"I Just Can't Have You In My Life Right Now." - Hope and support for Christian parents who long for restoration with their estranged adult child

Chapter 1 of my upcoming book...

Notes:

My son has given his blessing to write about him. I have changed his name here, although he said I didn’t have to. He has read what I have written and said, “It’s all true.” We both sincerely hope it helps those who read our story.

I write from a Christian perspective, but the pain of estrangement and steps for healing are the same.

I’m open to feedback and comments, or if you see an error or have a suggestion, please feel free to point them out.

Chapter 1: Understanding what happened

“I just can’t have you in my life right now.”

Those words may echo through your mind over and over again, haunting you when you have a moment of quiet, keeping you unsettled as you try to get through your day, and stealing precious hours of sleep from you.

You worry that you’ll never have the opportunity to make amends.

You worry that your grandchildren won’t know who you are.

You worry that your friends will judge you or think you must have been a horrible parent for your child to cut you out of their life.

You wonder, “What did I do that was so wrong?” Or the opposite - you know exactly what you did, and you’ve beaten yourself up more times than you can count.

So much guilt, so much shame. So much regret, and so much pain.

My heart hurts for the moms who were in horrible situations that they had to escape from. For the ones who were overwhelmed because there was no one else to pick up the slack. For the parents who had their own unhealed trauma and unknowingly took it out on their children. For the dads who didn’t know any better than what was modeled for them by their own fathers, working countless hours each day to provide for their families, not realizing that years later, their child would resent them for not coming to their baseball games or being there to tuck them in.

Even if the relationship is never restored, there is still a way forward—a path to healing, peace, and a life filled with purpose and love.

The Dysfunction Starts Long Before They Say Goodbye

“These might be the last messages I ever get from him.”

I was cleaning up my computer when I came across some texts from my son and some emails back and forth. They were from 2012 and 2013, before he moved to Washington and during the time he was there. I remember thinking at the time, “These might be the last messages I ever get from him.”

So, no matter the content and no matter how painful the messages were to read (and re-read), I carefully copied and pasted them into an email to myself.

I was considering a trip to Washington state where he was living. He seemed to not be looking forward to my visit, basically telling me he wouldn’t have time (and wouldn’t be making time) to see me, so “Why the h*** would you come if you knew I wasn’t going to see you?”

That pain sent me right back to the moment I saw those two little lines appear—clear, bold, and full of heartbreak.

The baby I wasn’t ready for

The two little lines showed up, bright and bold, declaring that I was pregnant. So many people look forward to that moment. So many celebrate when they see those two little lines.

There was just one problem – I was nowhere near ready. Plus, I didn’t know which of the couple of “options” was this little one’s father. (If that’s not shameful and humiliating, I don’t know what is.)

I went to my bedroom, in the basement of the four-bedroom house I’d recently moved into. (My roommates were Darren, Darren, and Mike. I’m sure my parents loved that.) I screamed a four-letter word and lay down on my bed and sobbed. The rest of the house was silent. One of the Darrens (who I later married), told me later that Mike wondered what was wrong. Darren knew. But he didn’t let on that he knew.

I was a student at the time, attending college classes to become a social worker and working as a server at a couple of restaurants. I had recently ended a long-term serious relationship with the guy I thought I would marry, and spent the next month working, going to class, and partying. Because I couldn’t afford the rent on my own, I answered a “roommates wanted” ad and moved into the house. Darren and I hit it off, and my pregnancy progressed.

I never considered having an abortion, but I did consider placing my baby for adoption, even meeting with a social worker, along with the “option” that seemed most likely to me. In the end, paternity testing showed that it was the other guy who was my baby’s father.

When my son was 17 months old, Darren and I got married, and soon after that, my little boy’s biological father terminated his parental rights to allow Darren to adopt. Our daughter came along three years later.

From the outside, we seemed like the perfect little family, a mom and dad, a brother and a sister, and a dog and cat. Awww.

Things were far from perfect, though.

Tristan’s birth story

My relationship with my son had a rough start. He was unplanned, and, quite frankly, I was not ready to become a mother. He was born prematurely, had feeding problems, and was difficult to soothe. All the while, I had undiagnosed and untreated depression that only got worse when my daughter was born 3 years later.

Tristan was born 4 ½ weeks early. Weighing 5 lbs, 11 oz when he was born, he dropped down to 4 lbs 10 oz before he started putting on weight. I nursed, but he would frequently projectile vomit. Nurses and doctors disregarded my concerns, saying things like, “I’m sure it’s just a little spit-up.” I felt so dismissed.

On top of that, he was jaundiced and had to sleep in a little “suitcase” for light treatments. What was hardest about that was the near-daily trips to the clinic to get his bilirubin level checked, which meant near-daily pokes on his heel to get a drop of blood. He would recoil at the slightest touch of his foot, intuitively knowing the pain that would come next.

He was difficult to soothe, and he had other difficult medical issues as well. At that time, I didn’t know how traumatic these childhood illnesses could be for my baby.

After my daughter became a mother, I saw how she and others who had babies would sit in the back seat with their little ones, reassuring them of their presence, and how she stayed with her premature son in the hospital after he was born. When my son had to spend an overnight in the hospital due to dehydration when he was about 10 months old, the hospital staff didn’t offer to let me stay with him, and it didn’t occur to me to ask. I can only imagine how scary it must have been for him.

A description of Tristan

If Tristan was going to have a bad day, you’d know it by the time we left the house in the morning. He seemed to have these mood swings, but it wasn’t until he was in 3^rd grade that there was clearly a pattern. It was as though every 3 months, he would rev up and things would become very, very difficult, and then the next three months were like a cooling off period, before revving up again.

His first-grade teacher suggested we have him assessed by a mental health professional. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but when we met with the psychologist so he could go over the results of his evaluation, I just felt blamed for all his problems. I didn’t take him back, but with the weight of hindsight, I sure wish I would have gotten over myself and given my son the chance to get the help he truly needed.

Instead, he went on to develop greater emotional and behavior problems, even to the point of not wanting to live anymore.

I was at a Girl Scout meeting at church with my daughter, and Tristan called me, tearfully asking that I come home. When I arrived, I found him in his room, clutching his BB gun close to his chest. That led to his first mental health hospitalization. He was 10 years old.

Over the next few years, we took him to several different therapists, he saw a psychiatrist for medication management, we participated in family counseling, and he had several more inpatient and partial hospitalizations. At one point, it was recommended that he undergo an assessment with a therapist who specialized in attachment disorder.

Reactive Attachment Disorder

The Mayo Clinic states that “(r)eactive attachment disorder is a rare but serious condition in which an infant or young child doesn't establish healthy attachments with parents or caregivers. Reactive attachment disorder may develop if the child's basic needs for comfort, affection and nurturing aren't met and loving, caring, stable attachments with others are not established. … Without proper treatment, reactive attachment disorder can continue for several years and may have lifelong consequences. These can include problems with relationships, social interactions, mental and physical health, behavior, intellectual development, and substance abuse.”[1]

Can you imagine how shameful it was, as his biological mother, to have a child who was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD)? I mean, you can easily understand how a child who has been in one foster home after another would develop RAD, but I gave birth to him! I felt the only one to blame for my son’s attachment disorder was me.

As a child with attachment issues, Tristan’s behavior was challenging, to say the least. After one particularly difficult interaction, I told him to go to his room, and I made sure he went. I’m not proud to admit it, but there was a part of me that literally wanted to strangle my son as I followed him up the stairs.

I’m so glad there was also a part of me that had a little more self-control than that.

I went outside and called our family therapist. I cried out to her that I couldn’t do it anymore. I was so close to my breaking point that I was almost ready to place him in foster care or a group home – anything so that I could have a break. She validated how hard it was and assured me that I was the best person for the job. I took a breath and went back inside.

Parenting Tristan could feel kind of like a roller coaster. The good times were very, very good and the hard times were rough. The mood swings continued into high school, and at one point, he started using marijuana. He became increasingly disrespectful towards his dad and me.

I can see now that we tried so hard to control his behavior that we failed to shepherd his heart.

People who made a difference

One person who really made a difference was a youth pastor who moved into the house next door the summer after Tristan’s 6^th grade year. He invited Tristan to participate in youth group, and because Tristan didn’t like the church we were attending at the time, we allowed him to attend church there as well. Tristan would come home on Sundays after church and talk about the sermon, and we saw him grow in his knowledge of and love for the Lord. I’ll forever be grateful for this man’s influence on Tristan’s life.

There were others who shared some brilliant insights that helped me cope. When Tristan started driving, a woman I had seen for prayer counseling previously shared an image that has never left me. Holding her cupped hands out in front of her, she said, “Picture God’s hands.” Then, taking one hand away so she could point to her other hand, “Picture your son, right there in the middle.” She moved her hands forward, saying, “Tristan’s heading for trouble,” and maneuvering her hands minutely to the right, she said, “and God makes a slight adjustment to his course, sparing him from the worst of the worst.”

I clung to that imagery and it brought me great peace.

Seattle to MN

After graduating from high school, Tristan enrolled in college. He was not ready to be a full-time college student and left after one semester. He eventually moved to Seattle and worked as a surgical technician in an emergency room.

He moved back to Minnesota about a year after I visited him. He didn’t have anywhere to go but with us. He was moody at times, and he had a lot on his mind. He had to take care of some things before he could really move forward with his life, and as he walked through those dark times, I was there for him.

I didn’t always do it perfectly. I offended him at times, but reminiscent of the days when he lived with us as a teenager, he always had to come out of his room to eat.

Being able to support him through that time of his life brought us together. It could not have happened if I had been unwilling to take the time to listen, or if I had been critical or judgmental. It could not have happened if I always had to be right.

[1] Source: https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/reactive-attachment-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20352939 Retrieved on 9/28/2024