„A Kidnapped Mind“

„It is child abuse, and it can kill.“

To je rečenica mame Pamele Richardson koja je napisala prvu knjigu u svijetu, kao mama djeteta, koje je bilo psihički kidnapirano od nje manipulativnim utjecajem njezinog bivšeg supruga. Otuđeno.

Knjiga je izašla 2005.g, nekoliko godina nakon njegovog samoubojstva.

Mama vrlo emotivno dokumentira psihičke promjene svoga voljenog sina, kroz njezinu 12-godišnju borbu na sudu, da vrati skrbništvo nad njim. Ne, ona nije zlotvorka. Nije niti alkoholičarka, niti narkomanka. U njezinom testiranom psihološkom profilu nema ništa zbog čega ne bi mogla biti mama. Dapače, nakon Dasha ima još dvoje djece i dobar brak koji traje još i danas. I fenomenalnu fondaciju koju ona, suprug i Dashova braća vode u Dashovo ime, za svu djecu koja su psihički oteta od svojih voljenih kroz proces otuđenja.

U procjeni suda, kroz godine, nije stajalo ništa zbog čega ona ne bi mogla biti mama svome Dashu…osim strahovitih laži bijesom opsjednutog oca, njezinog bivšeg partnera. A na to se je nadovezala inertnost, nezainteresiranost i posvemašnja neljudskost sudstva i svakog pojedinog suca i stručnjaka da jednom takvome stanu na kraj.

Ovo je knjiga o pravosudnom aparatu, no ona je prvenstveno o psihičkoj, duševnoj promijeni jednog djeteta kojem je bilo zabranjeno voljeti svoju mamu. O djetetu koje se zbog toga gasilo polagano, iz godine u godinu. Dijete je psihički umiralo pred očima svih, nijemo vapeći za pomoći. Majka je to vidjela. Majka je to shvaćala… i očajnički tražila pomoć.

I nitko, ama baš nitko, nije pružio ruku od nadležnih da to dijete spasi. I na kraju nitko od njih, nakon takvih njihovih (ne)odluka, nije imao hrabrosti doći mu na sprovod i ljudski mu se nakloniti.I nitko od njih nikad nije imao hrabrosti, nakon svega, pogledati toj mami u oči. To se s njihovih ruku ne da oprati…

Do samog njegovog kraja mama se je nadljudski borila da spasi svog sina i izvuče ga iz mraka koji postaje njegova psihička svakodnevica. Toliko topline, ljubavi i promišljanja i pažnje u svakoj je njezinoj rečenici i u svakoj je njezinoj misli. Toplina, nježnost i mekoća ono su što zrače iz svakog poglavlja knjige, iz svake njezine rečenice.

Imajte hrabrosti pročitati ju. Imajte ljubavi pročitati tu knjigu.

Oni koji znate neko otuđeno dijete vidjet ćete sliku tog djeteta ispred sebe. I kada ga sljedeći put stvarno i sretnete, negdje u gradu, vi ćete zračiti prema njemu drugačijim sjajem – sjajem i energijom poštovanja i ljubavi za patnju toga djeteta. A onda možda nešto i učinite. Pa makar i jedno ljudski i toplo „Hej, bok.Kako si?“ I ostanete stajati pored njega da stvarno čujete njegov odgovor. Jer njemu treba ta vaša toplina, njemu treba ta vaša ljudskost… Jer to ne stanuje u njegovom domu koji dijeli sa svojim roditeljem zlostavljačem.

Otvoriti svoje srce za takvo dijete najviši je čin ljubavi koji možete imati za njega. A prvenstveno i za sebe. Jer će vas taj čin duboko oplemeniti. Jer će vama omogućiti da izrastete – u ljudskost i humanost.

A to je to po što smo svi mi na ovaj svijet došli…

Photo: Zahvalna za predivnu sliku s interneta nepoznatog autora

N.B.

Knjigu A Kidnapped Mind by Pamela Richardson možete kupiti na Amazonu ili direktno na njezinom linku . No možete ju pročitati i besplatno na Scribd book platformi za rok od 15 dana.

Posvetite sebi te dvije večeri čitanja. U svijetu Fejsbuk mačkica i peseka imajte hrabrosti pročitati ovakvu knjigu… jer nakon toga više nikad nećete biti isti mama ili tata. Nikad…

Odlomci iz knjige…

How do we even begin to describe the size and shape of the great love we feel for our children? And what would we do if we couldn’t use the word “love,” and instead had to describe that overwhelmingly large feeling without using adjectives? Could we ever get it right? Each time I try to define my love for Dash, I end up feeling suffocated, as though I had ten dictionaries bound to my back, all utterly empty of words. Dash was made up of a million sights, sounds, and smells, all of them as life-sustaining as air and water. Big brown eyes, long lashes, milky skin, join-the-dots freckles across his nose. Silken threads of tousled, mousy hair, long graceful arms, perfect fingernails. Even caked to the elbows in dirt and muck, he was a beautiful boy, and his fresh-out-of-the-bath little-boy smell was so soothing I can still conjure it up. He had squeals for excitement, squeals for delight, and squeals for happiness, each one different. He had a particular singsong voice for storytime and a sharp shout of surprise when his favourite dinner appeared on his bunny plate in front of him…

…

 Dash couldn’t focus and no longer knew how to behave. As a mother, I had, for so long, wanted Dash to be happy, to thrive, and excel and become a success at whatever he chose no boundaries and had become the sort of boy parents didn’t want their children hanging out. Now I just wanted him to function. No one but Peter thought Dash was thriving. Dash had with. If there was any trouble, Dash would usually be leading the group. He thought he was dumb, but he wasn’t, he just hadn’t done school work for two years. He thought himself a loser, but he wasn’t, he just hadn’t been taught how to live outside the walls of his father’s home. He thought he was ugly, but he wasn’t, he just couldn’t see the beauty I saw. Dash knew how different he had become from his peers. He had always been the class clown, the funny guy, but Dash knew his performances weren’t funny anymore. They no longer bridged the chasm between him and the healthy kids. He couldn’t concentrate for longer than a few minutes; he could hardly read what the teachers gave him. I could see in his face that Dash was beginning to feel frightened, knowing he was falling further and further behind the kids whose families had provided. 

…

I came to know that boy’s heart so well. I spoke for him in court when he lost the ability to judge what was good for him —because I knew him. A mother’s knowledge doesn’t just disappear as her child grows up and away. Even after all that time apart, I still knew the spirited young man who leapt off the dock into the icy waters of Alpha Lake or flew down MacKenzie Street on his skateboard. That same boy played gently and happily with our Westie Bobbi’s new puppies when he was sixteen years old. His fronts only thinly covered the son I bore, and no matter what happened, I knew how to make him laugh, smile, and melt. The essential Dash was still there, quieter and dropped into shadow, but there. I focused on the boy I knew, not the boy his father created, and he responded as I always knew he would, faded and worn out as the years went on, but the amber flame of the little boy who shouted “Wheeeeeee!” from the apex of his swing was still burning.

…

When Dash was still alive, I was often asked, “How do you deal with so many years of struggle, and how do you stay strong?” I am not always strong, and I certainly never used to be. But you make your mark as a human being not by your wins and your successes but by the choices you make in the face of loss and failure. Do you choose condemnation or understanding? Inaction or action? Vengeance or compassion? Bitterness or peace? I choose peace. I choose peace for my family. Peace for me. Peace for all those who went through this. Dash has found peace. Even Peter has finally found peace. And I am getting there.

N.B

Ovaj post napisala sam u mislima na svoga sina…i u mislima na svu onu otuđenu djecu koja više nisu sa nama…