Overview
What does Parental Alienation Syndrome mean? In my case, it meant losing a child.
When Dash was 4 1/2 years old his father and I broke up. I dealt with the death
of our marriage and moved on but Peter stayed angry, eventually turning it toward
his own house, teaching our son, day by day, bit by bit, to reject me. Parental
Alienation Syndrome typically means one parent’s pathological hatred, the
other’s passivity and a child used as a weapon of war. When Dash's wonderful
raw materials were taken and shaken and melted down, he was recast as a foot soldier
in a war against me.
Abraham Lincoln said, “Nearly all men can stand adversity,
but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.” Within
weeks of his first court win, Peter, a lawyer, had me removed from my volunteer
work as Mother's Help in Dash's kindergarten. I took the issue to court but lost:
Peter had been named custodial parent, by the barest of margins, and now he made
the rules. He banned me from contact with Dash's doctor or dentist. I couldn’t
attend the twice-yearly parent-teacher nights, and because I didn't receive any
of Dash's report cards, I missed the ones that, within a couple of years, began
to spell trouble. I didn't know about Dash's school sports days or soccer games
unless another mom told me. When Dash and I spoke on the phone our calls were monitored.
Dash was rewarded if they went badly - if he was sullen or, better still, rude or
difficult. Despite having an access order for 50% of Dash's time, I soon went months
without seeing him.
Dash put up what resistance he could, and when I drove over each week to pick him
up, if he was alone at home he would run outside to greet me, jumping right in the
car for a blissful couple of hours with me. He’d sit close, not letting me
out of his sight. He could be programmed to reject me, but not to hate me. I was
his mom.
It wasn’t long before he slid, however. At first he was emotional and aggressive
but then he just shut down. He couldn't cope with anything. His teachers saw it,
his friends walled themselves off, parents who didn't even know me asked, “Is
your son OK?” I watched, listened and triaged his pain whenever I saw him.
I documented the missed access, the blocked calls and the lies Dash had learned
to repeat. Time and again I went to the courts and showed them Dash's trauma - the
eight-year-old boy who cried, “I have a bad life”, the nine-year-old
boy who wanted to jump out a three-storey window and the twelve-year-old boy who
wore his father's clothes to court. The provincial government appointed a child
advocate who said: “Dash's memories have been augmented.” Still, my
ability to help Dash remained marginal. There was a sliver of hope, a slice of help,
but no support from the courts. The judges wouldn’t enforce the access order
and none of them stood up to Peter.
I spent a quarter of a million dollars and twelve years in court, at first trying
just to see him and then trying to get him help, so I never had the time to break
down. I didn't even have time to get mad. From the margins of Dash's life I roused
those who were in a position to help him. A Kidnapped Mind is the story of our struggle,
the hope, the missteps and all the agonizing drama along the way. I fought for Dash
every day of his life, knowing in my heart that I could still make a difference.
I wrote this book as the last gift to my wonderful, brave, brown-eyed son, Dash.
All profits from this book go to The Dash Foundation, formed by my husband and I
to increase awareness of the damage done by this insidious and oftentimes invisible
form of child abuse.
