Because I was afraid they would hurt him, not help him. Moreover, I didnвЂ™t want to hand my child over to the trained professionals - people who I didnвЂ™t know and who didnвЂ™t love him. Maybe instead of always thinking about how it felt to be his mom, if I had thought of what it felt like to be him, things would be different now. I guess I wasnвЂ™t really thinking of how it felt to be him. I didnвЂ™t want anything about him to change. That didnвЂ™t mean anything was wrong with him. But still, I told myself, he was just weird. Then there was his dark side, which involved criminal mischief and lack of remorse when he hurt someone. He had quirks that people deemed distasteful: His hyper fixation on things, his hygiene issues, the not sleeping enough, the sleeping too much, the piano playing that went on all day long. My Attempts to Help My Son Were MisguidedДЄccording to everyone, my son was a troublemaker. After all, IвЂ™m human, too.ДЄnd it was hard. Underneath my unconditional love for my son lies the trauma of raising him. This meeting brought up complex feelings because my son was not the only one in pain. His eyes changed, and where they once held the kindness of a little boy, now held the decisions of a man. Parts of him that used to seem like eccentric traits we could make room for, now seemed cruel.

Somewhere around the time he turned 20, I saw a complete personality change. I hadnвЂ™t heard from him in two years, but it had been at least three since IвЂ™d recognized him. Reconnecting With My Son Brought Back Painful MemoriesДeep breaths, I reminded myself. By missing these signs, he says, I disciplined him harshly for things he could not control - and, in turn, warped his sense of self. And he hates me for missing his cries for mental health help when he was growing up. HeвЂ™s not a little boy anymore he is now on his own, living his life in a city far away from me. Then I wrapped a sparkly bow around the journal and headed to a coffee shop to meet my estranged son, who is 21 years old. Apologies are like the decision to paint your house pink - go big or go home. I wrote so much that my hands needed ice packs. I filled almost every page, but I didnвЂ™t write about my dreams or goals. This past Christmas, my husband gave me a journal to write down my dreams, goals and daily meditations.

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