months of life in the womb of a mother who fantasized abortion? Or, were they seeds, sown in secret, to produce a great harvest later in life?

Whatever it was, I wanted more.

Orphan Doctor held me up, gazed into my big brown eyes, and smiled.

But then Nurse Kratchit bent close to Orphan Doctor’s ear, whispering.

Orphan Doctor’s eyes pooled with tears.

What did she whisper?

Was there something wrong with me?

Was I ugly? Too little?

Is that why she suddenly whisked me off to a dimly-lit room where pleading and plaintiff cries hovered over me, like smog in LA?

Where was Orphan Doctor?

Where were those large, gentle hands that welcomed me to earth with orphan tears?

Why didn’t he come back?

Then, Nurse Kratchit shoved me into a box made of glass.

I kicked and screamed bloody murder, but the sounds of my cries bounced back at me, like ping pong balls.

No one hears.

And, so I give up and “go inside.” It’s safe in there.

Then, I hear Nurse Kratchit waslking near the glass box which was going to be my dwelling for ten days.

Proudly, she announces the name she’s chosen for me.

Baby X.