In what ways am I still his father?
By Anonymous
In 2006, my wife and I welcomed our son into our lives. He was 16 months old and had been diagnosed with a somewhat rare disease. Three months later, we learned that the child was ‘only’ suffering from the consequences of severe neglect. His first nine months were with his mother, who was unable to take care of him and a father with significant substance abuse and violence issues. The following seven months were like heaven to him, after being taken in by a ‘fancy’ foster family.
So, being placed with us was yet another trauma for him. Everyone thought he would adapt. He showed no emotion, although he did frequently hit and pinch us. Specialists closely followed him so they could help him catch up on his developmental delays. His behaviour was often impulsive, even violent. Among other things, he was diagnosed with ADHD, a speech impairment and insecure attachment, which turned into a severe disorder at age 11. In fact, after his eleventh birthday, he started to behave even more strangely, with pica and self-injury now becoming part of his daily habits.
Child protection services entered our lives after receiving reports from people who meant well. Of course, our child was struggling, but we were sure that we were doing everything we could to help him thrive. After he was placed in a youth centre, we tried to get him home three times, following his educators’ roadmap and advice, but every time he sabotaged his own progress and left home accompanied by the police.
Today, he is almost 16 years old. He goes back and forth between an individual care unit and secure custody facility. He must often appear in court for committing assault or making death threats. The last time he ran away, he broke into our home and made a mess.
This week, I attended a review of his protective measures. He will stay at the rehabilitation centre for at least another year, and probably until he turns 18. Before his last offence, he was still asking us if we would take him back when he gets out of the centre. What do you say to your child, who you have always wanted and supported even when he became so unpredictable?
Although we had not had any contact with him since he broke into our home, an irrepressible sadness came over me. Listening to reports from each youth worker in his life, finding out things about your child that you don’t recognize… the word that best describes what I was feeling was ‘disenfranchised’. When it was my turn to speak, I told the group about it. The review officer suggested that the word that I was looking for was ‘disengaged’. I corrected her right away: I have never stopped being engaged in my son’s life. But, because of what he has done and the protection system that has been built around him, I have been stripped of my role and my place, unable to give him the affection and support that he needs every day, just like I give his older brother with Down’s syndrome who I tuck in every night.
Years of trying to maintain a meaningful connection with him despite all the protective measures and youth workers eventually wore me down. We live one kilometre away from the youth centre. We pass by the building several times a day. This building has become a symbol of losing my identity as a father, even if the system insists that this is not the case.
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