Real, Raw, and True: Poems from a Mom Living Reactive Attachment Disorder
- Anonymous
- 3 hours ago
- 6 min read
By Erica Kim (pseudonym)
Personal Poetry
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These poems were not written for a workshop or a reading. They were written in the aftermath — on the other side of a rage, when the house was quiet again and the adrenaline had drained away. They are raw, and they are true.
If you are raising a child with reactive attachment disorder, you likely already understand these poems. For everyone else: RAD is not a behavior problem. It is a survival response rooted in early trauma, written into a child's nervous system before they had words for what was happening to them. For many of these children, the closest caregiver becomes the target of their fear — because closeness itself feels like danger (learn more about this dynamic commonly referred to as the nurturing enemy here).
For families living with reactive attachment disorder, moments like the ones in these poems are not rare. They are just another Tuesday or Saturday. Erica is a mother who lives this reality. These are her words.
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This first poem was written after a mental health professional noticed Erica's bruised face and asked if she felt safe at home. It's a question she has been asked many times — by doctors, social workers, family, friends. She has never answered it honestly. Not because she is afraid to, but because she knows what happens when she does: disbelief, dismissal, and a system that has no framework for a mother whose young child is the one causing the harm.
How Do You Explain
How do you explain injuries
Sustained in a struggle with a small child?
She seems so small and helpless
They underestimate the power of her rage
When her eyes go dark, the child is gone
Replaced by primal desperation
Thrashing out of survival
Fighting a demon she cannot see
She takes it out on me
She fights until exhaustion wins
No matter what it takes
I must hold her closely as she rages on
To keep her safe from the trauma
She's desperate to re-create
I hold her firm and steady
As she screams out her hate
She spits she bites she scratches
She leaves bruises on my face.
Her rage and anger soften
as the adrenaline all runs out
She buries her face in my chest
Sobbing exhausted and scared
I hold her and comfort her
As my blood drips from her hands
I glance in the mirror
Watching my face swell
Knowing and dreading
what comes next when this ends.
I must not let others know what is true
The shame, the fear
Of what might happen if they do
The meltdown is done
But my injuries remain
People see me, they wonder and stare
My spouse receives their angry, disapproving glare
What happened to you?
What's that scratch over there?
Did he hit you?
I can help you.
What can I do?
My instinct is to protect her
From the damage she has done.
I don't know what I should say
Telling the truth, or nothing at all.
My spouse is damned if I don't
My child is damned if I do
I keep my mouth shut
The truth they could not bear
Unable to imagine
This tiny brown eyed beauty
With her soft bouncy curls
Could hold within her
Such violent strength and rage.
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This poem was written on a napkin within an hour of the incident it describes, while Erica sat beside her daughter as she slept in the ER on a 5585 hold — an involuntary psychiatric hold for minors. She still has the napkin.
Nine-Year-Old Girl
Nine year old girl, so sweet and kind
Creative and intelligent
One of the effortlessly compassionate kind
She loves nothing more than to make someone smile
To brighten someone's day
A victim of trauma
She can't possibly understand
There's another side of her that's shattered
And in excruciating pain
Her inner voice triggers her
Into an inexplicable rage.
"Mommy I'll kill you, because we both deserve to die.
You're fat, you're ugly, stupid, nobody loves you.
Why do you even try?
Don't you know you're useless?
You always make me this way.
It's your fault I lose control.
Maybe if you weren't such a b——
I wouldn't be this way.
I'll kill you first, then myself
They're better off that way"
Her eyes are empty.
She's drowning in rage and fear.
"Mommy save me, get me out of here."
I love you.
I hate you.
I am so confused.
My soul wants you.
I know I love you,
I really do.
But my body and inner voice
Think they must protect me
From what I am not sure.
Their power overtakes me
It's my greatest source of fear.
Help me, save me,
Don't let it overtake me.
This isn't who I'm meant to be
I want to help others
To be kind, to be me.
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The third poem asks the reader to sit with a caregiver who is living with someone dangerous — someone she loves too much to leave, and is too afraid to talk about.
My Abuser Is Special
Every few weeks he hits me
It almost always leaves a bruise
I have become an expert at hiding it
A storyteller extraordinaire
They call me clumsy
If only they knew
They see my arm in a sling,
Scratches across my skin
They don't know the scars on my body
Are secret reminders
That this is not what should have been
Another fit of rage
and now I'm in the shower
Numbly watching the hair he pulled
circling the drain
Another day, another rage
Now I limp along
I ice the ankle that twisted
while rushing to get away
He tells me he will kill me
Shows me all the ways he can
I know I must find a way to stop this
But after the rage he needs me
He's loving and helpful
He writes the sweetest notes
He's right, his trauma is to blame
It's not his fault
So I hug him and comfort him
We make happy memories to forget
I know I am not safe
These eggshells that I walk on hurt my feet
I am too terrified to leave him
But it isn't why you think
My abuser is special
He's different
Our relationship is unique
This story is repeated
Time and time again
Millions of battered women
Praised, supported and admired
For her courage to leave
But for some of us it's different
There's no shelter support or praise
Instead it's disgust and anger
We are victims that are not believed
Ridiculed, belittled
Refused the help we desperately seek
I hope this made you angry
Frustrated and scared like me
Do you want to scream
"Just leave him!"
"He said he wants to KILL you!"
"What are you waiting for???"
But like I said before
My abuser is special
He's different
Our relationship is unique
I can't just leave him lonely
It's criminal neglect
My abuser is special
He's different
Because he's only 10.
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These poems are not a cry for pity. They are a demand to be seen. The caregivers raising children with RAD and complex trauma disorders are doing some of the most difficult, isolating, misunderstood work in the world — often without adequate mental health resources, without respite care, without recognition from systems that were not built with their families in mind.
They are not failing their children. They are surviving alongside them, every single day, holding on through the hardest moments so their children don't have to face the darkness alone.
Affected by reactive attachment disorder parenting? You're not alone.
Whether you are a caregiver living this, a professional who works with these families, or someone who simply wants to understand — you are not alone, and neither are they. RAD Advocates exists to ensure that families like Erica's are no longer invisible. Learn more about how to support, refer, or connect at radadvocates.org/support.
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Are you interested in contributing poetry, blog posts or other content for our outreach? Please read our Standards of Quality and Content Guidelines and then contact nichole@radadvocates.org.
Erica Kim (pseudonym) is a mother and caregiver. These poems were drawn from personal journal entries written in the aftermath of her children's rages. They are shared here with her permission and her hope that other parents recognize themselves — and feel less alone.