Duct Tape: How To Control Your Children!

My first experience with a psychiatrist was not pleasant. After years of abuse, in many forms, from my mother I was hauled to the Emergency triage centre at the nearest Hospital in my home town. How it came to be that I ended up there is not as important as in how I was dropped off. Cliff notes on that crazy night are as follows:

1. Brother moves home from across the country and attempts to continue sexually assaulting me.
2. My mother reverts to the extremes of playing favouritism.
3. I attacked my brother as a form of self-defense.
4. And finally my mother attempted to intervene and I physically defended myself when she became enraged and started to corner and hit me repeatedly.

Apparently it was my own fault that I ended up at the hospital, something that still confuses me to this day. After the fight had ended and all three of us had scratches and bruises and bloody noses - I retreated to my bedroom, where I was not allowed a lock for privacy (and sometimes even a door) well into my teens. I propped my 1950's rose speckled dresser against the door and then my book collection onto the dresser for a delusional added support. My mother barged in after hours had passed and I was returning my books to their rightful home in my closet shelving.

Upon seeing the disarray of my hair and the dresser blocking her entrance she busted through the door with my brothers help. My brother immediately tackled me and hit me so hard I went unconscious. I awoke to being duct taped at the ankles, wrists and even over my mouth wrapping around my head. I was wearing only underwear and a long t-shirt from my estranged father's clothing. Screaming didn't help as it couldnt be heard. I still shudder at the feeling of my family throwing me onto the floor in front of triage saying "She's f*cking crazy, she needs to be locked up, deal with her" followed by a horrible undressing of the duct tape. Skin and hair was actually ripped from my body and despite my crying I was not helped by anyone. Nobody phoned the police, nobody seemed concerned and in fact one of the triage nurses went for a cigarette break - Which I could have used at the time.

I was brought to a dimly lit room with three paintings on the wall of dreary, somber, landscapes, light pink and blue alternating walls and two men sitting at a table with notepads. I might have been young but I picked up on all their "Child Psychology" tricks immediately. The psychiatrist started asking cliche question - How does that make you feel? Do you have control at home? Are your grades reflecting anything from your home-life? So on, so forth. I refused to answer anything and they both decided to go into another room and interrogate my mother and brother - the abusers - and return to tell me what they thought was my problem. I listened. I listened and analyzed and became enraged from within. All I said to them before they released me with the diagnoses of "normal teenage rebellion" I posed this question to them:

If you think I am so stupid as to not pick up on two men in the room so I can't accuse either of abuse, pink walls to calm my mood and an indifference to asking me REAL questions - What makes you think I will tell you my story truthfully, you would choose not to hear it anyways?

My age and circumstances were against me. Now as an adult, however, the consequences of my childhood and early adulthood have taken its toll. Proud to say I see a PROPER Psychiatrist and am receiving therapy for the first time in my life.
An Ep User An EP User
Jan 17, 2013