The Peacher's Daughter part 2: addiction and shame

Being the daughter of a conservative Christian family and, above all, a pastor's daughter, is about maintaining a title; it’s about maintaining the family's good image. But it turns out they don’t even care; they don’t give a damn. Most people who are pastors' kids will know that it’s like being part of 'royalty,' so to speak.

After what happened to me, after the S.A. I suffered a few months ago, I thought I would finally be able to move forward and have someone to talk to—a psychiatrist, a psychologist, whatever. I thought I would finally have the psychological guidance I needed, but it wasn't like that; it was a disaster. I’ll talk about that eventually.

They really don’t care. I tried to call the suicide prevention emergency service. I didn’t have my phone nearby at the time, so I used my mother’s, and I fell asleep because I had been very drunk and taken some pills, so everything took effect. I was just lying there; my face was resting on the mattress and my body was simply on the floor, on my knees. I don’t know if you understand that position, where your torso is on the bed and the rest of your body is on the floor. She came in and, without knowing that I was trying to call emergency services, she only came to take the phone away from me.

I feel I can’t even ask for help, because the only thing they would feel is shame—and in a way, I feel like a shame to them too. I remember wanting to buy some drinks at a store, and my mother refused, saying that if I bought alcohol, she would no longer have the leverage to judge my cousins and other relatives.

I think now I can understand that they really don't give a damn about how I am, if I'm okay, if I'm at least breathing or anything like that. They always say they are keeping an eye on me, that they always support me, this and that, and all that ***. It’s not the first time they’ve seen me lying there; the other time, a few months ago, she found me on the floor, completely drugged. Clearly, she didn’t say anything to me; she simply asked me to give her back her damn phone. I wonder what that is; she didn't even check my pulse, which would at least be something; at least to know that she cares about me, or at least that my father would. But my father doesn’t; my father doesn’t worry about me. It’s truly a *** here.

They tell you that only people who commit a suicidal act are cowards, and it’s like... knowing that I have already felt it, what kind of person am I? I am the kind of person to whom such things can be done. I hope to talk about this story, my story, frequently and finally speak out and free myself, at least a little bit, from all this *** that is happening to me.