I have experienced this on three occasions. When my grandmother died in 1978, I overdosed on Tylenol. When my parents took me to the hospital, I was not allowed to talk with a doctor or counselor or anyone. My mother did all the talking, saying I was grieving for my grandmother. My parents told me that if I did have to go to therapy, they would pull me out of school--they made me choose between my education and my mental health. Later, after I had graduated and was having trouble finding a job, my parents refused to let me see a psychiatrist to find out what the problem was--they told me that after they had paid for my education they were not going to pay for a mental exam too. They told me that I should be ashamed for causing them so much embarrassment--what would other people think?
About thirty years later, during my mother's final illness, I was so stressed out that I overdosed on Tylenol PM within a three month period--I did not call for help because I did not want the law involved and my mother wanted me there with her. Neither she nor any other family members did not seem to care that I had tried to kill myself. They even went so far as to tell me that therapy would not help me because I had failed to cooperate on other occasions. I had failed to cooperate because I had been threatened in one way or another--no vacation, withdrawn from college, etc.
Were my parents being selfish? It looks like they would put the needs of their child first instead of worrying about what others would think. I wish now that I had chosen therapy instead of education--I could have always gone back to school later. Maybe, if I had gone to therapy, I would have a decent job, friends, and a family that was not ashamed of me.
At the time of my grandmother's death, we had a pastor whom I dearly loved. He was going for heart tests the next week and I was worried sick about him. If he had died at the time, I would have killed myself and there was not stopping me. I told our pastor things I never told anyone else about--except my suicide attempt. I asked my parents to call him to the hospital, but they refused--they said do you want to kill him now?
Some of the women of the church said I was too close to the pastor--I loved to hug his neck after service because it made me feel better. The women said if they didn't stop they would tell my parents--I became miserable after that. I still went to church, but I didn't want to. I didn't know anyone anywhere else. I didn't tell my parents because I knew it would cause a scene. It would have been my word against the other women, and no one would believe me. I just kept it to myself because I had already learned that it didn't matter how I felt. I feel that I can mention this now because all the persons involved, including the pastor, are now dead.
Later, just a few months after my father died, two ladies in this same church told me not to come back. When I asked why, they said I disrupted the service by sitting too close to the front and leaving at the invitation--maybe I needed spiritual help and didn't want anyone to see me break down. When they told my mother, my mother told them that I wouldn't be back.
At my most recent church, which I mentioned in my first post, one of the ladies said I wasn't welcome at senior adult meetings because I bothered the others--I thought that they church was for everyone and no one was excluded. That is really awful when even your church family shuns you.
I was truly born in the wrong family--my parents were continually angry with me because I did not fit in with family, church, or anywhere else. I never had friends over because I didn't have any, and no one from the church ever visited. The home was one of continual anger and tension. On weekends, I was not allowed to go anywhere except with family. I was kept a prisoner in my own home. I was at the mercy of my family because my father controlled the money and the car. If I wanted money or borrow the car I had to ask him--if he said no I was stuck. We never had fun at home. I hated the holidays--sooner or later, there would be something to cause tempers to flare--because toys didn't work right, quarrels over television, etc. No one ever smiled or laughed--it felt so hopeless there was no joy there. Only arguing and fussing. My parents continually told me I had no sense and education meant nothing--I had no common sense and was an educated idiot. They refused to let me make decisions, saying I did not have sense enough to do so. As a result, I never felt good about myself, even with strong academic achievement. I still don't. Years of therapy have failed to help me have a positive self-image. My parents really did some serious psychological damage. When we went on vacation, my father was terrible at directions. When he would get lost, he would curse and swear and the whole trip was ruined. I could never tell my parents anything about school because they were always angry and worried about bills and simply didn't want to be bothered. The times I did, they accused me of trying to get in trouble to aggravate them. When I asked them why they were so angry all the time, they said it was because I was the problem and I was always getting in trouble, or otherwise aggravating them. When I asked them to put me in therapy, they exploded and said I needed my ass kicked, not therapy. In middle school, the school counselor told my parents I was having serious issues and referred me to the council for exceptional children, but for reasons unknown to me, no evaluation was done and the matter was dropped. My parents were furious and accused me of getting in trouble again--they told me that since I had stayed in trouble since first grade, I should be growing out of it. I decided not to participate in sports or other extracurricular activities because I had no really close friends and was not good at it. When I told my parents, this they said they didn't care if I did or not. As a result, I avoided any other activities, other than studying, because I knew that no one cared. I thought then that I would wreck my job history when I get out, become a hermit, and not participate in anything life had to offer. I have done all these things, no one cared, and years of therapy has failed to change anything. While all of this was going on, my mother worked long hours at night in a bakery as a production worker. My father had recently retired (he was 53 when I was born so he retired when I was in the 7th grade). Both parents were often irritable so I felt that I couldn't talk to them. Another thing, my maternal grandmother lived with us until she died after my freshman year in college. She and my father hated each other and would often quarrel. When I would explode in anger and frustration, my parents would say I was just like my grandmother. The only thing that pleased my parents was me getting good grades. They didn't seem to care that I had social problems and no friends. Extended family, particularly on my mother's side didn't like me too much and ignored me--the kids said I was weird and stupid. When family would call when my parents were alive, they never asked about me. Since my parents died, two other relatives we used to visit have died this past year. I did not even know it until I looked them up on People Smart--even family didn't give a damn about me. The few cousins that are left I don't know where they are or how to get in touch with them.
My mother was truly toxic. She never saw me as an individual, but an extension of her. She never considered that I had feelings. She always had patience and empathy for others, but never for me. For example, when some of her work friends were sick, she would visit and make a fuss over them. I was hospitalized for three weeks for major depression in 1987. When she would come from work to see me, she was often tired. When I asked her why she didn't fuss over me, she said that I wasn't sick physically--I have always been sick mentally and emotionally--doesn't that count for something? When I would get a really good job, which was rarely and I always ended up losing, she would talk as if it were her job. She worked at a bakery for 22 years in production before she got hurt--the last 17 years she lived, after the accident, she made my life miserable. I had no privacy, could not have friends over, and had to come home straight from work--if I didn't, she would start calling different places to find me. It was just like my childhood--other than work or school, I was a prisoner in my own home. During her final illness, she insisted on having my cell phone number if anything happened--I kind of wished it did. When I would go to school, she would call me there. When I would just go off shopping for a while, she would call me constantly--her caretaker, who was with her, that I was fine and would be back later and that I just needed a break. When I would get fired, she would say it was my fault and I had it coming--why did I have to be so hard to get along with? She did not care at all about my mental health--her only concern was my getting a job. When I was first diagnosed with Asperger's, she didn't believe anything was really wrong with me--she said I was using the diagnosis as an excuse not to get a job. My mother had only two jobs in her entire adult life--I have had close to 30. My parents and I never really bonded--they didn't understand nor try to understand how I was different. I never learned to cook. When my mother tried to teach me, she talked to me as if I were a child. I just simply walked out and never asked her again to teach me. To me they were nothing but a hindrance that stood in the way of me having an enjoyable life.
My brother wasn't much better, but he is all I have left now. We talk now about once a week and he lives in a neighboring town about 40 minutes away. When we were kids, he would call me a psycho and say I needed to be in the mental ward--he had friends over all the time and they enjoyed goading me. I never had friends over because I did not have any and my parents never encouraged me to. Once, back in 1993, my mother and I went to an amusement park with my brother and his family for the day. I refused to eat at the park because the food was so expensive. My mother insisted, and I flew off the handle, screaming and yelling and busting the camera. I stayed in the lobby section of the park and waited for my brother and his family to get back--I would not go with my mother to see the park and hit her when she tried to make me. When we got back to our town, I had a psychotic episode at a restaurant, and my brother called the police. An ambulance took me to the hospital, then the cops carried me to the state hospital, where my brother and sister in law had me formally committed. I stayed there for nine days and got discharged the day before school started back. I liked it there because people respected my feelings and did not try to make me do anything I did not want to do. My brother told my mother I should have been there years ago. I agree. It was my family's fault I ended up there because if they had backed off and left me alone, none of it would have happened.
My brother is pretty decent to me now. If I don't want to come around, he doesn't try to make me. When I go to visit, I know I can leave when I am ready. I really don't want to be around them too much because I know they don't understand me--the kids probably think I am weird. I have never received an invitation to any of their graduations or school events, nor have I ever gotten a school picture of them. They have their friends and school activities and are enjoying their young years--something I did not get to do.
Recently, he was brutally honest with me about work. I told him that I may have to find a job soon because money was tight and asked what kind of job did he think would be good for me. He said that given my work history he did not know what I could do considering I have failed at every job. I felt awful, but knew at the same time it was the truth. Maybe I am not employable.
When I told him that was painful to hear, he told me he loved me enough to tell me the truth.
Do you think all of this would lead to a suicide attempt? Should I have been sent away or placed in foster care? I never fit in at school, home, or anywhere else. I will never forgive my family--I hate them. May they be damned forever. What could have been done, if anything? I have bared my soul--give me some feedback.
When I would explode and try to hurt myself as a result of all this stress, my family would threaten to send me away. I now wish they had. At least I would have had a new family or been in a place where people understood me. The only comfort I have now is I live alone in the same house where this took place--it is quiet and peaceful at last.
Last edited by cooler8625 on 14 Aug 2014, 5:59 am, edited 11 times in total.
13 Aug 2014, 1:42 pm
