Anyone who knows me will tell you that I consider therapy and counseling to be right up there with chocolate and wine in terms of must-haves for a parent of a child with ADHD. Since
the Best of the Best topic happens to be therapy, I thought I'd explain why I'd give my third-born child* to my therapist:
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Have you ever considered he might have ADHD?
She sat back as she said it as though her words were dangerous, as though she was bracing for something. She was the behavioral therapist I sought out for Javi after long months of struggle and frustration and nasty feelings in my gut and heart.
Javi was just five years old and there we were in oversized chairs, talking to a stranger who used words like typical and defiant and manifestation. Stranger isn't the right word. She wasn't a stranger by then.
Every week for months, I sat across from her and willed myself not to cry as my eyes burned with the hopelessness of it all. Every week for months, I sat in the hall outside her office as she worked one-on-one with the child who dominated my thoughts and energy, who required so much more than I seemed able to give him.
Have you ever considered he might have ADHD?
The guilty struck me like an open palm. Yes, I had. And, no, I didn't want to admit it. ADHD, like diabetes and cancer, runs rampant in my family. The disorganized mess that was my childhood, the erratic extremes that my sister drug us to time and again, the last minute and late again jokes from family friends, the drugs and the tension and the anger...
Yes, I had considered ADHD. But I had also considered my faults. I didn't enjoy him enough, didn't appreciate his little quirks, didn't feed him a gluten- and casein-free diet, didn't make sure he get all the exercise he could, didn't force him to do things he didn't like, didn't quit my job to stay home with him instead of sending him to daycare, didn't protect him from destructive biological parents as soon as I should have. The list went on and on.
He was just a little boy. A little boy with huge brown eyes who told the most fantastical stories and made friends with everyone he met. A little boy who couldn't hold a thought in his head, who couldn't resist a single urge, who exploded in anger when things didn't go his way. A little boy who might have thrived
if he'd gotten the parent he deserved.
But he was my little boy, and I couldn't stomach the thought of him having the same cluttered memories and disordered boundaries I grew up with.
Have you ever considered he might have ADHD?
His therapist saw my hesitation, my down-turned eyes, the way my shoulders dropped. She leaned forward, and pushed a box of tissues toward where I sat as the tears started dropping despite my best efforts.
I just don't know. I mean, he's so young. What if it's not ADHD? I choked out.
She nodded and closed up her notebook. She crossed over to sit next to me and said words that changed my life:
It may not be. How about we try some things and see how it shakes out? We won't worry about medicine, let's focus on environment, diet, and structure. We won't know unless we try, right?
It was like someone finally saw me. Saw my fear (that throwing medication at him was a cop out), saw all the little details I felt I was screwing up (diet, structure), and was willing to work through it with me. I had an advocate, a teammate, in a battle I'd felt so alone in waging.
And then, together, she and I (and the Mountain Man when saw the results of what we were doing) got to work. I haven't felt isolated or alone in this uphill struggle since.
Therapy didn't change my son's behavior or his disorder, but it was a life raft when I thought I might drown in (what I now know for certain) was a frenetic combination of attention deficit and anxiety all rolled into one ball of five-year-old nerves. And, yes, I made an appointment for myself. I highly suggest it.
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*No worries, there won't be a third-born child. Two is enough for this mama!
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