Monday, October 20, 2014

I'm Done With It (Part 1)

This blog is a place for me to discuss my thoughts, to work out why I think the way I do, to record things I want to remember, and to validate my existence – all the things, good or bad, in it. I like to record the highlights of my life, so when I look back and read them, I feel happy. But sometimes things happen that I may need to access again in the future, no matter how much I want to forget about them. Last Thursday night, something happened that needs to be addressed.

I've only shared this blog with a few people, but since it is on the internet, it's available for everyone to read. Few people may read this, or it might be something that no one reads at all, but it's not something I feel obligated to keep to myself anymore. It's kind of a long post, so if you don't read to the end, I kindly ask that if you don't have supportive comments, please don't comment at all.

The CPS worker was back again for another family meeting (in case you didn't know, this is actually the fourth CPS case so far) and my parents were not happy. They didn't like the CPS worker being there in the first place, but now they'd decided to "use the social worker to control me" (translated as best as I could from Chinese). While they recognized the good things my siblings had done, they launched into an angry tirade of all their complaints about me. It started with their complaint that the candles I had in my room were a fire hazard. I countered that they were one of my coping methods, one that was relatively easy to use and quickly effective. They had already shot down my other coping methods, either by telling me I wasn't allowed to use them, or insinuating that I was wasting time. My dad kept telling me that if I needed coping methods, I should go running because running relieves stress. This may have worked for him, but for me it would only cause more stress (tied to the first CPS report incident, when I was forced to run to school until I was overheating and exhausted, so running has been a trigger for me ever since). Another was that my alarm clock went off too early, and somehow this conversation escalated into how I would probably be poisoned by my roommate in college because I was selfish and evil. I might mention here that they have a very severe victim blaming complex.

Hearing these ridiculous accusations was very emotionally draining. Listening to my parents say that I was going to be murdered because I was a horrible bastard was something that happened often, but in a highly emotional situation like at that moment, there was no way for me to stay calm. Again my dad mentioned using running as a coping method, and at that point I simply couldn't keep it together anymore. If he wanted me to go running as a coping method, I would go running. I grabbed a pair of shoes and headed out the door, not sure where I was going, only knowing that I wanted to get away. It was 9:27pm (or so I remember it; that might be inaccurate) but Almaden was a relatively safe neighborhood, so I wasn't worried. However, my dad followed, and the whole time he was still slinging abuse at me: how could I be so "selfish," I was disturbing the neighbors with all the yelling (at this point he was the only one talking), didn't I know of all the sacrifices my parents had made, didn't I know that what I was doing was making them miserable and driving them crazy?

Eventually he caught up and grabbed me, and I fought back. This wasn't very effective, and the continuous verbal abuse made it hard to focus. I tried something different – passive resistance. When he tried to drag me back, I completely relaxed and stopped resisting, which made it harder to move. And every venomous insult, I accepted it and didn't dispute. When he said I was crazy, selfish, and more, I agreed with every single statement. There was no way to respond to this. I gave him what he wanted and agreed that I was an evil, malicious, ungrateful vermin, and so there was no way he could object. These were the words I had heard all my life growing up, so how could I ever think of myself differently? He didn't understand this. I told him, maybe, just maybe if he had said that I was a lovely, good child, who was respectful and loved, that these would be what I would grow up to become. This logic was lost on him and the verbal abuse continued. It was at this point that I realized they were never going to bend to sense, because that would mean acknowledging that what they did was wrong, and that was never going to happen.

I got up and ran again, thoroughly frustrated and upset at my parents' hypocrisy, that their selfishness is what prevented them from change, to save their own dignity. This time, when my dad caught up to me, I resisted, and he pushed me onto the pavement and broke my glasses. I remember at that moment thinking about Lord of the Flies and how Piggy's broken glasses represented the abandonment of logic, and realized that struggling more was hopeless. I ran home, grabbed the phone, and called 911 as fast as I could, and answered about two questions before the phone line was unplugged. The internet also disconnected, but luckily I was able to call a friend on my cellphone to get the mobile 911 number. The police arrived after fifteen minutes, and they talked to my parents first before talking to me.

When the police came into my room, I was still in the middle of a panic attack. I kept asking him, "Please, give me a moment to calm myself down, please please let me calm down for a moment," but he kept firing questions at me. I choked and cried as I answered them, and when he asked, "Are you feeling suicidal?" I cried back, "Yes! Is that too hard to understand?" Had I been calm and not in an extremely panicked state, I would not have answered that, but as I was, there was no way I could reply otherwise. This, of course, meant that he would have to take me away to the hospital to protect myself. However, part of "protecting myself" also meant that I needed to be prevented from using my hands, so right then and there in my room, he handcuffed me. He walked me out, and the next thing I knew was that I was thrown into the hard, plastic back seat of a police car with metal handcuffs digging into my wrists.

As if I wasn't already traumatized enough, when I tried to ask questions about what was going on, I was given the worst case scenario. I asked if the incident would go on some kind of record, and he said that it could potentially affect me getting into college and getting a job in the future – the last thing I needed to hear in a panicked state, about to go to who-knows-where, for who-knows-how-long of a time. Adding insult to injury, he said that I was just throwing a tantrum, and if I had been a more respectful and obedient child, none of this would have happened. I was fuming mad and confused, but there was no point in arguing, so the rest of the ride continued in silence.

The rest of the night was a series of questions and naps. I'd talk to a nurse, and she'd record my answers, and tell me a doctor would be with me in just a moment (when they say "moment" they really mean "two hours") and then I'd talk to the doctor, and he'd tell me that I'd be transferred to another hospital in a moment, and at the new place, they asked me more questions and had me sign a lot of forms, and finally let me sleep on a convertible sofa-table-bed with a fluffy pillow, before being woken up in the morning again to eat breakfast and talk to a counselor, and then have a nap before talking to another doctor. They played music at the new facility, but ironically the song "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry came on and ended before anyone but me noticed. Later my mother came in and talked to the counselor and made a lot of promises and took me home, and then broke all the promises.

My friends came over to stay the night and help me cope. I hope they'll still be my friends after this. They say they will, but I'm worried they'll find me too hard to deal with because that's what happened last time, after the second CPS report. We were so close, almost like twins, and we could practically communicate through just facial expressions. She helped me a lot, but after the crisis, we just stopped talking regularly. We talk a little more now, but it's like we were never close friends at all. At least, that's how I feel. I don't know if she'll read this. I miss her.

It's 12:01am on Monday, October 20 now. My early college app is due in eleven days, so I think I'll change it to a regular app. Hospital visits are very disruptive. I don't know how things are going to work out at school tomorrow. Will everything be normal? I don't know what to do.

[Part 2 coming soon, or never.] ◊

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