I’m just finding time to catch up on the firestorm of responses that Nancy has garnered over on the Reactive Attachment Disorder blog about her daughter Amy. Having known Nancy and Amy and the whole family for several years now (and provided respite for them a few years back), I know that Nancy has both intense love and a realistic view of Amy.

I also know Nancy has an uncanny knack for saying out loud those thoughts that the rest of us try to push back into the dark recesses of our brains. Thoughts about parenting, love, attachment and failure that not many people want to look squarely in the face.

And for that, apparently, Nancy is vilified. I’m always amazed at how angry Nancy’s posts make some people. Perhaps it’s because I know her and Amy, know how much she loves Amy, know that Amy knows her mom loves her, and know how little Amy does for herself. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen the two interact and seen that Nancy does indeed treat Amy with warmth, while still trying (against lots of odds) to hold her accountable for the choices (or in her case, non-choices) she makes in her life.

So what are people so angry about? Well, I can only surmise that they are angry because Nancy is voicing their fear (and it’s become an reality for her) “What if my child never gets better?” Most of us who are living with traumatized children have asked this question (usually in a secret dark place in complete silence). On most days, I refuse to let myself go there.

As I was walking the dog last night, I let my mind wander on our day. It had not been a very good one. LuLu had been agitated and snarky all day. She had threatened me and Kay more than once, and I had replied with anger…because I was tired and fed up. Now I can usually bounce back very quickly from my own angry mood and rationalize that LuLu “can’t help it”. But instead my mind began thinking about what the ultimate end of LuLu’s “can’t help it” might be. My biggest fear (I’m about to say it out loud) is that an adult LuLu will injure or kill someone in a fit of rage or that her threatening behaviors will get her into a situation where someone else will kill her (this is even more likely).

As my mind rested on this scenario, I tried to imagine what it would be like, as her mother, for LuLu to meet either of these ultimate fates. And I realized that I would feel an odd combination of sorrow, guilt and relief. Yes, I said relief.

The thing that makes parenting children with mental and emotional challenges, or children who suffer from the effects of trauma, attachment disorder…however you classify it…so much different than parenting healthy children, or even children with physical handicaps, is that sense of relief that the parents feel when the child’s fate is finally sealed, and the parent is no longer responsible for and waiting for the final outcome. That inevitable, horrible event that you had imagined all your child’s life had finally come to fruition. To those outside of this type of parenting, saying you would feel relief in the face of a tragic ending is tantamount to admitting you’re a cruel, heartless parent.

But I know I’m neither cruel, nor heartless. I’m only looking for an endpoint, for a time when I won’t have to be on duty 24/7 or worried about exactly where my child was, what she was doing and how long until she blew out of that situation. And in that way, I’m pretty sure Nancy and I have much in common. Although the likely scenarios we envision as our children’s fates may be different; the realization that is a high probability (if you’re placing bets) that they are not going to live “happily-ever-after”. And let’s face it, regardless of what our cognitive brains know (i.e. we went to the ends of the earth for our children), we still question ourselves. Did I do everything I could? Did I try hard enough? If only…

As Shakespeare would say, “therein lies the rub”. That fear of failure as a parent always gets in the way. As much as I tell myself I’m doing all I can, the truth is, that when LuLu is grown, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve sacrificed, my whole life’s effort may not have been enough to save her from some violent fate. Nancy, too, did all she could, and, at least at the present time, it looks as if it has not been enough to keep Amy from bombing out at life. When other adoptive parents read this, it strikes fear into their own hearts. If this can happen to other parents, parents who look like they truly have poured love, time, effort into their children, then could it happen to me? Could I “fail”?

Truthfully, I must tell you that if you measure your success or failure by whether your child gets better or not…yes, there’s a high probability you will fail.

And even if you try hard not to measure your own success by how your children turn out, you will still have those days where their failures will seem like your failures, and where you truly wish that the end of the story would just come…regardless of the outcome…so that you can feel that sense of relief.