I hate myself

The first time I needed help for my emotional breakdown, I was forced to a psychiatrist even though my school counselor told my mom I needed a psychologist to figure out what I have and why shitty things in life have been happening to me and making my life harder than it is for me.

I knew my mom and even my whole family didn't care about me. I'm a hypocrite for that. Maybe I didn't care about them either but I still wanted them to hug me and kiss me and be close to me. I should've known it'll always be a pipe dream no matter what.

Everytime I told my mom during that counseling that I was sick of what had been our family, she wouldn't understand why I was feeling that way. And I just realized later maybe because she had accepted it long ago we would never be that close-knitted loving family. But I still couldn't accept it at the time. I still clung to all hope they would care about me after the counseling is over and maybe I would finally receive help.

That was just wishful thinking too. After that counseling session, my mom walked out of that office as if she was going back to work and nothing happened. She walked past me and didn't even acknowledge me. I was so upset while I was trailing behind her like a baby duck, confused and scared. I was thinking "why?" and in some cases "I'm sorry I'm such a burden" or I would just cry and not think about anything.

I followed her everywhere we went, never saying a word. Every hospital we visited that day never had a psychologist. I still cursed that day. Maybe if mom have had stumbled upon a psychologist from the get-go, I wouldn't have been this fucked up person now, rotting in my room, glued to my phone, coping unhealthily and avoiding everything.

She lost her patience and settled for that psychiatrist instead. I didn't say a word about it either, too afraid to contribute to her ire. So I was issued antidepressants even when I was never diagnosed with anything. My mom paid a hefty sum just for 2 pills too. I was very hesistant that I panicked and asked my mom why I was given them even when I was afraid out of my mind of her.

She just told me they're antidepressant as if I didn't see it already. But I took her word even when it wasn't the answer I needed. In the end though, I never took the pills. Thank god for it, it was the first time I thanked my paranoia because I searched for the side effects and saw so many things that could have gone wrong. And I found out also I just couldn't suddenly stop an SSRI medication without steadily lowering the dose. And that would mean more money that my mom can't afford on her own.

The pills are stashed at the corner of the house though and can aid for a suicide attempt someday if I feel suicidal enough. Thankfully, I'm still too far from that can of beans. But it doesn't mean I'm doing better. I'm just stuck in this hell still, with a mother who expects far too much of a daughter she doesn't know is still not ready to snap out of her mental illness.

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anonymous School April 17, 2024 at 3:12 am 0 0