“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 little boy, perhaps I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen, and still, he 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 whim, but necessity. He simply can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he isn’t gaming or scrolling on his phone. He reads. He writes. He sketches. Listens to online lectures. Obsesses over biology, coding, history—all at once. He just… can’t sleep. As if his brain refuses to find the “off” switch.
At first, I watched. Then I noticed odd things—drawers slamming shut ten times in a row, the rug twitching, knuckles rapping against the wall. I wasn’t scared because he was disruptive. I was scared because it meant his nerves were fraying. That’s when I knew we needed help.
We went to a neurologist. Tests were done. All normal. Then—a psychiatrist. He greeted us with a chilly smile and spoke to *me* first, not my son. Polite, measured, until he dropped his verdict:
“It’s you,” he said. “You’re smothering him. Hovering like a shadow. A mother shouldn’t be *this* involved.”
I stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Ordinary parents,” he lectured, “see their child at breakfast and dinner. But you? Always there. No wonder his mind’s in a hothouse.”
“I work from home. Is that a crime?”
“The crime is your paranoia!” he snapped. “You’ve dragged him halfway across London for tests chasing a ghost. You *want* there to be a problem. It makes you feel… necessary.”
“The referrals came from the neurologist,” I said evenly. “I just followed advice.”
“A sensible mother would’ve refused—it costs a fortune! And look at him—fidgeting, digging in his pockets. No discipline. Yet you just *watch*, all doe-eyed. If I were you, *I’d* need therapy.”
And then… he unraveled. Half an hour—and a hefty fee—wasted as he monologued about *himself*.
His daughter dyes her hair neon blue, runs through frost in shorts, smokes in the stairwell with sketchy lads. How he pops sedatives to cope. *This*, he insisted, was how to *accept* a teenager.
I listened. Waited. Thanked him—and left.
Outside, the air felt cleaner.
And you know what? I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. One who refuses to let her child drown in hormones and sleepless chaos alone. Yes, I’m here. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone? They’ve forgotten what care *is*.
Now, I’m searching for a new doctor. One who’ll listen—not unload his baggage. Because loving your child isn’t a disorder. It’s instinct. It’s *motherhood*.
