“You’re giving your child too much attention,” the doctor told me. But I’m not anxious—I’m just a mother.
If my son were still a toddler, maybe I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen, and he still doesn’t sleep at night. He sleeps during the day when he should be studying, socialising, living. We even switched him to homeschooling—not out of indulgence, but necessity. He just can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he’s not glued to his computer or phone. He reads. Writes. Draws. Listens to online lectures. Digs into biology, coding, and history all at once. He just… can’t switch off. Like his brain doesn’t know where the “off” button is.
At first, I watched. Then I noticed odd habits—slamming a drawer ten times in a row, tugging at the rug, tapping the wall. It scared me. Not because he was disruptive—but because it was a sign: his nerves were fraying. That’s when I knew we needed help.
We saw a neurologist first. She sent us for tests. All normal. Next, a psychiatrist. He greeted us with a chilly smile and immediately turned the conversation to me—not my son. Polite, measured, until he dropped his “diagnosis.”
“You,” he said, “are overdoing it. Spending too much time with your boy. Smothering him.”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“Good parents,” he went on, stern as a headmaster, “see their child at breakfast and dinner. You’re always there. No wonder his mind’s in a hothouse.”
“I work from home. Is that a crime?”
“The crime is your anxiety!” he snapped. “You’ve dragged him halfway across London for tests, hunting a problem that doesn’t exist. You’re fixated. You *want* something to be wrong—just to feel needed.”
“The neurologist ordered those tests,” I said evenly. “I was following advice.”
“A sensible mother would’ve refused. Waste of money! And look at you now—gazing at him like he’s made of china while he digs in his pockets. Rude. Defiant. And you? Soft. Too lenient. *I’d* be the one on medication if I were you.”
Then… it started. Half an hour of our expensive session wasted as he rambled about *himself*. About his daughter—blue-haired, monosyllabic, sprinting through frost in shorts. How she smokes in the stairwell, hangs with dubious crowds. How *he* pops sedatives to cope. “*That’s* how you accept a teenager,” he said.
I listened. Thanked him. Walked out.
The air outside was easier to breathe.
And you know what? I’m not anxious. I’m just a mum. One who wants to understand her son, to help him navigate the storm of hormones, fears, and sleepless nights. Yes, I’m here. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone? Then they’ve never known real care.
Now I’m searching for a new doctor. One who’ll listen—not lecture. Because loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s normal. It’s motherhood.
