âNow breathe deeply and feel your muscles relax. Feel each part of your body melt. Stay conscious of your breathingâŠâ
Just the thought of breathing manually and melting and âfully relaxingâ makes me want to smack my head multiple times over just toâŠI donât know, shake those thoughts out of my brain, I guess. I want to start scratching at my face, and all of the sudden the air Iâm thinking about and forcing myself to breathe isnât filling my lungs enough, and I thought I relaxed my muscles, but apparently I didnât and now Iâm trying to relax them more, and it hurts [Why does it hurt?], and I donât want to melt, and why isnât it working, and isnât this supposed to be helping and-Â
And I canât just take a deep breath and calm down.Â
My therapist tells me that I should do this for anxiety regulation. For the anxiety I do not yet have at the time. For the anxiety caused by this stupid exercise. I can hear her, but chances are, I wonât remember a word sheâs said by the time I get picked up by my mom. My brain takes a lovely little stroll out of my head and my lazy eye becomes apparent as I stare at the tissue box- No. Staring past it. Past the table, past the floor, past the underworld itself, past anything tangible. I guess itâs normal for a 12-year-old with ADHD. Zoning out and stuff.
I get into my momâs white car and contemplate the most important decision in my little life; asking if I can drop my therapist. When she asks me why incredulously, I look at the dirty carpeted floor and mumble my âI dunno I just donât click with her or somethinâ.â I zone out as she paces around the room, talking in between sighs about costs, âare you sure?â, and something about âwhat if you still need it?â. She gives me a reluctant yes, but I canât seem to celebrate something that clearly made her life harder.Â
By the time Iâm a 13-year-old with ADHD, my mother is convinced thereâs something wrong with me. More wrong with me. I mean, sheâs not wrong, but sheâs concerned about all the wrong things. Sheâs concerned about my ability to make friends that are like me. Trans. Sheâs concerned Iâm too angry. Maybe I am. Sheâs concerned that me staying inside is going to kill me somehow. Like Iâm a finicky plant that thrives on sunshine and social interaction. Missed that bulls-eye by a mile. But it seems nice, anyway. Friends that, while still online, are more tangible than my faceless mutual with a bright neon rainbow Ibuki profile picture.
âNow breathe deeply and feel your muscles relax. Feel each part of your body melt. Stay conscious of your breathingâŠâ
This time, Iâm less panicky, but God, am I mad. Why is this required for a therapy group? I am told to keep my camera on, to have no distractions including drawings, phones, iPads, or even fidget toys, and I am told I have to participate.Â
I feel so bored and yet so overwhelmed and I want to bite something and throw my phone across the room, so I do. I throw it, screen already cracked, into my metal closet door, and sit in the corner, ears plugged and teeth sunk into my knee. After my eyes have had enough of being squeezed shut, I look past everything again. I zone out.Â
