bittersweet feeling a mixture of both happy and sad; pleasure mixed with overtones of sadness.

Every thought of my son.

He is 24.

He moved out when he was 17 and a senior in high school.

He refuses any type of communication.

The first few years, I convinced myself that I had somehow become the nightmare momster that many children of a parent with BPD have written about escaping.

The daughter assures me that’s not the case.

She is 22.

She started therapy when he moved out.

I should have.

The estrangement brought about PTSD.

So many things about the events triggered memories of his father and the separation and divorce.

Hearing things my ex used to say to me coming from my son was devastating.

He graduated high school, and went to college. He is engaged.

I assure myself he is happy. I have to believe it to be so.

I haven’t seen him in years.

Once in a while I will see a photograph.

The young man is a familiar stranger.

More often, I find myself looking at photos of him as a happy baby, a bright young child, a witty and charming teenager.

I have so many fond, warm memories.

How could it be that he has none?

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