I wonder if this is how I was being labeled in my family to justify the perpetuation of the psychological domination I experienced. If so, that would be a rather weird thing, like the imposition of the template of previous social and political circumstances, relating to another country, on the entirely different present. When I was trying to recover from the incapacitation of my digestive system to work properly, I did move back into my parents' home for a while, expecting that now I was paying my own way, and giving them an agreed amount of rent per week, my privacy would be respected. However this was not the case. I had made this decision in a semi-military state of mind, as a defensive manoeuver, thinking that everyone was attacking me now, but this was probably my best bet to be able to gather my energy resources and make a break from the abusive workplace. In the end, I didn't recover the health in my digestive system whilst I was still in that workplace, so the plan wasn't working out on that initial level. I really felt I had to save my life by gathering my energy somehow, as I had chronic fatigue syndrome due to chronic maladjustment. I quit the job and went onto social security, which of course was very shameful for someone like me, brought up in an extreme right-wing society, to have to do. I continued to pay my parents the agreed-upon rent for my room whilst trying to figure out how to save myself. I had an image in my head at that time, of a girl who had been run over on her bicycle. She was all mangled up in her bike and lying on the side of the road. I said to her, for she was me, "Wait here and do not move at all. I'm going to get help." Having given myself that instruction, I dissociated my injured self from my "going to get help" self. I don't mean this was a real dissociation, but more of an act of will. I had to figure out what had gone wrong, by reading up on modern, Western culture and becoming more familiar with it, as well as getting to know my world by reading philosophy books and so on.
It might have seemed like I was a freeloader, although materially that was false. I continued to pay my way. I'm not sure what the story was that was told about me, however.
It's really tough when one is not brought up within a particular culture, but everyone assumes one has been, and one is starting at the age of a young adult to basically learn the ropes. If I hadn't taken the time to try to reorient myself to the new society and to recover from my injuries, then I would not have reoriented myself or recovered at all. It was already clear that nobody else was going to help me and that my father saw every new injury I sustained as a disgrace to me as well as to him. He was like a shark circling, trying to get blood. Weird things he did were in grabbing my arm behind my back and telling me to snap out of it and just begin eating solid food, when my digestive system wasn't coping very much with anything around that time. He also invaded my bedroom when I'd contracted a virus and was trying to sleep it off. He turned my bed over. Regrettably, I had been sleeping naked, so this was a very embarrassing situation for me, if not for him. Another very weird event was the intervention using tough love, telling me that I could not even speak English properly and that my parents could hear me burping at night in my room, because my digestive system wasn't working properly. I was told I was really disgusting, I should convert to Christianity and snap out of it.