**Journal Entry – 18th March**
*”You’re giving your child too much attention.”* That’s what the doctor said to me. But I’m not anxious—I’m just a mother.
If my son were a toddler, perhaps I wouldn’t worry so much. But he’s nearly fifteen, and he still doesn’t sleep at night. He dozes during the day when he should be studying, socialising, being active—living. We even switched him to homeschooling, not out of indulgence but necessity—he simply can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he isn’t glued to video games or his phone. He reads. Writes. Draws. Listens to lectures online. Absorbs biology, coding, and history all at once. His mind just won’t switch off, as though there’s no “power down” button.
At first, I watched quietly. Then I noticed the odd habits—tapping the desk drawer shut ten times in a row, shifting the rug beneath his feet, drumming his fingers against the wall. It wasn’t the noise that frightened me, but the realisation: his nerves were fraying. That’s when I knew—we needed a specialist.
We saw a neurologist first. Tests followed. Everything appeared normal. Next, a psychiatrist. He greeted us with a frosty smile and spoke to me, not my son. Polite, clipped—until his verdict came.
*”You’re overbearing,”* he said. *”You smother him. Normal parents see their children at breakfast and dinner, not hover over them all day. That’s why his mind is in a hothouse state.”*
I was stunned. *”I work from home. Is that a crime?”*
*”Your anxiety is the crime!”* he snapped. *”You’ve dragged this boy across half of London for tests, hunting for an illness that doesn’t exist. You’re obsessed—you need to feel needed. Look at him now—digging in his pockets like he’s bored. No discipline. Yet you just watch, all soft smiles. Frankly, I’d be the one needing treatment.”*
Then—it happened. For half an hour, after paying a small fortune, I listened to *him*.
He ranted about his own daughter—how she dyes her hair blue, storms out in shorts mid-winter, smokes in the stairwell, runs with unsavoury crowds. How he gulps sedatives to cope. *”That’s how you accept a teenager,”* he said.
I listened. Thanked him. Walked out.
Outside, the air felt cleaner.
Here’s the truth: I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. One who refuses to abandon her son in the storm of hormones, fear, and sleepless nights. Yes, I’m there. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone? Then they’ll never understand real care.
Now, I’m searching for another doctor. One who’ll listen—not unload his own regrets. Because loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s motherhood.
