It happened again.
I re-lived one of the most traumatic incidents of my life. I was rejected by my parents when I desperately cried for help. A cry after cry I was ignored. This has wounded me deeply. I forget it time to time but then suddenly one word pushes me off the edge and I am left hurt and angry again.
This is what happened.
I texted my mother if we could see. I really felt like talking because I was excited about going back to work. I don't share much with her but sometimes I get this feeling that I really need her. She told me she was having my sister over so I didn't want to crash. My sister is pregnant so that would have been all we taked about.
So, I suggested my mom if she liked to go for a walk later in the evening (we are basically neighbours). Before I pushed 'send' something inside me told me not to do that so I wouldn't disappoint. Her answer was 'no'.
And right then and there tears rolled down my cheeks and I felt as devastated as sixteen years ago. Somehow my fragile mind found a connection to my traumatic experience. All the same feelings like a wave flushed over me.
How cannot I get over it? It's been sixteen years but I just can't let it go.
This is what happened sixteen years ago.
I was eighteen, mentally ill and suicidal. I had been mentally ill years but they couldn't see it. Not even when I was having panic attacks at the age of ten. I had hid it all because I had learned not to talk about difficult things.
But now I had to tell. I had to tell I couldn't go to school anymore. I was too ill. It was the hardest thing I had ever done that far. I don't know what I expected. Caring? Support? Love? I got nothing.
And it wasn't just that. When I overdosed and didn't wake up all day, it was like it never happened. When my father picked me up from from bars or lockup, it didn't happen either. After second suicidal attempt, nobody picked me up from a hospital. I was screaming in a room full of people but nobody wanted to hear me.
I can't trust them. I can't trust anybody. I can't trust I get help when I need it. Or at least as long as it's about my mental health.
How loud I have to scream? Is my mental illness inappropriate?
I am so hurt again I won't be telling a thing for a long time. The memory is just too painfull. I will wait until they ask me how I am doing. They stopped asking last year when I got my diagnosis. Maybe it's hard for them for several reasons but that is not an excuse. They are my parents. I am an adult but I am still their child.
Now I can't write longer. I am in tears.
I am so hurt.