I can talk about my trauma now, so here it is. Part 2.

In my last post, I wrote about the trauma that I experienced from my father, as well as a bit of context for why generational trauma has been passed down through my lineage.

Bullying and having zero social life.

That said, a lot more of the trauma that I hold on to is thanks to the fact that I was bullied at every single instance at school.

I was not diagnosed as being autistic until I was 19 years old, and so I spent K-12 (13 years of primary and secondary education) being subject to bullying and emotional manipulation.

Every single year that I was in public school at the Fort Bend Independent School District had more instances of bullying than I could count, even sometimes from teachers who “had it” with my being emotionally sensitive (because neurodivergent people tend to be rejection sensitive).

I was always the quiet kid.

The weird kid.

The kid who no one really cared about.

Which made me a target throughout this period of my life.

And, when fellow students do not care,

And when teachers do not care,

And when “tattling” was considered the worst sin to commit during those years…

I had zero ways to express myself,

To understand that I’m not wrong for feeling the emotions that I did at the time,

To just believe that it was okay to be me.

I grew up in the 2000’s and came of age in the early 2010’s, so as a queer, nonbinary, autistic, and disabled Filipino youth, I didn’t even know that I was any of those things.

All I knew is that I was different.

All I knew is that even my parents wanted me to be “normal”, something that I could never be, because I’ve always been extraordinary in my own way.

In empathy.

In my ways of thinking.

But what I was never good at was in terms of my appearance, my nervousness and anxiety when speaking in public or doing a presentation, or in just being normal.

It didn’t help that I did not belong to any clique at school. By the time that I reached the 10th grade, I sat alone at lunch,

Every single day.

Prior to that, it was almost mandatory for students to sit together, but I never found it appealing as I literally felt that I could never be myself around my classmates.

Warning: Digression.

And that feeling was correct, as I pretty much deactivated my Facebook account, which mostly had people from that period of my life, as well as later periods where I realized that I never made true, authentic connections. I left, saying bye and here’s how you can get in touch with me.

And nothing.

None of it was real, and at heart, I knew that.

End of digression.

I never really connected with my peers at school, at any level. And, while yes, I have some connections with people from K-12 and university, the connections are more cordial or professional than anything.

I wish things could be different, but I have trust issues from years of getting bullied and ostracized.

I spent an entire semester, a six month period, after high school, just not attending school. Just being by myself. Just doing absolutely nothing but processing my pain and trauma of the past 13 years of schooling.

And realizing that I was an emotional mess.

The trauma of therapy

So I decided to go to therapy, and at first it was great.

Because I loved finally having a diagnosis, understanding that I am autistic and that this was the reason why I was always seen differently was a burden lifted.

But I made the mistake of going to a counseling center that was Christian-centered and so, when I disclosed that I was gay.

Let’s just say that it didn’t go well.

I was gaslit by my own therapist and, after a few more sessions, left for good.

I wouldn’t seek therapy again until I found my current therapist 6 years later and, when it became too expensive, I had to stop seeing her for years and, eventually, got used to not seeing a therapist even after I found work.

Gladly, she accepted me back as a patient last year and I can now unleash my trauma.

No, this isn’t terrible, terrifying trauma, surviving war, surviving famine (though poverty was its own different story), or surviving heavy assault or abuse.

But either way, this is part of my story.

A story that I wish to continue to unravel and tell as I learn different ways to process my trauma.