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Emotional Abuse

Emotional Abuse

This one has been in the back of my mind for a while, I want to recollect these terrible moments I guess, just to let it out. As I write this post, I can hear my mom saying “stop blaming me for your problems.” That is not my intention at all here, I just want to share my stories, as I do in this blog. During my last mini depressive episode, I was talking to the wall about maybe telling my mom about my growing suicidal thoughts; she’s really all I have and I would like her help through this. Immediately though, I am reminded of the time we went for a walk and I told her I didn’t want to live anymore. Her simple response was, “do it.” Perhaps she thought I was not capable of ending my life, but that response made it clear that I was on my own and that the closest person to me wouldn’t care if I died. As I decided I’m never bringing up the topic with my mom again I get another flash. We went to the beach in Mexico with my aunt and cousin, I must have been 14 at the time. My mom and I got into one of our classic arguments, sparked by some of the most ridiculous shit that half the time we don’t remember what even started it. This time with just the two of us in the room, I decided to drink an entire water bottle without letting go of it once—yea, I don’t know why. I was almost done, the bottle all crumpled up under the pressure, when my mom started talking to me. I signal to her to hold up a little with humming-like noises. She disliked the noises and we begin shouting. Some time later something came over me, I began slamming a coffee mug on my head as my aunt bursts into the room to stop the fight. She restrained me, very tightly, while my mom opened up the curtains, opened the door to the balcony and shouts at me something along the lines of: Want something more effective? Jump off from here! My aunt took me down to the pool with my cousin. As a child, my mom got mad at me, went grab some scissors and came to my room where I was on my bed, coiled up against the wall, hugging my favorite plush toy, a bee. She climbed on the bed, took the bee from me and proceeded to cut it up. She got it fixed weeks later. Writing this one made me cry, I guess that’s what I want, to let it all out. During arguments she would threaten to give me up to foster care, or orphanage, or military school, or mental asylum, or my dad when he was still alive. She would grab the phone and call, or pretend to. Many times she would pack some of my clothes, taking me as far as the main entrance of our building. One time she had my dad come all the way to our house only to turn him away, he lived really far. On several occasions she called the police, twice they came, but never up to our apartment, I remember the sirens. Then there’s the countless insults; you are stupid, you are an idiot, you are retarded. She was specially mean after my autism diagnosis, again, calling me retarded and stupid when I wore my earplugs and glasses. She came into my room one time to tell me I looked stupid with my autism pride t-shirt, however I decided to cover my ears and scream at the top of my lungs to avoid hearing her, it worked though I was called crazy. As a child I would go to her room to show her whatever I was playing with; when she was watching tv, she would sigh in disgust and turn up the volume really loud. She would do the same with earphones, blasting the volume and ignoring me altogether. She would ignore me for hours after a conflict, completely refusing to acknowledge me or anything I said, even if it was important. When I was in kindergarten I forgot my coat at home, my mom refused to let me go get it and proceeded to blast the coldest air in the car for a while. One time she took me to a mental hospital instead of taking me to school without telling me. She tried doing the same she did to my bee plush to my Kizuna AI plush but I quickly ran to her room and grabbed her dog plush threatening to do the same. And there was also physical abuse, or parenting as I knew it. Spanking, by hand or with the thickest belt ever—she would tell me the metal end would work better,—slapping. At a certain age I began covering myself, which was interpreted as me hitting back, though I did sometimes. During an argument she started spraying air freshener at me. Then she grabbed the nearby can or Raid and sprayed that on me too. One day I wanted to do some changes to the settings on our security cameras but I needed to restart the WiFi router, despite not doing anything important, my mom told me I shouldn’t do it. I tried arguing my case but she got fed up with me quickly and things got out of control. My mom scratched my right hand because I was blocking her way—I know I was wrong, I was telling her I wanted to have a peaceful conversation but she kept ignoring me; walking away was never our best quality—a lot of blood was coming out. I got really mad and started shouting really loudly so everyone would know what she did. My mom told me I should call police on her and later she began hitting herself on the temples repeatedly, saying “I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid…” I developed a scar that looks like a cat scratch. We’re both fucked, I don’t know what else to say. I know I didn’t make things easy, but regardless, some behaviors are just not okay to do, no matter what the child has done. I regret not walking away when I should have, and I regret being pushy at times, I know that just made everything worse. After my psychosis, when I was getting assessed at the hospital, the doctor was impressed by my experiences, he asked if I considered it emotional abuse. I responded that I didn’t, in my mind I was thinking that it just was the kind of parenting that I got. Needless to say, I don’t think that way anymore. All this certainly shaped the way I live today. I mean, when my mom gets mad at the cat, when I hear that tone in her voice, I get scared, as if she is mad at me. Same thing when she stomps the ground dramatically, it’s so triggering. And yet, I don’t know what I would do without her. She gives me everything I could ever want. We have a great place, we never worry about food, she brought me over to live in the US, she pays my college tuition, she accepted me as trans and pays for my HRT, etc. But a hug, an “I love you,” they are almost nonexistent. If only that could change. I often think I should start doing it myself, but it would take so much out of me, and I have never done it before, and I think my mom is stuck in the same situation. I don’t know what to do.

Religiousless, With a Jewish Heart, Forced To Observe Christianity

Religiousless, With a Jewish Heart, Forced To Observe Christianity

Yeah, I feel weird, religiously; I decided to put on hold my conversion to Judaism since my mental health began declining, I stopped going to temple, visiting my Rabbi, reciting Shema, and lighting Shabbat candles. As a Ger, someone who is currently converting, I felt comfortable wearing my Magen David and reciting blessings, but now, I don’t feel it’s correct for me to wear my necklace, so I haven’t. I’m in Mexico right now, I can’t believe it’s been a year since I was first feeling depressed but found hope in Judaism. I’m sitting right here where I felt that massive push out of nowhere to learn about Judaism, and since then I have done so many things that were unthinkable to me before. One thing I never stopped doing was attending Hillel events. Joining Hillel and attending all the events were some of the bravest things I’ve ever done, being terrified by paranoia outdoors, it took me a while to go and explore what I could do at school. I have met great people at Hillel, like my friend, who always gets excited when he sees me. I love attending those events, recently, we had a silent disco, I helped set up and stayed to dance, simply unthinkable for me before. Here with family, we are going to celebrate Christmas and go to gatherings, and there’s also something on January 6th about the Three Wise Men. I’m at a crossroads and honestly, I don’t know how to feel, I guess smile and enjoy being with family, but at the same time I don’t want to do it, Christmas is not a holiday I want to celebrate anymore, despite it never being religiously associated in my upbringing. Or maybe yeah, let’s celebrate Christmas, but then let’s also celebrate Hanukkah, which happens to start on the night of the 25th this year. We are an interfaith family now, I guess, but I’m still being ‘forced’ to observe the Christian traditions with no regard to my Jewish celebrations. It just feels weird. But like I said, Christmas isn’t overwhelmingly religious in my family, so I guess that as a family tradition, it’s okay to observe. My aunt does occasionally go around with a porcelain baby Jesus offering everyone to kiss his head; yeah, that’s an absolute no for me. I would love for my family to accompany me in lighting the menorah, perhaps ask what it means, and just enjoy the moment together. As I am preparing to go to sleep, my aunt comes into the room and gives me a blessing while doing a cross on me. I know she means well but, it feels weird. I’m thinking of reciting Shema for the next few days as a way to ascertain my faith despite partaking in Christian things without wanting to. Update Wednesday 12/25 I’m writing about it to calm down. So yesterday, after going to one of our appointments for the renovation of our visa, my mom decided to go to the church, it’s like the biggest here in Mexico City. We took a taxi there and my mom spent the time looking at the Virgin Mary. I was standing awkwardly to her side, following her around. I was surprised by the amount of idols all over the place; the whole trip made me sure that Christianity is not for me, and that I find myself at home in Judaism. At night we had a Christmas dinner, I managed to step outside while my aunt carried around the baby Jesus doll. I decided to come back to my room afterward to recite Shema. I was almost done with the last verses, I was so focused on my trope, really feeling it; but then my mom bursts into the room and interrupts me. This has happened many times, and it always makes me cry. I whisper the lines I had left after she left, crying. I lay in bed and begin to cry harder, my pillow was soaked. After a while I stood up to clean myself and go downstairs because I forgot my phone and a stim toy my mom gifted me that morning. My grandma immediately notices I was crying and begins to cry, assuming that my mom shouted at me. I leave telling her it’s nothing, but nothing else. Seeing her cry makes me cry even harder than before, I lay back down with my hair covering my face. Then my mom comes in, irritated because I have not brushed by teeth, she doesn’t notice I’m crying, I say nothing. After she left, more crying. I begin to hit myself on the head with the stim toy, first slowly and then rapidly before throwing it. Thoughts of wanting to die rush through my mind, and at this point, I’m saying out loud “kill me.” My mom comes in again saying “what’s wrong,” she tries to move my hair and sees me crying. With an irritated tone she asked me to move, I refuse. I begin telling her to please leave me alone, once more. She leaves mad screaming at me that I am blaming her for this, for some reason. I keep crying while any will to live within me is gone, I’m afraid that has not changed since. After a while, I stand up and realize the stim toy broke a glass I had on the nightstand. I go to the mirror to clean myself again, I ended up grabbing my hairbrush and slamming it against my head very hard. And now I’m writing this post.

Mom Won't Understand

Mom Won't Understand

Ever since I learned I’m autistic, I have made efforts to improve my experiences. These efforts included buying a pair of earplugs—they work great! The thing about sensory overstimulation is that it degrades your mood over time. I would get through the day before buying the earplugs, but I would feel incredibly tired and irritated afterward, with no explanation as to why. Now I know that being in a noisy environment causes this reaction, and now I avoid such environments to prevent feeling down after. It works great, I feel like I have more energy. It’s like avoiding feeling overwhelmed and sad before so that afterward, I can feel happy and energetic. (Ok, I wrote the above in November last year and didn’t finish it. Long story short, The last months of last semester were absolutely terrible.) I don’t know what the problem is with my mom and my autism. For a very long time, I thought she wouldn’t accept it outright, even though I’m formally diagnosed. Then I think she finally accepted that I am autistic but would express disgust when I wore my earplugs or my glasses. She very frequently asked me to take my headphones off when washing the dishes, a very noisy activity. I would decline and she would get very upset. She would say things like: “Why are you acting this way now?” I told her before that she might have that sort of reaction as I unmask and learn to take care of myself. As usual, those comments would be followed by insults like stupid or retarded. That denial, the insults, isolation at school, and a new environment drove my mood to absolute bottom. It was terrible, and yes, I’m thankful to say that I am finally escaping—I will explain in the next post. Every clash with my mom triggered long-dormant self-harm thoughts. The first of these was when driving my car home from the dealership. My mom was giving me advice, I was nervous and everything felt louder. I told her to lower her voice but she wouldn’t do it because she was not talking loudly according to her. I told her again to lower her voice, but this time she got mad. On purpose she started shouting at me, she said: “that is not loud, THIS IS LOUD!” That caused me a meltdown. I began to cry, and scream “shut up!” repeatedly, I began banging the steering wheel. And then it happened, just as I had merged into the interstate at the far-left I had a sudden flash showing a simple motion of the steering wheel which could end it all. I calmed myself down by breathing and didn’t act upon that thought, I am still here. That happened in August and slowly through December, the frequency of those thoughts increased.

Diagnosed

Diagnosed

Well. It was challenging to find someone that diagnosed autism in adults. After telling my mom about my autism, she didn't believe me. She said things like "You're stupid," and "You're crazy." Eventually, she agreed to help me find a diagnostician. She was calling around but no one was answering the phone, and those who did said they don't treat adults. She said that someone recommended her to check out AANE. She called me and told me what she had been doing. I was very happy, I thought she finally understood and abandoned her wrong perception of autism. Later that day she joined a meeting from a mother's support group. After it ended she called me back and she was talking in a different tone. She said, "I told you you are not autistic, you have no idea what those mothers go through every day, you are nothing like their children." I was pretty sad after that, I thought she had come to understand me, but she didn't. Autism is a spectrum disorder, some autistic people have higher support needs than others. It is a series of values, skills, and traits that go up and down for each individual, therefore, no autistic person is the same. My mom might believe that I have nothing in common with them, but I can see it. She seemed to be very fixated on the fact that those kids couldn't tie their shoelaces, or go to the bathroom. Now, I don't know much about the latter, but I remember it took me a very long time to learn to tie my shoes, way more than my peers, if that matters. But it's not just that, now that I'm more knowledgeable in autism, looking back, I can see hints of it. It has always been difficult for me to make eye contact. And as a child, I didn't altogether. It wasn't until a school counselor in 2016 pointed it out to my mom as "something to note." She told me about it and since that day I've forced myself to make eye contact, even if it's just for less than ten seconds. But anyway. We finally found a provider who specializes in late-diagnosed autistic people. The whole process was very stressful, I didn't know how things were going to turn out. The diagnostician asked me things about my childhood, and I said the things I described above and in other blog posts. And then she asked me to fill out very lengthy questionnaires. Later that day I received my diagnosis letter. I'm autistic. I felt happy and relieved. This difference I identified as autism months ago was finally confirmed. I say relieved because now I know that there is nothing wrong with me, or that I don't know how to do things, or that it could be something else. I have been following the advice of autistic people in regards to sensory overload and unmasking for a few weeks now and it has really helped me. I know that I could do those things and more without a diagnosis, but what I really wanted from a formal diagnosis was my mom's acceptance. She said multiple times I couldn't possibly be autistic and that I couldn't self-identify or self-assess as such. That is why I wanted an official diagnosis. In it, my differences and difficulties are explained, and which ones are significant that should be looked after. But she still refuses to believe that I'm autistic. I don't know if she is still going through a denial phase, and I don't know if it will go away. I want to be able to unmask and be myself without being ostracized by her. But well, now I have a better understanding of myself, and I will be working to minimize burnout, manage my emotions better, and live as a happy autistic person.

Extraordinary

Extraordinary

My mom has been into pronunciation Shorts lately. I was studying Korean and she suddenly said, ”I have a challenge for you.” The challenge was to guess the country of the flag on the screen and pronounce it properly. I got them all. Panama. Qatar. Hungary. Cameroon. Then she found another one but for guessing the capital with the flag. Ottawa. Nairobi. Stockholm. When the creator said Stockholm exactly like I did my mom just said, “Oh my god, you’re—you’re amazing.” Even though I’ve told her about my autistic traits, she still maintains that there’s no way I’m autistic. My guess is that it is hard for a neurotypical person to understand the traits that are considered autistic, and that changing the weaknesses is not as easy as “learning to be social,” or just “stop moving my hands, head, and whole body.” I’ve been listening to the melody ”Overture” from the show Extraordinary Attorney Woo. With it as background, the show begins by showing many yellow rubber ducks and a blue duck between them. I’ve always felt like that blue duck. The feeling was shared between not feeling comfortable in my gender and not fitting in socially. It was always clear to me that I was not a normal child, and everyone said that to me. I didn’t play how everyone did; I didn’t at all. I was not interested in things they liked. I have always loved learning. Always wanting to learn how to do things. The other day we were walking the dog and my mom said that she doesn’t think I’m autistic because I have had friends. And I thought about it and here’s my reasoning: Yes, I’ve had some friends in the past because others have noticed me struggling to talk, and have been kind enough to approach me and eventually embrace me. Without them, past years would have been like this senior year, lonely. Because I wouldn’t speak to anyone if I didn’t need to. But I was able to see that they were nice people that wanted to help. This last year, there was no way for anyone to know that I was new to the school. I was never introduced to anyone. I didn’t introduce myself to anyone. No one introduced themselves to me. No one even knew I was a senior in any of my classes; I only share one class out of twelve with seniors. I didn’t need to talk to anyone, so I just didn’t. I made my way around the school, mapped out where my classrooms were, and scored the highest grades ever; not that they were ever bad. During recesses, I learned things on my phone. Read through articles, news, played GeoGuessr, answered flag trivia, learned languages, so many things. That is my superpower, the eagerness to learn. That enables me to know and do a wide variety of things. From learning about nuclear energy and disasters, to the North Korean regime, flags, capitals, places on the map, Japanese, Korean, anti-trans legislation, how to fix electronics, how to read a music sheet, play piano, sewing, Java, HTML, Adobe, Product Design. It is all truly beautiful to me. Being able to do lots of things is very rewarding. It makes me very happy and proud when I learn something and I actually help others with it. Like, I’ve brought the electricity back up from a burnt fuse, jump-started a car, fixed clothes, fixed dead computers, put furniture together when no one else in the room would know how to do it or would give up. However, it comes with a detriment, I can do so many things somewhat averagely, but not a single one extremely well. In other words, I see how people succeed in something specific when in my case, I don’t have anything to show for my abilities. It’s weird, but I wouldn’t give it up. And I’ve taken the first step to change it. I’ve chosen my career, Product Design. It embodies many of the abilities I mentioned above. It will allow me to make a positive change in people’s lives. And hopefully land my dream job, work at Apple. So, yes. Being autistic is extraordinary. Knowing so many things has helped me, and I’m sure it will help me a lot. It, however, comes with difficulties that I must at least ameliorate. Even though it’s hard for me to talk to people, I need to do it. The first part of the song from the show reminds me of how sad it can be to be different and not fit in. The middle part reminds me of the discovery of your strengths. The ending is to me the amazing it all really is. Our world is different, full of amazement and discovery, and hopefully one day, someone will want to take a peek and be part of it with me.

Regret

Regret

Well, it didn’t go well. I made a letter with what I wrote in the last post. I sent it to her, but she didn’t see it. So I erased the messages and waited. Yesterday I went down to walk the dog, and I sent her the letter from there. It definitely wasn’t the best moment, but I needed to tell her. When I went back, my mum was upset, she told me to go to her room. And so I did. She told me what I thought would happen. She said that I was just looking for whatever as an excuse, that I thought about it because someone had pushed the idea into me. She said something about winning the lottery with me, I think she referred to my gender dysphoria and now autism. I started crying and told her I didn’t want to talk anymore. I went to my room and kept crying. Today in the morning she seemed to have calmed down, but she was still mad. Later in the car, she started talking to me by saying that she didn’t want me serious all the time because of what happened last night. She then started saying that she didn’t think it was right for me to self-diagnose as autistic. I only said in the letter that I had taken some screening tests. But I do consider myself autistic, suspected, I mean, exactly that, self-diagnosed. I still need a formal assessment, one that I do want, but that many autistic people decide not to get, and live just like that, self-diagnosed because they can improve their lives simply by knowing they might be autistic. But anyway, my mom started talking about her also not being able to talk to people. She then went on for five minutes almost shouting about someone lower rank that her getting a salary increase, because he had friends and talked to people more. I told her I didn’t want to talk anymore, but she didn’t want to. We had an argument. I ended up getting out of the car before reaching school as she shouted at me the usual threat of: things are gonna change from now on (negatively.) And well, now I don’t know what to do. We need to talk, but it just doesn’t work. She either gets mad or I don’t feel comfortable. Let's see what happens…

Tell Mom

Tell Mom

“Okay, so, I played yesterday’s movie because I feel that I’m different, and I wanted to see your reaction. I feel I might be autistic. Autism is a spectrum of traits that vary per person, not just varying degrees of ability. I have answered many screening tests, and the results suggest to seek help from a doctor. I am very thankful that what I may have is something called high-functioning autism, not as intense like the movie. This might be the reason why I don’t have any friends. Why I don’t want to talk to anyone. Why whenever I go to school or outside I get nervous. And why I’m shy, even around you. But it is also why I get interested, and like learning so many things, like science, languages, robotics, art, and music. Why I am good with orientation and attention to detail. Why I hear and smell things others can’t, like the gas smell, and distant noises. Why I can come up with weird, but good solutions for problems. I didn’t want to believe the results at first, because I thought I could force myself to talk to people and stop being so shy. But I can’t. I feel my heartbeat race very fast when I’m answering a question at school, the only reason why I talk there. But the more tests I answered, I became more convinced that there is indeed something wrong with me. Not very intense. But different from the rest. Now that I know why I’m different, I can do things to help myself and get help from a professional. Can we talk a little more about this? It might be a little hard for me though.”

Coming Out

Coming Out

On February 25th, 2021 I turned 16. And it was around this time that I started feeling very uncomfortable about being a girl trying to act like a boy. My family frequently complimented me about my deep voice, my broadening shoulders, and my facial hair starting to appear. I felt terrible and decided I needed to say something; I set myself the goal of coming out to my mother by the end of March, the trans day of visibility. Unfortunately, I was so afraid of what my mom would say that I decided not to tell her in person, I would tell her in a letter instead. The month went by and I simply couldn’t do it, I didn’t have the courage and was too scared. I had no idea what was her opinion of LGBT people, so I didn’t know what to expect. Months later on September 1st, 2021, I decided what I wanted my name to be, Naoko, a Japanese name that means “well-behaved, straight.” At this point I had kept the letter in my room without being able to hand it to my mom until finally, on September 12th I left it next to my mother’s desk. It took her three days to discover the letter and read it during which, I couldn't handle the anxiety. On the 15th, I peered at her desk to see that the letter had disappeared, and then it dawned on me, this is it, it's happening. I walked into the kitchen, terrified, my mom turned around and told me that my letter was very special, we hugged while my mom told me she loved me and would always support me. I began crying out of joy and couldn't stop smiling! We had lunch before going to my mom's room to talk some more. She asked me if I've felt I should be a girl for a long time, the conversation felt a little uncomfortable specially when my mom started talking AIDS. The next day she seemed mad at me, or at least that’s how I perceived it; I felt terrified she wasn’t taking this good. Days later she told me that the most difficult part for her was to stop seeing the boy she’s seen grow and suddenly having to see a girl she has to call daughter. This made me understand what she’s going through, I know it’s difficult. When my mom was finally feeling better about this change she helped me come out to the rest of my family, without me to shield me from a negative reaction. She left for my godparents’ house, I was very nervous. Two hours later she messaged me to go downstairs as we would all go eat somewhere. Quietly. I got in the car with everyone and after a while my godmother asked me why I was so quiet in the Spanish feminine way. I looked up amazed and happy that everything had gone well. Telling my grandma, uncles and cousins came later, this time I was there. Thankfully, everyone had a positive reaction, even those who I feared would not accept me. But it would take time for them to get accustomed to using the right pronouns, including my mom who wouldn’t put that much of an effort and frequently referred to me as he.