Teen mom on naked and afraid

2020.11.28 08:42 Thrower903 I need to get this off my chest/ It's killing me inside

This is a continuation of my first few comments on this board. I've been trying to cope with my gender dysphoria for so long. I need to talk. My mind is a mess. The anonymity will help a little. It's a long one. Sorry guys.
Edit: Completely forgot. Dumb me. A lot of graphic content. You are warned. Edit 2: Also, tagged for u/hedeghogXL
My Story:
I was a girl in my past life. Only lived to 16 and drowned in a river, but hey. I'd like to go back to being a girl so much.
It's a painful and traumatic story. I've been dealing with dysphoria my whole life. I think some backstory is needed. I've been wanting to post here for a long time. I'm tired of all of the crying at night and insecurities.
I'm 22 now. I guess I should start from the beginning. As a toddler around the ages 3-6, I would always dress in my mom's clothes. Of course I looked ridiculous and my mom would think of it as the cutest thing. My younger sister and I would put nail polish on each other and mask in my mother's perfume. My mom was in her early 20s, so she had a lot of perfume, nail polish, and clothes. My dad was always busy working as hard as he could because my parents were both immigrants who came to NY in the mid 90s.
Most of my friends in the neighborhood were all girls so I was heavily influenced by "girly stuff." Anime was having a boom in the early 2000s. It wasn't my first exposure to more cutesy stuff from Japanese culture because I was part Japanese from my mom's side. We had a lot of VHS tapes of old anime. The importance of this is that stuff like Sailor Moon, Card Captor Sakura, and more is that these shows showed me how much a girl's fashion and "coolness" (lack of a better word) jived with me.
When I went to elementary school, most of my friends were girls. I had some male kid friends, but they didn't leave as much of an impact on me. No offense you guys. Hope they're all okay. There was this one girl in my friend group, she had extremely shiny blonde hair and her dad looked like Billy Ray Cyrus. 😆 She was so pretty! Her dad would bring sushi all the time and she would share with me. We would talk about Sailor Moon episodes all of the time. The significance of her was that we used to play house as kids do and I was always the baby. She would mother me and it was a bit awkward. This was a bit of the start of my insecurities. I felt like a baby to everyone. Everyone would try to spoil me or baby me. I didn't like it. I don't want all this stuff guys. Why do you like me so much?
I moved later in 1st grade and didn't see that girl again. Big sad. Moving was very tough for me. I lost all of my friends and it was a completely different borough. The only real friend I had during the early stages of my move was my sister. I guess it was nice that we were no longer in a cramped apartment. The house was spacious or so it seemed to my tiny child body. There was this strange mini door in the basement though. Honestly, a lot of strange occurances happened throughout my childhood and I'd rather not get into them. This is about my gender dysphoria.
It was tough. It was a ghetto neighborhood and my first day at the new school was hell. A lot of "are you chinese" comments. I still feel weird about that stuff to this day. The rest of elementary school was a blur and I went to a charter school in 5th grade. This is where stuff got weird. I had to take the bus to school from now on because my home was far from the charter. These bus rides... the kids were a rowdy bunch. Charter school was very uniform heavy and strict. Slouch and you would get a demerit. I hated it, but I kept me distracted. I made more guy friends for the first time in my life. I was doing more guy stuff like shooter games and shounen anime (Naruto-lots of it). The first time I knew I was going through puberty (No hair though until much later) was when I had funny feelings for this really short girl with glasses. She was so smart. I'm not tall myself and get picked on for it.
Around this time was also when I had stuff done to me on the bus. I was molested and raped by girls on the bus. I haven't told anyone this, but it has been hurting me for a long time. They would grind against me and even pulled out my penis and inserted it. It was an uncomfortable experience. I'm scared. Why didn't I fight back? Well, some of these girls were taller than me and I was still under the notion that I shouldn't hit girls. I asked my mom if she could pick me up after school instead ever since stuff like this happened.
You guys see why I'm spacing out the replies. So much shit happened. I went to another charter school for 6th grade. One that was closer to my house. I was normal for the first time in years. This was a predominantly black school and I was like the only Asian there, but everyone was really caring and nice. A lot of the people I met there are still my friends. 6th grade to 8th grade flew by really fast. I was like 5 ft 2 in 8th grade and it was a bit intimidating next to my friends who were like 6 ft and over now.
We all took a test to get into the newly built Charter high school. The test was hard as hell, but I had grown a lot better at studying and school stuff. This is one of the things that allowed me to have some popularity in such an academic school. Everyone wanted you to do their homework. We went to 9th grade and I was not ready for all of the hormones. Girls were now allowed to wear skirts and..... Stuff got dicey. We had new policies for girls where the skirts could not be above the knees. I was a scrawny small boy at the age of 15.
I had grown a few inches in height at now 5 ft 6. I went went to a camping trip to North Cali that summer from the school with my Physics teach. He's a cool guy. A very profound supporter of LGBT. This would come back to bite him later. So many people just hate each other for the dumbest of reasons. Back to the camp. Anyway, it was one of the hardest things in my life. I wasn't the most athletically built. I barely played hoops with my friends because I was just to short. WEe hiked 108 freaking miles during the trek. I met a lot of other kids there form NJ and TX. The NJ kids stole some of our stuff from our suitcases. Assholes. The TX kids I respected a lot. They were so out going.
We did small hikes near the lodging we got to from the airport. After getting a bit used to walking for long periods of time, we set off for the mountains. We were mixed into a group between NY and TX kids all on the same mountain, but different paths. It was scary as hell. At first I just wanted to be done with it. The TX kids encouraged me to keep going. I think there were two guys friends from my side and the TX guys were a mix of 2 girls and 2 guys. It was grueling. My legs ached.
When we reached the halfway point of the trail, stuff started getting more swampy and green. This is back when Cali still had water lol. It was the start of the diminish though. This is where it happened. The most traumatic experience of my life. It still bothers me to this day. We had settled down at the top of a waterfall area that started up from a swamp. I wasn't that scared of water, but that would change quick. It was around 4 and the sun was getting all droopy eyed. The tents were up and the fire was started. We had almost no water.
I changed into some more comfy clothes in the tent after the long ass walk. The 2 girls kept commenting, "Are you sure you don't want to change your pants." I didn't know at the time because I was a dumbass teen, but I thought they were referring to my thick thighs. I was on the slim side, but I always had thick thighs. Like bruh. No, they were referring to my slight bulge from my weiner. I'm so embarrassed and ashamed about that to this day. I don't think my camp instructor or the other guys noticed. It must have been so awkward for them. I'm sorry girls. Stupid me.
Okay, so I was asked to go get water in the big water bag because we need to make dinner. We first tried to get water from the swamp near the camp and let's just say that the water was green as hell. I grabbed the water bag headed off. It was getting dark. I think it was almost 6, but still enough light. I did another stupid though. I get lost easily and had no idea where the heck I was going. I couldn't remember the direction back to camp and the sun was almost gone. I was scared. There were a lot of wild animals there like coyotes. I then remembered the clean area where we had played near the waterfall. That was good water.
I went in the direction where I could hear the flowing stream. There it was! The crystal clear water. I put the water bag down and used my water bottle to get water near the shore. It was taking to long and I was growing tired. There was almost no light left in the sky. I checked my watch a d it was 6. I don't remember the exact time. Oh man. They were gonna kill me. I went closer towards the water. I slipped on one of the wet rocks and was pushed into the stream of water, which at night was now much faster than during the day.
I can't swim for shit and still can't. I couldn't stop. I went down the waterfall. I was falling. I don't know what happened. I didn't hit the water because I felt no pressure from deep water. It was as if I were in an inbetween state of life and death. Everything was light blue. I don't have the mental capability or words to help describe it. I damn well know I wasn't drowning. Drowning is a unanimous feeling. Then, I heard a voice. "You want me to save you boy. I'll make you a preposition. A deal." I don't what hell was going on. My chest was so tight and my heart was pounding. I didn't want to die. I said please help me. The voice said back, "You made a good choice. You will be my experiment." This fucker was definitely not God. I didn't have a lot of choices. I had barely lived up to that point at 15.
Shit then went down. Then, I could feel myself being ripped apart and reformed over and over and over. Oh man. Torment. So many voices. A girl? Who is she and what does she have to do with me? Images pouring into my brain. Cataclysmic events. It was too much. Too much. I don't even know how long this occurred. I wanted to escape. The monster said, "You must understand humanity and this world because humans as a whole are incapable of ever truly understanding each other." What the fuck was he on about? My head. Oh God my head.
After I accepted and my mind became numb to everything, everything around me went black and I was near the water fall. I was on the shore area where I was getting water. It was still dark. The water bag was still there. What just happened? That was too large of a drop for me to have gotten back up. I didn't question it. I was too shaken from everything that had just happened. It was getting dark too. I hiked back to my camp grounds and everyone there asked where I went and why it took so long. I didn't know what to say so I just said I got lost. I was a bit confused however. Did I really die or fall asleep. No. I did die. If I had simply fallen asleep, then my camp instructor would have called for a search party. Plus the time of day hadn't really changed by that much. I had my watch with me too. It was around 6ish if I remember so dusk hour.
Also, the search party includes helicopters so they would have found me pretty easily. I was 15 after all. There is no way they would let me get lost in the harsh wilderness. No. I died, but why was I chosen to come back? After the camping was over that whole month, I came back home and I was so tired. My sister was crying because of no calls due to lack of cell service. My mom was happy that she had her son back. I became severely depressed after that incident. My body felt a lot weaker too. Not just from the hiking though. This when I would get more sick on and off over the years too.
Something changed in me though. I feel like that thing had paused my puberty and done much more. When I turned 15 before the Summer, I only had tiny bits of peach fuzz. Very easy too shave, but am probably just going to electro it. I'm also was stuck at the same height of 5 ft 6. Even after 7 years, I look the exact same as my 9th Grade self. Even, my younger brother and sister have said this to me. My sister and brother are growing up in front of my eyes, yet I can't seem to age. My sister says how girl my voice is. She has a deeper voice than me and my features are very feminine. People outside when I went to take the train to school would say I'm very pretty or mistake me sometimes for a girl. A lot of my female classmates would remark how I should have been born a girl with the way I look. This only made my gender dysphoria worse. Also, the reason I wear baggy clothing if I can like hooded.
Okay. There will be a bit of a divergence, but stick with me. I'm going to talk about one of the things during the inbetween state of mine that I saw. My past life. It's a hauntingly sad one. Very short lived too. Maybe how mine might be.
[This girl. Was she a past life? Her story. I saw it in the inbetween state. What a depressing life she lived. She lived a life of poverty. Her and her mother lived in the outskirts of a village tribe. The village was hostile for women of all ages. Rape was common and the civil men fought everyday with the rich people of the tribe to keep their wives and daughters from being kidnapped and made into sex slaves or hanged for not being strong. Humans are truly disgusting. Why were the girl and mother exempt from such treatment and allowed to live alone? Well, it's pretty simple. The rich tribe leader of said village had a mistress. The mistress was the girl's mother. The girl's mother was truly beautiful. No one would have guessed that she was in her mid 30s. She looked no older than 18.
The mother grew up in the harsh rundown village. Scrounging for food everyday and fighting the other kids orphaned kids for shelter. She was an expert at surviving. She was one day found drinking water from broken pot shard in an alleyway while one of the royal tribe's guards spotted her. He pitied the frail girl. He asked her to come towards him. She was timid at first, but her rumbling tummy gave out. She was no stranger to receiving handouts. She held out her hand. Nothing. She was upset and felt betrayed. That's when the time leader came to her and said that she was so beautiful. He offered her to come with him to his home. He promised her that she would never have to worry about food again and could wear clean clothes. She accepted the offer quickly. She craved for a way out of her constant struggle for survival. The girl was taken by horse back to the rich tribe's mansion and fort. Everything so ornate and clean. It was an eye opener for her. People could live so carefree. The girl's mother was made a worker girl at the mansion. She cleaned, folded, and washed clothes, helped the cooks, and fed the horses. The rich tribe leader grew quite fond of her. She was there for 15 years. The rich tribe leader had to let her go. Everything ends eventually. He was under scrutiny for his now more peaceful ways from his fellow tribesmen. They blamed his infatuation for the young girl's mother as his change of heart. His wife was also becoming suspicious of him. He was a prideful man so he had to let her go. He and his closest group took her to somewhere outside of the village and away from the mansion.
There was an old shed at the outskirts of the village that was used as camp in the past. The rich tribe leader and his group helped the young girl's mother by building a moderate sized house where the mother would stay. She was not allowed to leave here at all. The mother was also 3 months pregnant at the time. She gave birth not too long after from the help of some of the tribe's female caretakers that tended to mundane things in the mansion, such as washing the tribe leader's wife or decorating the mansion.
The mother and young baby girl would live their lives there for 14 years under protection from the tribe leader. The girl and her mother, though, lived in poverty. What food they couldn't buy was given to them by the rich tribe. The mother had a small garden that she tended to quite often. It was her pride. The girl helped her mother tend to it almost everyday. The garden provided them with most of the food that they could not otherwise receive. The rich tribe could not always attend to them after all. They were at civil war with the village. The girl would help her mother with chores everyday. She would always sing or hum while doing said chores. Lullabies from when she was a small child. Life was simple for the girl. She had grown spoiled. They had a nice little house to themselves and she could eat so many things that the village children could only dream of. She received some of the prettiest clothes too. Her mother seemed very happy on the surface. Being with her daughter. Tending to her precious garden. All was not well however. The mother's body was becoming more frail looking. The girl's mother was growing weaker as the days passed.
The mother had completely been taken over by her illness and was now bed ridden. The garden would have to be tended to alone. It was hard work for the young girl. Her body was under developed and she was small. Using the garden tools, such as the shovel, took almost all day. Many of the crops did not make it to winter. Just like that her mother too would not make it. She had died in bed. No words. The girl had lost the only person she loved. She grew to leather her mother's garden, blaming it for making her mother weak. She could not face the reality of being left alone. The girl buried her mother next to the garden. It was tough on her tiny hands. She was 14 after all and only helped her mother pick crops and water them. She had no real skill other than singing. What good singing do now? The tribe had not given them extra food for several months, so the girl had to live off of what crops had survived and left over food from the tribe. She tended to the garden for a year. Many of the plants had withered, but she did not lose hope. She sang and worked as she always had and grew strong from the experience. However, peace was not meant to last.
The girl was tending to the garden when she saw horses in the distance. She was elated. Finally she could eat the yummy food again as she had in the past. No. Something was different. They weren't the wealthy tribe men. They looked to be the raggedy villagers and with them was not the tribe leader. No, it was the tribe leader's closest guard. The same one who had found her mother so many years ago. The villagers had swords and torches. The torches glowed red hot as the sun was setting. The girl was afraid. What happened to the tribe leader? Was he dead? The villager burned the garden and the girl screamed and cried, pleading them not to destroy one of her mother's last heirlooms. It was all burned to a crisp. They then went for the house and burned and slashed everything. It was dark now and the torches glowed with menace. The civil war had corrupted the minds of the villagers who hated the tribe leader for living a life so lavishly and tending to a lone woman and her daughter while their children starved. She was howling with tears at this point, but they had not hurt her. Not yet. The guard told the villagers to grab her and take her to the intact shed. She knew what their plan was, but her legs had given out from fear and she had soiled her dress with urine. She was so afraid. The men pushed her to the ground and grabbed all of her limbs. She kicked, punched, and screamed. They slapped hard across the face.. The guard told the village men to spread her legs. They held her down tight. The guard took his pants down and penetrated her. She shrieked. He pulled her hair and pumped into her violently. The villagers cackled at her. When the guard's deed was done, they left her in the shed naked with her torn shreds of a dress beside her.
They left as quickly as they came. She had nothing left. They had desecrated her mother's grave and burned everything to a crisp except for the watering hole. She cried and cried. Her loins burned like fire. She took some water using the pail in the watering hole and wet a scrap of her torn dress. She cleaned her privates as thoroughly as she could. It stinged. The guard was a ravenous beast. She cried again, looking at the ashes. She picked up a burnt leaf and hugged it. She was all alone. It was not over for her though. The villagers later came in the night as she rest in the shed. They pulled her out from the shed as she clung firmly to the ground with all of her might. They tied her legs and arms, blindfolding her as well. They left by horseback with her to the village where she was tied up to a stake. The village was surrounded by a river so it took a day to enter the walls of the village. When they had arrived, the men had tied her to a stake from the belly. She could not see a thing. She shrieked and cried. They had still not killed her. They needed her alive. She had pebbles thrown at her by the village kids who all knew her as a witch. She was so hungry. They tied her up for a whole day. People watched her defecate and urinate. All of her tears had dried up because there was very little energy left in her body. They finally untied her, but she fell to the ground immediately after being on her feet. They took her blind fold off. One of the village men kicked her in the back, but was stopped before he could do anything else. She smelled awful.
They took her to the mansion her mother had stayed for so many years at. It was no longer ornate and was instead militaristic now. She was taken to the royal female bathing hall. She was washed and cleaned thoroughly by the caretakers of the mansion. The tribe leader and his wife were nowhere to be seen. She could guess that they had met a gruesome fate. She was blank faced the whole time. All she wanted was to stop existing. The caretakers had to move her body in various directions because she would not use her own willpower to move. Only lay like a corpse. After being washed, she was given plain clothes similar to the caretakers. She was escorted to the throne room where the guard that had ravaged her sat. He ordered her to massage his feet. She was being made a slave. She knew why she wasn't killed. He needed an heir and she carried some royal blood. She went to massage his feet and she tightly squeezed his right foot. The guard kicked her in the mouth. The caretakers took her away and locked her in what would be her small quarters. It only had a single whole from where light shined through and a single rag where she would sleep. She had been given some food before having been bathed, but it was not enough. A caretaker came with a bowl of food. She wanted to die and refused to eat. She was held down and forced to eat. She knew why she was being fed. She did not want to give birth to the now tyrant's baby.
She lived life as a slave for several months. She no longer fought back when being forced to eat. She had grown tired of it as had the caretakers.. She only had one routine in the mansion, which was to care for the new king. She was the only one who washed his clothes and cared for his body. However, she did not have sex with him. He would only ask her to give him massages. If the king felt that she was doing a poor job, he would hit her. Soon, the girl's belly grew and she could no longer be asked to work. She was taken to a more humble quarters where she would sleep and eat. Only more routine. Her body could not handle the stress of the baby. She went into labor not too long after. It was the most excruciating pain she had ever felt and she fainted and awoke several times during the process. The caretakers held a crying baby boy. She was too dazed to see. They took the boy quickly from her. She was not even given the chance to see his face and screamed for her baby. They left her in the room where she cried. She could do nothing.
She was cleaned up and taken out of the mansion. They had no use for her anymore. She was thrown out to the village. Not even a full day after giving birth and she was already trashed. She was alone. Again. No baby. No one to care for her. She longed for her baby. She started walking back towards the mansion, but was stopped by one of the soldiers, who told that if she were to ever step foot inside again that she would surely be hung. She had nowhere to go. She wandered the streets just like her mother had. She was now 16. She only came out at night because the day was far too hectic. She was not as skilled as her mom had been at surviving. She stole food at night, but was usually unsuccessful. She had to compete with other poor children. She was not able to hide as easily as them however due to being older, so much of her food was stolen. Water was the hardest to come by. She would get most of her water from rainfall. The village was almost always gloomy, but only rained hard a couple of days every month. She had to map out locations where water would deposit. It was not easy as said before that she had to compete with other kids. She was malnourished and tired. Only sleeping when she was completely alone. If not careful, she could be raped again. The civil war had only made the village more uniform. Many were still poor, but had easier access to food because they were taxed. Life was unfair. The girl hated living. The happiness she had as a child had been long forgotten. She decided that she would leave the village. She could not take the life of scrounging any longer.
The girl left during sunset using one of her memorized paths that she would use to find drinking water. She came to the walls of the village. There was the river. She had made up her mind. She would drown herself. However, she feared death. She waded in the river's water. She contemplating whether she would kill herself or not. She decided that she was too afraid to die, but as she tried to leave the water, she slipped. The water took her further in. She had no experience swimming. She couldn't get back to shore. She was sinking. The girl could not swim back up. She eventually drowned after several hours fighting to get back to the surface of the water.]
I saw all of this and more in that inbetween state. So much sorrow, death, destruction, loss, and sadness. I saw some happiness too. This was one of the most traumatic events in my life. My explanation of it isn't the best because no one really understands death completely unless they die. I don't know how to fully cope with the deaths of others. I don't fear my own death anymore because I already died once, but I fear water. That's why I decline learning to swim all of the time.
This girl influenced my life so damn much. I've grown a huge liking to singing and pretty and cute clothes. What the hell happened to me? I'm supposed to bea boy right. I've been wrestling with my identity for years now. I just want it all to stop. To end. I don't know what I am. I'm deathly traumatized by the experience. I don't care if no one believes this post. I needed to open my heart. It's been really aching from all of the failures in my life up to this point and this too.
I'm 22 with no job and haven't even finished college. I wrote a ficking novel. My sister and mother have been helping me, but I'm still not completely open to them. I feel like a bratty teenage girl. My hormones are wack. I don't my body makes a lot of testosterone. I'm tired of being called trap all of the time to. What do I do?
I don't know if anyone is going to read this whole thing, but if you do then, all I hope for is that you understand my feelings and heart. Thank you everyone. I love you all. 💜
submitted by Thrower903 to MtF [link] [comments]


2020.11.09 12:19 Rando123490 Teen mom on naked and afraid

CW: emotional:verbal abuse, questionable sexual shit, self harm
This is long. It is TMI. It is a stream of consciousness. It may not make sense. I’m sad and need to process; therapy isn’t for a few days and today was long. Sorry if it’s TMI or there are errors - I’m crying in bed on mobile, ha.
I (29F) grew up in what I thought was a typical Christian home. I won’t spend too much time on it, but after a deconstruction of my faith, a horrible breakup and going no contact with half my family, I - along with a therapist - helped me realize that my upbringing was horribly toxic; my parents and grandparents were abusive adult-children (mom was narc), I was living with mental health issues that the symptoms of were often the source of tension with said parents, and I was always told these issues were personal failings - severe anxiety and depression, along with ADHD and disordered eating; the way I was raised and the beliefs that I held about life were just plain not normal, and I feel like I was sent off to college without the necessary social or life skills to thrive - I’m still unpacking what being treated well, what boundaries are and what my purpose and measurements of self worth are; and my attitudes towards my body and sex are just ... a mess.
For example: The shit I wrote in a dating article for a Christian blog that went viral when I was a senior in college ... I read that now and want to barf. My extreme fear of torture, abandonment and sudden death leading to hell was just this horrible Möbius strip of despair as a kid, and I realize now it was this perfect storm of learning about Columbine shooting horrors (thanks for the nightmares, “She Said Yes”) and the rapture when I was nine, 9/11 two years later (victim was one of the pilots and went to my church, was pals-ish with my parents and was supposed to get coffee with my dad around that time; the whole thing felt even closer and more horrible because of this) and parents who were never pleased with me, no matter how well I followed the rules, made me a nervous wreck who always feared that my salvation prayers weren’t enough, and angry god would send me to burn forever, because I didn’t say the words just right or I disappointed my parents somehow.
Jesus and I are cool. My faith is more Jesus-centered spirituality these days. My personal relationship with the traditionI I was raised in is in tatters and I don’t care, because what I was raised in wasn’t Christianity- what it’s supposed to be - anyways. I have so much spiritual peace when I tore up the rulebook when I ever did growing up.
But now that I’ve woken up, I mourn so much of what I lost when I was confused and in what I refer to as a cult.
I never rebelled. Before college, when my body realized I was out of that house and started to feel safe enough to process trauma, my fear response was fight - I could scream back at my parents when they tried stuff (again, thought all this fighting was normal), but I was a model kid. Honors student, virginal, athlete, leader, extracurricular s up the wazoo, top college. Still found ways to disappoint my parents, even though I never rebelled. Didn’t drink until my 21st birthday (I was abroad and unable to have my first sip without my dad, as I promised; asking to have wine with my friends caused a huge row with my mom, on the steps of a Chinese college classroom where o was about to start class 12 hours ahead of my mom). My other two sisters did, leaving my parents mostly in the dark. I didn’t follow rules to be good, I’ve realized, but mainly bc I was afraid of what being what I was told was “bad” was. In many ways, my parents were more god than god.
My college life was really hard. Not because of the normal college stuff, but because I was just ... stuck. I refer to those years as my “grey” years, because I wasn’t the person I was. I was out of my parents house but I still relied too heavily on their insight on my life, passing up social opportunities I was excited about at their suggestion. I got heavily involved in a Christian org., which fundamentally burned me on so many occasions but that I kept with because pain was normal in my relationships - and I wanted to belong and I wanted a Christian guy in my life so I could finally feel loved and physically attractive. I never had the energy to study or move or even try to succeed, all things I had typically loved to do. My grades were bad. I didn’t have any connections with advisors or professors (with a few exceptions), when historically I sought out and cherished relationships wtih my teachers. I attend a small college, not much bigger than my high school, but I didn’t make a ton of friends - afraid of the sex and the booze and a lifestyle I wasn’t allowed to have - and never felt like I could relate to anyone. I always felt like an outsider. I’d get lonely and I’d eat, the solution to any problem, as I was told throughout my childhood. My weight would fluctuate and compound everything, blaming my singleness or feelings on invisibility on my looks, my inability to have self-control.
My happiest college memory was doing a musical my senior year, and the night where, on Easter break, I felt myself getting drunk at a small cast dinner party and deciding I was going to get drunker. The decision was more intoxicating than the booze. It was a far cry from a drinking experience a year before, when I accidentally got drunk abroad during my junior year that I spend abroad. When I realized I had accidentally gotten drunk, I agonized for 24 hours, and I cried, and I called my mom to confess. I didn’t feel right until I got my parents’ absolution for any seeming misstep. When I returned to college my senior year, feeling even more out of place after a year in Asia, I got drunk at a party, and - again - I cried and felt bad for weeks, and apologized to younger Christians I knew for being a bad influence. I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t the good one, the one who always stuck the evangelical landing. I remember sitting at graduation, hung over and overweight, watching the cum laude kids coming on stage. My GPA was fine, but I knew that normal me could have and should have been up there, too. And I felt like I wasted four years of my life.
I spent summers working as a counselor at a Christian camp, one that I went to as a kid, my parents went to - they knew the leadership. It was lovely in some regards, fucked up and punishing in another. It was a lot like evangelical Christianity as a whole: shiny and pretty, but not about what it says it’s about (god) but rather who’s the hottest or the richest. I always felt out of place there, too, even though socially it was easier for me than college. At least I spoke the language, and we weren’t allowed to drink. I remember one time my awful grandparents, who were elders and leaders in this big, prestigious church where my parents went (along with camp leadership) growing up. Our family always had a tough relationship with them, and during that summer we weren’t talking to them. They came to camp with some excuse about business with the owners, but it was a thinly veiled excuse to ambush us. I saw them and froze - any gusto I had about sticking it to those who’d threaten me had bled out when I turned 18, and I was scared of everything. They refused to leave after we asked, and it took my younger sister and a junior staff member, who was terrified but cared for us, to get them off the property. The misogynistic and horrible male leadership said they wouldn’t do anything because they were leaders at their church and it wouldn’t have been respectful. He said it to my face, even after I explained the family situation in as loose as terms as I could. The feeling of abandonment stung so profoundly.
I was never encouraged to do any thing else during those summers by my parents, who essentially functioned as managers. It sounds wild, but I was 22 and their influence was powerful.
I moved back home without a job post-grad and it was horrible. My parents were going through money and marriage trouble abd it was just ... horrible. They were so tired of being parents and tired that their adult kids needed them, even after years of insisting on basically being in charge of our lives. I felt like my life was akin to being kept below decks of a massive ship, and then you’re suddenly kicked off a boat without a life vest. That they had the audacity to be mad when I asked for help with the things I didn’t realize I didn’t know, things they were supposed to teach me, angered and confused me. How was any of this my fault?
Searching for jobs was impossible, it felt. I had no internships under my belt - thanks summer camp - and I ended up doing retail until I got a more lucrative desk job and I could move out, into my own place.
My life then became centered around the new church my family started going to. My parents, who for years told me male attention would come in high school ... then college ... then, somewhere else, when I least expected it .... during the convos where I would cry about never having guys interested in me, later manipulated when my mom got mad at me (“no one will ever love you and I feel sorry for you,” all because I didn’t fill out the abroad paperwork I didn’t realize my mother want me to do, as she always insisted she do that stuff). They who would always end their “pep talks” with, “besides, you don’t need the distraction” were suddenly pointing out “young bucks” to me at church (my parents met at their church as late teens/20-somethings). I’m grateful for that time, as I got some of my best (and normal!) friends from there, but the place was also the source of such additional pain, humiliation and hurt, with so much more harmful shit.
I finally did get a boyfriend - my first boyfriend, first real date, first kiss, all at 23 - whom my mom hated. She called me a whore in front of my entire family for saying over at his house talking all night (she previously called it romantic when someone else did it!). She knew that I had received my dad’s permission to go and stay, and had texted him every hour my whereabouts as he had asked. She told me that it could be dangerous if church leadership found out that I was hanging out at men’s houses; that if I’m a leader there, too (I was at the time), what if I blow my witness, what will people think?
That relationship ended after about two months, due in large part to my exhaustion with my parents’ pressure about the whole thing. That was six years ago, and it remains my longest relationship to date. It became ugly when my “Christian” best friend started dating him not long after, and I was realizing that I felt manipulated by my parents’ influence into cutting things off too quickly and still had feelings. I still cared, my friend turned out to be ... not a very good friend, I myself made some immature missteps, and the stress of everything finally sent me into therapy. That, in turn, began my realization of my parents’ toxicity, which gave me the freed to examine my faith ... which leads me to today.
The past few years have been painful but liberating. And as I catch up on the things I missed, I’m happy, but also so terrifyingly angry.
I feel like I’m learning things about money, adulthood, drugs, sex, drinking, and just life in general that I should have known (or been shown how to handle - or felt free enough to explore) when i was young enough for my green-ness to be appropriate, and frankly - when I had the physical stamina to handle it. Immature confession: I’ve had fun in my days, but I wish I had partied extensively in college instead of being cool with it now, when hangovers last a week and benders aren’t cute.
I’m mad that my parents, my mother especially, didn’t take the time to consider that my hyperactivity and hyperfixation could be ADHD, or that my level of anxiety as a little little kid wasn’t normal, or that maybe my acne warranted a trip to a derm (you’d find out that years of issues and proactive $$ could be healed and saved with a simple perscription !!) or that my health mattered more than their pride.
I’m mad that the wounds they carried from shitty childhood and shitty faith teachings and the cultural stigma at the time around mental health were never healed. I’m mad that they loved the idea of children, as was their Christian commandment, and were not equipped to deal with the mess of raising them well, to raise them even when they have personalities and talk back, to raise them to love themselves and flourish with confidence. To raise then responsibly, to feed them nutritiously and often so that they don’t struggle with weight and food their whole life. So that my mother didn’t look at chunky 8-year-old me, who couldn’t fit into another pair of shorts in the mall dressing room, and bemoan, “what did I do do wrong?” at her *child, like I somehow had the answer. If I could tell her now, my answer would be in part, “well, internally hating herself and her body and by extension, her daughters, so publically and frequently that she showed her daughters, who weren’t allowed a wide circle of influence, that that’s how they’re to feel about themselves. Oh, and you never fed us, and if you did it was junk. Or a fad diet. Since I was 12. That too, Deb. That too.
I haven’t not thought about my weight since then, and I can remember that dressing room incident like it was yesterday. It makes me sad that even little girl me knew it was horrible enough to be hurt by it and remember.
I’m mad at the things I wrote publically and said and believed about the LGTBQIA community, and science and politics abd vaccines and sex. I’m mad I spent years not loving people like Jesus did. I’m mad that I didn’t unlock the doubts about things I had in my gut earlier, about my faith, about everything m. I’m mad that felt pressure to tell people about Jesus. I’m mad I spent time afraid that eternity would be violent for me and others. I’m mad there are things I just can’t remember, that I’ve blacked out, like the dinner where my parents yelled at my sister when they realized she was cutting herself, asking her what she had to be sad about and what would people say if they found out. I’m mad I didn’t yell at them louder, or that I didn’t grey rock them so that they’d have known their bullshit meant nothing to me, that they couldn’t get in my head.
I’m mad that my sisters barely got any good memories, as I was the first-born and much-wanted baby, who had my mother’s full attention. I’m mad that my youngest sister sides with them, and doesn’t talk to me or my other sister anymore, who’s still an Evangelical and who suddenly lives with them in the Deep South, where they moved because they loved a pastor down there and wanted to start over and go to his church. I’m mad that I couldn’t better protect my sisters from the pain of my parents’ abuse. I’m mad that my parents didn’t believe in therapy for themselves and used their kids to unload, to triangulate, to find some sort of purpose and value and identity, and tried to co-opt our successes as their own. I’m mad that I knew about their finances, their marriage trouble, their inane and horrible criticism of everything and everyone that made me paranoid that people were talking behind my back. I’m mad that they had such a narrow view of life, defined by Christian culture, that I was never (Give or take a few exceptions) encouraged to focus and pursue what I was good at or what made me happy, but instead work towards fitting this mold where I was never truly succeeding or feeling a part.
I’m mad that I was taught, as Christian child, not even OVERTLY, that my body was bad until it had a ring on it. I’m mad that self-esteem was portrayed as something you had only if you were traditionally beautiful and caught the attention of other Christian men - if you were wife material, which of guess I never was. Im mad that my parents made it seem like they thought “girls can do anything,” until it became clear that what they wanted was grand babies. I’m mad that my parents wouldn’t let me go into sex education at school; that my mom laughed at me when I didn’t know what the clit was as a 20-year-old; that when I told her, with concern, that when I made out with my boyfriend my vagina got wet, she just told me “that happens sometimes when you kiss” and left it at that. I’m mad that I’m teaching myself elements of sexuality now I should have been taught at 11. I’m mad that they believed it was my job to protect my male brothers from sinning, even though the first penis I ever saw was my dad’s, because he walked around naked or in poorly-fitting dress pajamas all the time. I’m mad at the near mania making sure I wasn’t even thinking wrongly or unknowingly sinning - not laughing at certain jokes I thought were funny, just in case - caused me.
I’m mad at the misogyny, the racism, the cynicism , the intellectual inferior both in my own home and in the culture that helped build it.
I’m mad that the evangelical Christianity scared me into hating Harry Potter at first (that never stuck, ha, even though I found out as young teen that my mom prayed just a few years before that my I would stop loving Harry Potter so much), at its anger at everything, everything, everything, and it’s hateful crisiticsm of everything, everything, everything; I’m mad at its hypocrisy and extremism; I’m mad at its political blindness and bigotry. I’m mad that the very tenets of evangelical Christianity are so ... tactical, psychological. How being a cultural outsider is good. Suffering is good, a gift. Treasure’s in heaven. Well, tah-dah, I’ve felt that way since I was little and wasn’t allowed to watch “Rugrats”(characters have a bad attitude, which, did you know? Is contagious) like the other kids and have an example for every life-stage since, thanks, ans I feel like shit!
I’m mad that beautiful humans were scarred by the church like I’ve been, by what should be the representation of a perfectly loving and accepting being (Jesus has and always will be my god-conduit, and - not to sound too evangelical, but I treasure him).
I’m mad that people struggle to believe what me and my sisters went through because my parents “seem so nice,” or “we’re such a special family” or “they’re leaders in the church. I’m mad that I can’t feel free to fully be myself online or in-person because 85% of my circle is Christian Christian; what will I be if not a super-believer? What will I do when they judge me? I can hear them talking shit now. What would it be like to be truly unafraid to be 100% myself, and be concerned about the titters of how much I’ve changed or the DMs from people concerned about the state of my heart, judging by how much I go out and what I post?
I’m mad that my parents forgot about that verse about not aggravating their children; about how hard their childhoods were and how much they resented their own parents and then were worse than them. I’m mad that I’m afraid I’ll raise my kids to be fucked up, even though I know I won’t. I’m mad that the cultural - even secular! - cultural message is, “they’re your family. Forgive.” I’m mad that my mom ambushed me at my new apartment to try and make amends. I’m mad that my sister and I haven’t talked to them in going on half a decade in order to survive. I’m mad that every holiday was ruined by screaming, and new ones are still hard because you know they’re not there. Im mad at all the times I was told to not tell people when I get in trouble or saw a PG-13 movie with my dad or that I didn’t wear a helmet in my bike at the doctor because people would misunderstand. If I spoke up, I got verbal thrashings, was called toxic and pathetic, disloyal. I once did a phone bank for a political campaign as a teen and got berated by someone on the other end because of a misunderstanding. The one Christian woman there from my church did nothing to comfort me as I cried, and concerned parents and leaders asked me why I didn’t hang up when the yelling started. I realize now it was because I was used to tolerating it and trying to talk angry people down.
I’m mad that there are days I have to renounce my parents’ sad, desperate energy on days I can feel them thinking of me. I’m mad that weddings make me sad - not because I’m single, but because watching the father-daughter dance hurts. I’m mad that I could fill a library up with anecdotes that fuel my anger; that my sisters and I had to wade through so much unnecessary pain. I’m mad that I’m still thinking about all this.
I’m mad that as an adult, now three years into a new city, my friend group remains small because I struggle to make friends or meet people outside of church, and I can’t bring myself to return to one. I’m mad that one of my dear friends from home is still pretty fundie and is trying to get me to go back, and I can’t explain to her my romantic and social loneliness without getting a sermon about finding a husband at church. I’m mad that her beliefs would probably not affirm my sister, who is queer, and I hate that I’m afraid to talk about it with her because then I know I’ll have to let her go. I’m mad that my parents barely let me go anywhere and under socialized me, a little extrovert, as a kid, to the point where I feared older kids, men and peers so much that I spent a good chunk of my life believing I was awkward and introverted, which is fundamentally untrue.
I’m mad that I’m so afraid of “getting in trouble” that I struggle to ask questions or offer different solutions at work. That I still feel the need to meekly defer to elders, even though I never was a meek person. Where is this coming from?
I’m mad that I feel like, even with a number of amazing life experiences under my plate, that I’m still a child, that I haven’t started living yet. I hate suddenly seeing all these grey hairs on my head and knowing I’m still a virgin, terrified of intimacy and terrified that I’ll never be enough for anyone, as I was taught - explicitly or otherwise.
I’m proud of how sex-positive I’ve become as an adult, and I’ve tried to out myself out there, but I’m terrified of just ripping the bandaid off and feeling like the crumpled floweunsticky tape/chewed-up gum, even though the online/sexting adventures I’ve had have never had me feel any sexual shame. I’m afraid too if never being brave enough to do it - or brave enough to love my body - and then it will be too late. I feel like I won’t feel like an adult until I have sex. I feel like I want to wait to be at least cared for beyond a score by the person I’m sleeping with, but I know I’m not am getting any younger, and even telling people at this pint, kk matter how much I tell myself it’s no big thing, is humiliating. I don’t trust myself to be able to perform convincingly with someone to fake experience, and I don’t want my first time - even though I don’t expect it to be necessarily magical - to have this element of untruth. I feel like there’s this horrible tug of war of my two identities - old me, real me - and it has me frozen.
In the men I’ve met, or I’ve been attracted to, I see disappointment - “She’s too fat”, I don’t date girls like her,”, “you’re a great friend,” “you’re bigger than your picture.” I feel like I’m on the outside again, always. If not spiritually, then physically. I’m too inexperienced for the real world, too foul-mouthed for the Christian set.
I’m mad that dealing with my parents means dealing with my faith, and vice versa, and that their tangled, nature and massive presence makes working through them and healing even just a little, feel impossible. I just want to be normal, but this - the Christianity, the family shit - it touches nearly every part of me. Everything needs an overhaul.
I’m mad that even when I played by the rules, I never got the “prize” - the husband, the love story, the family, even though I’m technically all the things that Christian boys were supposed to want (but never seemed you go for, ha). Even though I want much more than that provincial life, I want to be loved romantically. I want the man, the wedding, the marriage, the babies. I want those things, and I can think of maybe three other women my age I’m my combined circles of friends who don’t have at least one of them.
I turn 30 in three weeks and I’m terrified. I never thought I’d panic about getting older, but here I am. Another friend of mine just announced her pregnancy - a dear, normal-yet-Christian friend I met at that camp - and I’m happy for her, but I bust found another grey hair this morning and I know I’m not getting any younger, and the best physical years of my life were wasted on being overweight and single and unwanted. I feel unattractive squared - bad then, worse now.
And with the pandemic, and me finally getting stable financially after all these years of struggling, and finally having time to live the life I’ve always wanted, a life I’m fully in charge of, unshackled by poverty or cultural rules or parental figures - the life you have before you start a family, the life that has careless travel and weight loss and a perfect body and nights out with friends without worrying about a babysitter, money chiefly spent on yourself and the things and cause and people you care about most - I just feel like i don’t have the time to even date, let alone try and live the way I want before my eggs dry up and I can’t have a baby.
To make matters worse, I was trying to explain all this to my (typically very extra- sensitive) sister and she said, “You know, you can have babies in ways that aren’t traditional,” and while she’s right, and I know she was aiming to encourage, but it felt like she was acknowledging in that moment that there truly was no hope for me.
Coupled with a recent PCOS diagnosis (which makes conception difficult) and finding another grey hair this morning, I feel like I’m being out to pasture when mentally and emotionally, it seems like I’ve only just begun exploring the things I was meant to handle as a teen.
I know my ramblings seem childish, immature, selfish, etc. - and 99% of the time, I silence this part of myself and talk mysef out of it. I have sympathy for my parents and understand that they were hurt too and doing their best. I understand I’m not my past and I can’t blame everything on everyone else. I know I have wonderful qualities, and that my perceived flaws are way more major in my head than they actual are. I just ... today was a lot. I’m so lonely. I feel like such an outsider, not right in any community - spiritual, secular - I’ve ever been a part of. I just want to be loved. To be a mom. I want to get pregnant and be a mom so much, with a husband who loves me. I’m tired.
Thanks for reading all this, if you did.
EDIT: I took some time to read through what I wrote and I edited it a bit. Im an editor, I can’t help it. Reading it, writing it, and even adding a bit to it was so cathartic, and I plan on reading it to my therapist during our next appointment.
For everyone who replied and shared your story or your wisdom or your support - thank you. It means more than you know.
submitted by Rando123490 to exchristian [link] [comments]


2020.10.25 02:10 sovagirl Should I tell my Dad? Or just let it go? (Possible triggers)

Not sure if this is even the right subreddit for this, but I just don’t have a friend group I trust to as IRL. It’s a bit complicated.
I’m a 50 year old woman. As a teenager I was stalked and repeatedly sexually assaulted by my step-grandfather. He was a professional photographer who specialized in graduation/prom/school photos. We lived for my last two years of high school close to him and my step moms whole extended family. He would follow me and take pictures because I was “so pretty”. That became brushing against me, running his hand up my skirt under the table at family dinners, grabbing my breasts when no one was looking, and finally cornering me in my room once after I had showered and was naked, pushing me down on my bed, and trying to rape me. I was able to push him off of me when the ringing doorbell distracted him, and run naked to the bathroom, locking myself in. All the time we were in a house full of other adult family members. No one noticed or said anything. I avoided family gatherings, locked myself in the bathroom to hide from him... once my aunt asked if I had an eating disorder.
He was a creeper. He slept separately from his wife in his “man cave” garage, decorated entirely in nudie pics, like cut out from playboy, and pictures of young girls that he had shot professionally as a photographer. No one seemed to find this odd. This was the 1980s.
At one point, he was following me around a family Christmas party begging me to smile for him. I gave him an evil look. At some point later, my step mom was looking through the Christmas party pictures and saw that evil look snapshot. She was furious that I would be so “rude” to her father, and in punishment posted the nasty picture on our fridge until I could learn how to “smile Iike a lady”.
I was terrified to tell my parents what was happening. They already thought I was behaving inappropriately with my boyfriend, and I was certain I’d be blamed.
Ok... so I graduated and went off to college. Started dating a very nice boy, who’s father was an nypd cop. I confessed what had happened to him. He was incensed. He thought I needed to tell my parents, particularly since my step grandfather had access to other young girls not just in his work as a school photographer, but I had younger female cousins. He convinced me that I had to come forward. But I knew my dad had such a temper, I was afraid he’d punish me. I agreed to tell if I could tell my stepmom so she could warn her siblings on behalf of my cousins. He held my hand and listened to the whole call.
I told my step mom the whole thing long distance over the phone. Then she dropped the bomb... she wasn’t surprised. Her father had assaulted her when she was 12. That was when her mom had made her dad move into the garage. She said the entire family (?) was well aware of his predilections, that they never allowed him to be alone with girls. And then she begged me... begged me... never to tell my father the truth. That my father would kill her dad, and she just couldn’t face that. She extracted from me a promise of silence. I was 17. That was 33 years ago now.
I never saw my abuser again. I do know that he kept working for another decade. Over the years I’ve had so many questions... if the “whole family” knew he was a pedophile, why was allowed to still work with kids? Why was he allowed to assault me? How did she not see the symptoms when he was stalking me? Did the other cousins really know? How many victims did he have in his lifetime? He was in his 60s when he tried to rape me. I’ve never discussed this with my stepmom to this day.
Fast forward to 2020. I don’t think I’m terribly scarred by my abuse. I’m fairly functional relationship wise and sexually. But...
Last Christmas the shit hit the fan. My two teen children and I were spending Christmas with my dad and stepmom, now in their 70s. We are at opposite ends of the political spectrum. On Christmas Day there was a large social gathering, and my sister in law started a loud conversation that was derogatory towards LGBT people, particularly trans people. What she didn’t know was that my daughter was trans, but not out yet to extended family. After trying to ignore the conversation for a while, my daughter took herself out of the living area. I approached my sister in law to ask her to change the subject because my kid was crying while trying not to out my trans child... and my step mom went ballistic, I guess figured out what the issue was, and ordered me and my kids out of her house. We packed up and spend Christmas night driving 18 hours home. But the time I got on Facebook that night, my stepmom had blocked me. So I haven’t talked to her since. I haven’t heard their version of the whole incident, but through the extended family grapevine I was apparently spouting violent Antifa liberal hatred. Honestly, in all these years, I thought our relationship was formal, but ok. Not so much. 2020 is a dumpster fire.
Since Then I’ve reached out to my dad on his birthday with a letter. Also once with a letter explainIng that my daughter is trans, and that as her mom I am absolutely in her corner. He replied that he’d have to think further. That was six months ago.
I know this is long and confusing, but my question is this: I get that he’s chosen not to be in relationship with me, his only biological child, and his grandchildren, because he has issues with transgender people. My heart breaks for that, but he’s made his choice. I can’t change that. But more and more I keep coming back to this issue of abuse. I feel like I was silenced. Like now I will never have a chance to tell what really happened to me, how painful and terrifying and horrible those high school years were. There’s no change that can come from me speaking, I know. My abuser is long dead. And in the case of my father all it can do is throw a complication into his marriage... over 30 years... with a woman who obviously has issues of her own. She did tell me that she had been a victim of her fathers’ abuse. Perhaps there was more she didn’t divulge. Maybe my anger at her ruining my relationship with my dad is all that is motivating me in this? I don’t know.
But part of me is tired of being silent. I’ve never told my mom, my biological mom, about it because although we are very close, I know she’d go ballistic. And there’s that 30 year old promise hanging over me. I’m Tired of lying. I know, of course, that my step mom would deny what I say. She clearly has issues with truth telling. I could theoretically try to get in touch with my old boyfriend who heard the whole conversation, he’s a federal judge now, bless his soul. At least he was a young man who wasn’t willing to give sexual abuse a pass.
I don’t feel like I need therapy. I’m happy in my life. I have great kids. I love my boyfriend. I just wish my parents really knew what happened to me. Why do I still care so much?
submitted by sovagirl to survivorsofabuse [link] [comments]


2020.10.22 04:52 muniehuny I am 23 years old make $43,000, live in Baltimore, MD and work as a Marketing Coordinator

This is a bit late since I was supposed to post this yesterday. Is that ok, mods?

Section One: Assets and Debt
Retirement Balance: maybe $80? My first full time job started in February, and they had automatic contributions that took about $30 or so out of my $800 biweekly paycheck. I was furloughed after 2 months due to the pandemic, and I don’t know how to move the money. I don’t currently contribute to retirement since I’m focusing on paying off debt,
Equity: I own a $7k car that I paid for with cash. No other major property.
Savings account balance: $8,500 (for the debt!) and a $1,300 emergency fund
Checking account balance: $1,250
Credit card debt: None. I’ve been following Dave Ramsey's financial strategies
Student loan debt: I have $23k left (OG balance: 28k) from a BA in Psychology
Section Two: Income
Income Progression:
Nannying/Babysitting (10k/yr): I did this throughout highschool and college. At first, I charged $10/hr. Last year, I charged $22 per hour since I was hot shit in this one neighborhood. I’m not sure how much I made in total. Maybe 30k over 5 years.
IISS Therapist (2k/yr): I worked part time with kids and teens on the autism spectrum. This paid $14/hr and I made about $2k that year. I matched with one client and saw him regularly from May 2019 to March 2020.
SLP Asst. (27k/yr): I graduated in Dec. 2019. I began working full time as a Speech Therapist’s Assistant in February. That paid $27,000. I was furloughed in late March.
I received the PUA Stimulus from April until July which totaled to about $10,000.
Marketing Coordinator (43k/yr): After applying everywhere with no responses, my best friend sent my resume to her boss, and I was hired as a Marketing Coordinator 2 weeks later (mid-July). I planned to ask for 37k, but they offered 43k. I've been working in my field for 3 months.
Main Job Monthly Take Home
$2,650
Side Gig Monthly Take Home
~$30-80/month - Sometimes I drive kids to daycare before work, but I’ve been referring my clientele to my brother who also has nannying experience (and is currently unemployed).
Any Other Monthly Income Here
Not sure if this is income, but I’m on my step-mom’s health insurance, and my mom pays my phone bill.
Section Three: Expenses
Please include ALL expenses relevant to you. Here's a good place to get started:
Rent: $625/mo
Renters insurance: $5/mo
Retirement contribution: $0 until 8/2020
Savings contribution: $1400/mo
Investment contribution: $0 until 8/2020
Debt payments: Same as savings contribution for now. I’m afraid of being randomly laid off so I want to get to 10k and add half to loans so I’ll always have some money accessible if I’m suddenly unemployed.
Donations: N/A
Utilities: $125/mo
Cellphone: Mom pays.
Subscriptions: Mom pays
Car insurance: $150/mo
Regular therapy: $30/mo
ADHD meds: $30/mo
At the end of each day please tally up your daily expenses. Then at the end of your diary please tally up all expenses in the following categories:
Tues Day 1
9:15 am I wake up after snoozing my alarm a few times. I get ready quickly, but take my time with my makeup since I recently bought an expensive concealer that makes me glowy asf. I want to be at work by 9:45, but I realize that won't happen when I look at the clock.
10 am I work 10-6, but I arrive at 10:15ish. As long as we get our tasks done, we can arrive whenever. It's a zoo here...sales guys zoom by on those electric hoverboard things while coworkers' dogs (2 today) bark randomly. I grab a banana and make tea in the break room.
My best friend (the one that recommended me to her boss because she's my ride or die :') is in the office today and we chat for a bit.
I take off my mask at my desk and get started on my tasks.
1 pm For lunch I have a PBJ w/ fake peanut butter, crackers, and homemade granola from this weekend, not because I'm an amazing homemaker with my life together, but because almost every granola brand gives me an allergic reaction.
3 pm I help the new hires, practice Javascript for part of the day.
6:20 pm Finish work, then head to home depot for mosquito dunks (a natural pesticide I use for plants that get infested with gnats) (Edit: $10). I head home.
7 pm My landlord installs a TV mount in my room. Last month I convinced him that it would be a good feature to have for prospective tenants in the coming years so he bought it himself. Money win!
8 pm Watch Greenleaf with my roommate. This is when my ADHD meds wear off, and I have no energy to cook food. I have a PB sandwich (made from soy since I’m allergic to nuts), cereal, and chamomile tea for dinner.
11 pm Shower and watch YouTube and play a game with bouncing balls until 1am or so
Day 1 Total: $10
Wed Day 2
10 am I don’t work on Wednesdays, so I roll around on my phone until finally getting up.
11 am Cereal for breakfast, and I decided to have some of the devils lettuce. I don’t pay for weed, but my roommate gave me the last of his stash since he’s quitting. I don’t think I’m doing it correctly, and end up burning most of it before getting a slight buzz. Oh well
1pm My mom calls, and announces that she left the house to get soil and plants for the planters that have sat empty in her house for 2 years. I drive to meet her, but she’s mostly finished planting everything by the time I arrive. My mom decides to do my hair (I have dreadlocks/locs and she’s done my hair since I was born)
3pm I get a letter from a woman that received a diary from me. I found the diary weeks prior while helping my dad organize his office. It was written in the 1960s, and reading it felt like looking into history (yes I read it!). A note is in the diary detailing who to send it to if it were lost. Anyway, I have some pictures if you want to know more about it! She sent me a $60 check for sending the diary.
5 pm I play with my mom’s kitten while watching Haunting of Bly Manor
7 pm I make a sandwich for dinner from my mom’s fridge--turkey, Swiss, and mustard.
12 am I go home
3 am I buy my bf gifts for our first anniversary. I'm so excited since they’re basically world building books that have art just like imaginarylandscapes and imaginarysliceoflife (his favorite subs). Technically I bought this a few days prior, but I have to re-buy to change the delivery address to my office since porch stealers are too crafty for my inattentive ass.
$85
Day 2 Total: $85
Th Day 3
9:30 am I wake up late again. It's payday today. I transfer $1400 to my savings, and set up a recurring monthly transfer so it'll be automatic until Aug 2021.
10:40 am I get to work, and catch up on tasks that I should have done earlier.
2 pm I have a sandwich, granola, crackers and cream cheese
7 pm I get home from work, shower and listen to the Naked Brothers Band because I'm feeling nostalgic. I combine frozen pre-cooked chicken with frozen peppers, and heat them up for dinner.
8 pm I play some guitar, and feel annoyed when inspiration doesn't hit me as fast as the wrist pain does. I've been playing sporadically for a year, and my barre chords still buzz as loud as my vibrator.
8:30 pm Dance party in room to warm up wrists then I play more guitar.
10 pm I play more of the mobile ball game. I’m trying to beat my bf’s score but I can’t reach him. Ughhh
11 pm After looking at social media, I go to bed
Day 3 Total: $1400
Fri Day 4
9 am Wake up at 8, fell back asleep, wake up at 9. It’s rainy and cold outside. I consider working from home today, but I want to get the free lunch that my office provides every Friday.
9:40 am I decide to eat the break room snacks for breakfast and start to head out. At this rate, I'll only be 5 min late! Best frenn calls me to ask if I want to carpool, so I wait an extra 10 min before we both head to the office.
10:15 am When we get to the office, my gas tank is low, I'm hungry, and I have a task due in 20 minutes so I don't have time to grab more than a granola bar. I'll get more food after I finish this task.
11 am That task turns into 2 since I need to ask the writer what their vague instructions mean. They don't respond so I ask in my team's group chat. The 1st email is eventually sent half an hour late and of course the writer decides to respond afterwards. This is why I need to wake up earlier 😩.
The whole day basically goes like this, and it's no different for my coworkers who actually showed up on time. Our manager is off today, and our schedule is a mess. No offense to whoever scheduled the tasks haha.
1:30 pm Free lunch! They get us subs and salad. I grab one with red peppers and turkey.
5 pm I finish earlier than expected and my friend and I head out. While I’m driving, we call the 3rd member of our trio over Bluetooth. She works at a 24hr lab that requires 60 hour weeks at times and she has to cancel on us all hanging out this Sunday. This is the 2nd time she cancelled so.. like a good, understanding friend, I threaten to abduct her from her job so that we can reunite. Jokingly, the car turns into a cacophony of distressed and anguished sounds as we figure out a different day to meet up.
5:30 pm I’m home and say bye to my friend. I chill in my room for a bit and fold some clothes that I've procrastinated on for a few days.
6:30 pm In my last year of college, I got a part time job as an intensive support "therapist" (I only had a day of training so idk about therapist) for allied health experience. I was matched with a 15 year old boy who I saw 3 times a week. I helped him improve his verbal skills and behaviors until the beginning of this year when I got my 1st full time job. I saw him once a week until the pandemic, and now we have virtual calls once a week. Technically, I'd get maybe $45 per month if I did report it, but the amount of paperwork isn't worth it to me, and I enjoy the calls anyway.
I start the video call. We talk about the places he wants to go "when it's safe", review pronoun usage, and unfortunately I see that the negative behaviors we worked on last year were coming back.
7:30 pm I microwave a bag of instant quinoa & brown rice with the chicken and peppers from yesterday.
8 pm I work up the energy to clean. Roommate comes downstairs to cook and plays show tunes on the speaker. He's a professional opera singer and I join in when he starts singing to the tunes.
8: 30 pm I finally start to put my leftovers away when my bf calls. He tells me he donated half of his book collection after finishing the Marie Kondo book. I freak out a lil inside since I got him 2 books as an anniversary present. Hopefully my presents will spark joy!
11 pm I put the dirty clothes that I’ve been procrastinating on in the wash, and watch TV
12:30 am Don't feel like folding the clothes when I take them out of the dryer.
4 am Finally go to sleep after reading fan fiction for 3 hours
Day 4 Total: $0
Sat Day 5
12 pm I wake up, my mom calls about a “smart garden” that she plans to buy
1 pm I make grilled cheese, and watch The Boys with my roommate
4 pm Bf comes over and we watch more TV. I try to write in my notes app what I did today, and realize how little I’ve done
6:30 pm I make a grocery list and head to Aldi with the bf (he eats a lot so I get double the amount of meat as usual). I’m in the mood for tacos next week so I make sure to get a lot of 70 cent avocados. ($61)
8 pm We put away the groceries. We eat some leftovers wrapped in tortillas with sour cream.
9 pm I want to fold my clean clothes, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Cuddle and talk to bf.
1 am I think I fall asleep around this time
Day 5 Total: $61
Sun Day 6
8:30 am I don't wanna move so I turn on a podcast until my brain wakes up. I work on Sundays.
9 am I open my laptop, and realize I missed an 8am task. I catch up quickly and do a few more before heading downstairs.
9:30 am I make cereal and eat while working
12 pm I eat a sandwich with the last of my leftovers. I call my brother to wish him a happy birthday. He’s out with friends all day, and doesn’t care to see his dearest sister on this special day. O well haha.
4 pm Done with work. I listen to some podcasts while practicing Javascript.
7 pm I've entered a flow state and forgotten to eat. My bf pulls me away from the computer and we eat grilled cheese sandwiches. We loaf around for the rest of the day.
Day 6 Total: $0
Mon Day 7
8 am I wake up and make lunch: a sandwich with super sharp cheese and salami, sweet potato chips, and dry cereal
8:30 am I stop for gas ($22)
9:50 am I get to work on time! I grab tea and snacks for breakfast
11 am This workday is a lot, but not overwhelming.
The woman filling in for my boss is stressed, so when a scheduling issue comes up I go with the best solution. She comes to my desk and tells me to double check with her if the issue comes up again.
11:30 am Issue comes up again and l ask her, and she responds (not hiding that she's very annoyed) that I should go with what the schedule says. I’m a sensitive ass cinnamon roll, so I start tearing up and message back "okay, thanks for clarifying!" and leave it at that.
2 pm 25 cents for a tampon since I forgot to buy more period stuff at the grocery store. “Am I a joke to you” says the notification on my phone, 3 days old and unclicked, that warned me about this. (0.25)
7 pm I get home, and my best frennn joins me and my bf as we make tacos.
8 pm I show them Emily in Paris, and they both hate it, but I try to explain to them why the trash is so addictive, No one bites- oh well.
11 pm I turn in and watch a random food docuseries on Netflix with the bf.
Day 7 Total: $22.25
Food: $61
Fun / Entertainment: $85
Home + Health: $10.25
Clothes + Beauty: $0
Transport: $22
Other: $1400
Week’s Total: $1578.25
This week was normal for me overall except for the 3 am amazon purchases. I honestly feel like this was probably uneventful to read, but maybe it wasn’t. Let me know if you have questions, praises, or complaints. I am finishing this at midnight right now and would like some back pats. Welp good night all!
submitted by muniehuny to MoneyDiariesACTIVE [link] [comments]


2020.10.19 14:01 Ok-Level-1548 Mom teen naked afraid and on

Ever since I was a little girl who tried masterbation for the first time, I always felt nothing down there. Flash forward to my teen years and loosing my virginity and actively engaging in sex, I still felt nothing. Just no sensation at all. The idea of sex always turned me on, but when it came down to the actual act itself, it’s like my mind wasn’t sending signals to my vagina to “turn” it on.
Let’s start from the beginning. I did not have a good childhood. My mom was physically and extremely verbally abusive. I was pretty much bullied by her and my little sister the entire time I lived at home. My mother always slut-shamed me before I even had sex. Always making sure I threw away “revealing” clothes, which now that I’m remembering weren’t revealing at all. My sister was allowed to wear revealing clothes and my mom never said anything. I was never allowed to wear makeup (my sister was.) I was never allowed to date in high school. At 17, my mother told me that if she found out I was having sex, that she would kick me out and I can go live with whoever I was fucking. I was never allowed to go to sleepovers because she was afraid that an adult or parent would molest me. Mind you, my little sister went to all the sleepovers she wanted. I was never allowed to go to parties. My sister was. She wasn’t religious AT ALL, just seemed to have a huge issue with sexuality. I remember coming home from “Wacky Tacky Day,” at school and she looked me up and down and said I looked like a hoe. I was only 13. She NEVER talked about sex. I had to find out a little too late in life what sex actually was and everything that came with it. When my mom finally did give us the bird and the bees, she made it seem like sex was just about reproduction. She told me absolutely nothing about it being pleasurable. For the longest time I didn’t even know women are supposed to orgasm during sex. When my senior prom came, I wasn’t even allowed to have a simple prom date. She was overly controlling with my life, even after the age of 18. Every time she spoke about sex, she spoke about it with disgust. Anytime my mother noticed me slowly gaining confidence within myself, she was always quick to shut it down; my sister always ad-libbing for her. I grew up with such low self esteem. I remember being only 5 years old and thinking I looked so ugly. My mother never told me I was beautiful, she never really had anything uplifting or encouraging to say about me. Just constant criticism. I remember being 18 and I posted a bikini picture to my social media to which she instantly freaked out about, saying why did I feel the need to “show off.”
Another time when I was around the age of puberty (13-14 for me) I asked if I could start shaving my legs and start shaving my private parts because the growing hair made me uncomfortable and itchy. She instantly got angry saying “Why do you need to shave? Who are you trying to show off for? Who is gonna see it anyway?” After I would take a shower, she made me stand naked in front of her so she could inspect and make sure that I didn’t shave my lady parts. Can you imagine how embarrassing that is? Mind you, my little sister shaved her parts all the time. Whenever my door was closed, her first thought was that I MUST be taking naked pictures of myself and she would always barge in my room. I never had privacy. I grew up having a negative view of sex and a negative view of myself.
So let’s flash forward to when I lost my virginity. The person I lost it too was an asshole who didn’t even try to make my first time special for me. I was pressured into it, and I didn’t feel secure or emotionally safe with the guy. He was a narcissistic and made everything about him. Soon, sex to me was only about HIS pleasure. He always compared me to other women and said how he’s had better. As a teenager this made me want to change that. Sex to me started to only be about his pleasure. I was always thinking how can I please him, how can I make sure I’m the best he’s ever had? I completely neglected my own pleasure. Eventually I started to except that I just don’t feel pleasure or anything down there. That I have a numb vagina.
Fast forward to my early twenties (current). Having a numb vagina was starting to affect me. I went to doctors, gynecologists who all said nothing was physically wrong with me. I had an MRI scan, thinking maybe it was neurological. All tests came back negative. I tried different pills which claim to make you more sensitive down there. I tried this cream prescribed to me called “Scream Cream.” I tried yoga for years, yoni eggs, meditation, everything I knew. My doctor told me that there is a disconnect with my brain and body, and that chances are I will have to live with this for the rest of my life. This was devastating to hear but I refuse to believe it. I should be able to feel pleasure just like any other girl, but nothing works for me.
I’ve decided that when I can afford it, I want to get therapy. Clearly nothing is wrong with my physically, so it has to be mental right?
Can anyone give me some advice? Has anyone else gone through a similar situation? I’ve never had an orgasm or even felt the slightest pleasure down there. I’m truly desperate.
submitted by Ok-Level-1548 to sex [link] [comments]


2020.10.18 23:18 Jrubas Teen mom on naked and afraid

What is evil?
Selfishness. Every evil act - every rape, hit, murder, genocide - springs from selfishness, from someone thinking only of themselves or of their tribe, someone giving into their perverted desires, someone wanting to make money or save themselves from embarrassment, woe, or death. Jesus Christ, the paragon of Good, was selfless and instructed His followers to be selfless as well. He died on a cross for other people’s sins. What’s more selfless than that?
Whether you believe in Him or not, the Gospel makes clear that He considered selflessness the ultimate good. Therefore, selfishness is the ultimate bad. When we all love and care for each other, the world is good. When we care only for ourselves, it is bad.
Evil exists.
I know because my grandparents are evil.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at them. They’re liberal, they recycle, they care about the planet and they believe in science. My father is a Republican and I grew up looking at Democrats as the bad guys, but even deep down, I admired my grandparents and thought, in my own half-formed way, that we should all strive to be like them.
They both grew up in the sixties and met at Woodstock. Grandma came from a middle class family that she rebelled against and Grandpa came from the wrong side of the tracks, a fact of which he was perversely proud. “I’m a real common man,” he would say with a grin. By the time I was fifteen in 2015, they were retired and living in a retirement community near Daytona Beach. In the summer of 2016, they invited me down to spend a few weeks with them.
I barely got to see them after they moved in 2010 and I jumped at the chance, especially since my father and I didn’t get along. Typical teenage rebellion stuff that looks stupid in hindsight. I took a plane to Daytona in early June and they met me at the airport. “Hey, there you are,” Grandpa said and pulled me into a hug. There was something different about them, something that bothered me for my first two days there, something that I just couldn’t place. There was a..a...a glow about them, and the twinkle in my grandfather’s eye was one of a much younger man. Maybe even someone my age - a randy and mischievous boy who hadn’t been worn down by fifty years of work, kids, and mortgage payments. With Grandma, the change was physical. She seemed...I don’t know...more lively, like a young girl in the bloom of youth. I figured I kind of aged them up in my mind and thought of them as older and slower than they really were. They weren’t that old, after all, and had never been in anything approaching poor health.
Their community - called Lamplighter - was a fifty-five and over trailer park in Port Orange near the South Daytona line. The trailers were all modern doublewides, well-maintained, and the yards were green and spacious. There was a club house at the front of the park featuring a room for events, a little gym, and a library. Next to it was a pool. The residents were all friendly and nice. My first day there, Grandma and Grandpa took me to a social event at the clubhouse and I was the star of the show; old men patted my back, old ladies pinched my cheek, it was kind of annoying but also nice. Girls might get compliments all the time, but guys really don’t, and it felt good to be the center of attention for a little bit.
The only downside was the handyman, Ed. Close to fifty, he was slow and crept around the edge of the room like an attack dog, his eyes always on me, like a painting that follows you around no matter where you go. “He’s very protective of us,” Grandpa explained, “he’s sort of our bodyguard.” He laughed like that was the funniest thing ever. “Don’t worry about him.”
Grandma and Grandpa’s next door neighbor was a guy named Jim Anderson. He wore polo shirts, plaid shorts, black socks pulled up his hairy calves, and putzed around his yard all day long doing next to nothing. His granddaughter lived with him. Her name was Lindsey. I met her at the clubhouse one day when I was getting Grandma and Grandpa’s mail. I slammed the little door and turned, and there she was, on the same mission. She was a few inches shorter than me and thicc, for a lack of a better term - I can’t bring myself to call her pudgy even if, maybe, she was. Her long brown hair shimmered in the tropical sun and she had this little gap in her front teeth that I instantly thought of as cute. Not in a demeaning way, just…
I was attracted to her. I thought she was beautiful and the moment I saw her, my heart launched into my throat. She felt me staring and turned to look at me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Uh...hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied cautiously.
“Kind of shocking to see someone around here who isn’t seventy.”
“I live with my grandpa.”
“Oh I’m visiting mine.” I shoved my hands nervously into the pockets of my hoodie and tried not to look like a dweeb. “I’m Kyle.”
“Lindsey,” she said and shut the mailbox.
We walked back together and made small talk. I was awkward and she was uncomfortable. Looking back at it now, I cringe, but I also smile.
Lindsey told me that her parents were killed in a car crash three years ago. She was a self-professed book worm and “old fashioned.” She liked the same music my grandparents did and had a real hard-on for the seventies and eighties. “I just love everything about them,” she gushed. Her face shone like a lamp, and, if possible, she was even more beautiful than she was before. “The clothes, the music, just...everything. It was so much better back then. I wish I had a time machine.”
Because she didn’t “connect” with our generation, Lindsey didn’t have many friends. “I’ve always gotten along better with older people.”
“So you’re one of them,” I said cheekily and nodded to an old woman in her yard.
Lindsey laughed. “I guess.”
She said that there were five teenagers in the community, all living with an older relative. They hung out at the clubhouse sometimes, sharing each other’s company because they were all they had in a place like this. She invited me to hang out with them, and two days later, we met at the pool. There was Lindsey, a black boy named Nathan, a white boy named Evan, a white girl named Cassidy, and an Asian boy named Tran who went by T. “I like to keep it fresh,” he told me with a big grin.
“Fresh as a dirty diaper,” Nathan said and rolled his eyes.
“You got me fucked up,” T said.
“Man, shut up,” Nathan said, “you sound so dumb. I thought y’all were supposed to be educated.”
“School of Pimpanomics Class of 2016,” T replied.
Evan snorted. “You wish.”
We hung out most of the day and when it was over, I decided that I liked them.
It didn’t last very long.
Three days later, T dropped out of sight. I went to his house and his grandparents said he moved in with an uncle in Iowa. There was something in their eyes that told me they weren’t being entirely honest.
I accepted their story anyway. I wish I hadn’t.
Me, Lindsey, and the others would walk around the trailer park together, just talking and goofing off, and after a while, I realized that every time we did, Ed would pass in his old truck and glare at us, then follow us on foot, pretending to do other things but glowering at us like he expected us to do something wrong. I kind of got that even then - some teens do dumb shit - but the murder in his eyes creeped me out.
Did he do something to T?
In early July, Evan disappeared. Same thing. His grandparents said he moved away. Their eyes were red as though they’d been crying, and his grandmother’s voice trembled as she told me he was gone.
It felt like she was telling me he died.
The rest of us talked about it. Nathan agreed with me that something was wrong. Cassidy thought we were stupid. Lindsey just looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “Kids come and go here. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Nathan said, “a little too much.”
“Because they visit.”
“Not all of them,” Nathan pointed out. “How many kids have we known who moved away?”
Lindsey fell silent.
“He’s wrong,” she told me later. We were walking aimlessly along one of the twisting streets after dark, the humid light of the moon playing in her hair. “There’s nothing strange about it at all. He’s just paranoid.”
I didn’t notice the hint of desperation in her voice, I didn’t realize she was begging me to believe her.
If I had, I may have known she was lying to me.
“Maybe,” I said, “I don’t know.”
She stopped and looked at me, her eyes dark and mysterious. “Really. Don’t get caught up in some conspiracy stuff.”
We gazed into each other’s eyes, and slowly, like the moon pulling the tide, our lips met. She kissed me, her tongue light and timid, and I kissed her back, mine clumsy and overeager. She grabbed the front of my hoodie and pulled me closer, and I cupped her face in my hands. The kiss deepened and became more urgent, Her heart pounded against mine and I remember thinking She’s really into it. I was too dumb to realize that she was a lost soul, a stranger in a strange land who had always been alintated from other kids by her obsession with times gone by. I didn’t realize that deep down, she was sad and alone and on the outside looking in...that she was desperate for someone, a boy her own age, to understand her.
I just thought she liked me.
She pulled away from me and flashed a dreamy smile. “That was nice,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, the taste of her mouth like candy on my lips, “it was.”
I put my arm around her and we walked home.
The next day, I went over to Nathan’s house.
His grandfather, a stooped man in a baseball cap boasting the name of the company her served with in Vietnam, appeared at the door. “Is Nathan here?” I asked.
Even if I live to be a thousand, I’ll never forget the look of hatred that crossed his wizened face. His bushy eyebrows angled down in a deadly V and her puckered lips drew into a wild sneer. The venom in his expression struck me like a fist to the stomach and I stumbled back against the railing. “He’s not here,” he spat, “he went to visit his aunt.” His eyes hardened as he spoke and his lips puckered even more, as though the words were sour in his mouth.
“Oh...okay.”
He slammed the door, and even though it was almost ninety degrees, a shiver raced down my spine. I turned and froze.
Across the street, Ed stood next to a bush in someone’s front yard, a pair of sheers at his side.
He was staring at me.
His expression was much like Nathan’s grandfather’s.
An old woman came out of her trailer and walked over to him. He turned to her, and the hate was gone, replaced by the look of a small puppy overjoyed to see its master. I took the opportunity to escape and made my way to the clubhouse. I found Lindsey and Cassidy sitting in the library. Lindsey smiled when she saw me, but it faded away at my pale-faced expression. I sat down across from them and stole a look around, crazily convinced that Ed would be there, like a killer from a bad horror movie who can be anywhere he wants, anytime he wants to be there.
“Nathan’s gone,” I said.
I told them what happened, and the color drained from Cassidy’s face.
“Come on, guys,” Lindsey said, “it’s nothing. He only went to visit his aunt. He’s coming back.”
“Seems kind of strange that it just happened like this,” I said. “He didn’t even mention it.”
“That’s Nathan for you,” she said.
I was stupid and in love...so I listened to her. I trusted Lindsey over my own gut instinct and I accepted a lie, once again.
After Nathan disappeared, I didn’t see much of Cassidy. I spent most of my time with Lindsey. We would sit in the padded swing on her front porch talking and holding hands. When her grandfather wasn’t around, we touched and kissed. When he was around, she would show me music videos from the seventies and eighties on her phone. I didn’t really like any of it, but her face always lit up when the music started to play, and she would stare at the screen with a sly little smile. Mesmerized. That’s how she looked. With each video, she lost herself in a time that she never knew, a time that she fetishized and revered only the way someone who wasn’t really there can. For her, the eighties were a warm, fuzzy dream. Nothing bad happened there. It was perfect. It was paradise.
On July 25 - I can still remember every detail - Lindsey’s grandfather was away. She led me into her bedroom and we kissed on her bed until we were heady and drunk on one another. Our hands roamed and our bodies quaked with need.
She was never more beautiful than she was with her hair pooled around her head like a halo, and no woman has ever felt as right as Lindsey did. Someone, somewhere, said that your first time is always awful, but mine wasn’t.
At the end of July, Grandma and Grandpa started acting strangely. Grandpa wouldn’t look me in the face and when Grandma did, I saw mourning in her eyes. The atmosphere, light and summery since June, turned dark and tense. Grandpa didn’t joke and twinkle and all of Grandma’s liveliness seemed to have drained away overnight. It was almost like someone died. I asked them what was wrong but they said everything was fine.
Bullshit.
It was probably a cancer diagnosis or something. One of them was sick and the doctors didn’t think they’d make it. Dread gnawed at me and I laid awake at night in worry.
I’m not exactly the best at sharing my emotions, I keep things to myself, but Lindsey managed to drag it out of me one day. We were sitting on her grandfather’s padded porch swing, our fingers entwined and Lindsey’s head resting on my shoulder. She always squeezed so tight...like she was afraid someone would take me away from her. “It’s probably nothing,” I said haltingly, “I just...I’m kind of scared.”
When she didn’t reply, I turned to look at her. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. A single bead streaked down her freckled cheek like a fleck of diamond, and my heart dropped. “What?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“How much I don’t want you to leave.”
Is it possible for something to sound like a lie and the truth at the same time? Can someone mean what they say, but mean something else?
I pulled my hand out of hers and put my arm around her shoulder. She melted into me, and we just sat there, the only sound the hiss of the wind in the trees and the metallic tinkle of windchimes. I wanted to promise I wouldn’t leave her, that we could stay together, but I couldn’t, so I said nothing.
Friday night, August 2, I was sitting in my room and scrolling through Discord when Grandpa came in without knocking. Grandpa always knocked.
I looked up, and his face was pale and drawn. He looked far, far older than I’d ever seen him.
In an instant, I knew something was wrong. “Lindsey’s here.”
That’s not what I expected to hear at all. Your Grandmother’s dead, maybe, or I have terminal AIDS. Why did he look so upset that Lindsey was here?
I put my computer aside, pulled on my hoodie, and went outside. Lindsey stood at the bottom of the stairs, and when she saw me, the corners of her mouth turned up in a pallid smile. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied gloomy.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I just wanted to see if...you wanted to go for a walk.”
Hand-in-hand, we made our way toward the clubhouse. I told her about my grandfather and she listened silently. Her grip on my hand tightened the closer we got - then, I thought she did it to comfort me, but now I think it was out of desperation. The clubhouse appeared in the distance, every window blazing with light. Something was happening. A 90th birthday party or a 50th anniversary, maybe.
Lindsey stopped me. I turned to face her, and, pushing up on her tippy toes, she held my face in her hands and kissed me. Were those tears in her eyes again?
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” I replied.
Did I mean it? I don’t know. I was fifteen. Did she mean it? In her own way, I think she did.
Holding my hand again, she led me purposely toward the clubhouse, her grip forcing my knuckles together.
We were at the back door by the mailboxes when she let go. Her hand fluttered to her face and she began to cry.
I opened my mouth, but someone hit me from behind and I blacked out.
I came awake gradually, like a diver rising from the depths. My head throbbed in sickly rhythm with my heart and my stomach churned so badly I almost puked. I pushed myself to a sitting position and a wave of nausea crashed over me. I moaned and almost went down again.
When I recovered, I looked around, my heartbeat speeding up. I was in a cage in the storeroom, murky light emanating from an overhead bulb. I was naked save for my boxers and there was a dog collar around my neck.
A door opened, and Lindsey came in, her eyes pointed ashamedly at her feet. She wore a long brown robe with the hood pushed back. Her face was white and her steps somber. “What’s going on?” I asked, panic gripping me. “What’s happening?”
Still not looking at me, Lindsey knelt before the cage. “I tried to stop them.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Masters.”
My head spun. Masters? Who were the masters?
“I really tried,” she said, her voice breaking. “But you were chosen.”
“For what?” I asked.
Finally, she looked up at me, great sadness in her eyes. “As a sacrifice.”
Before I could reply, Ed came in, a lesh in one hand and a cattle prod in the other. Lindsey produced a key from the folds of her robe and unlocked the cage. Ed dragged me out, attached the lesh to the collar, and shoved me toward the door, making me stumble.
They led me into the main room, where all the events were held, and what I saw froze my blood. All of the residents - old men, old ladies, people I had spent the summer getting to know - were crowded in the middle of the floor, each one wearing a robe like Lindsey’s. Jerking left and right, I saw Nathan’s grandparents, Evan’s, mine. Grandma looked away, tears streaming down her face, and Grandpa gazed into the ether, regret stamped onto his face. At the head of the room was a metal X-shaped thing on a raised platform. Mr. Anderson stood next to it and watched me with disdain as Ed and Lindsey strapped me into it, binding my wrists and ankles. Lindsey stroked my cheek, favored me with a longing look, then joined the crowd.
Mr. Anderson’s voice filled the room, rich and booming. “We are gathered here tonight as the Last Generation, the Greatest Generation, the Generation That Shall Not Pass.”
“Forever,” everyone intoned.
“Winter approaches each of us, but we will not give it quarter. We will not allow ourselves to fade away. We have built the altar and the works upon it and we will not hand them down.”
I struggled against my bonds, sputtering broken words and half-coherent prayers. I flexed and rolled my wrists.
The right one...the one that Lindsey secured...was loose.
“...we will not lay down and let a new generation, an inferior generation, take our place. This is our world and we will cede it to no one.”
He withdrew a wickedly sharp knife from beneath his robe, and terror burst inside of me. “We will consume the blood of this boy and it will sustain us. On their blood, we will live. On their bones, we will build. With their lives, we will dwell in power forever.”
“Forever.”
I yanked, tugged, and arched my back. The strap was looser. If I pulled just a little more, I could get my hand free.
Mr. Anderson took a step toward me, but a long, high scream stopped him. Everyone turned to look at Nathan’s grandmother. Her chest rose and fell and her eyes bulged from their sockets in madness. “This isn’t right!” she screamed. “We can’t do this!”
Her husband tried to calm her, but she pulled away. “It’s wrong! You killed my grandbaby and it’s wrong!” She broke down in tears.
Mr. Anderson looked at Ed and Ed walked over. Nathan’s grandfather glared. “You stay away from her. Can’t you see she’s mourning?”
“There is no mourning,” Mr. Anderson said.
Ed grabbed Nathan’s grandfather. With surprising speed, Nathan’s grandfather punched him in the face. A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Mr. Anderson went to go help his minion. Ed, having recovered, lunged for Nathan’s grandfather and pinned him to the wall.
Nathan’s grandmother screamed and attacked Ed with a flurry of slaps. Ed shoved her away, and someone held her back. I flexed and rolled my wrists harder, harder, harder. Finally, my hand slipped out, and working on pure adrenaline, I unstrapped my other hand and my feet.
“He’s getting away!” someone cried.
I jumped from the platform and bolted for the nearest door, my bare feet slapping against the tiles and my heartbeat echoing through my head. They chased me, but I didn’t look back, couldn’t look back.
Slamming through the door, I ran down the street toward the main road where traffic streaked by in both directions.
I don’t remember almost being hit by a car, don’t remember how I wound up in the back of a police cruiser sobbing hysterically. I wished I didn’t remember any of it.
The police didn’t believe my story. Grandma and Grandpa cooked up a story about a fight and said I ran away. Dad bought it because he thought I was an asshole, and Mom bought it because who wants to believe that their parents are killers?
I haven’t spoken to anyone about this since it happened. Not Mom, not Dad, and not my grandparents. They send me cards for my birthday and Christmas but I never read them. Last month, I got one for Easter, and I don’t know why, but I looked inside.
We’re sorry, Grandma had written, but we’re afraid to let go.
I believe them. They’re terrified of letting go and passing away.
They’re terrified of growing old and dying.
They’re terrified of us.
submitted by Jrubas to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.10.18 02:16 Jrubas Teen mom on naked and afraid

What is evil?
Selfishness. Every evil act - every rape, hit, murder, genocide - springs from selfishess, from someone thinking only of themselves or of their tribe, someone giving into their perverted desires, someone wanting to make money or save themselves from embarrassment, woe, or death. Jesus Christ, the paragon of Good, was selfless and instructed His followers to be selfless as well. He died on a cross for other people’s sins. What’s more selfless than that?
Whether you believe in Him or not, the Gospel makes clear that He considered selflessness the ultimate good. Therefore, selfishness is the ultimate bad. When we all love and care for each other, the world is good. When we care only for ourselves, it is bad.
Evil exists.
I know because my grandparents are evil.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at them. They’re libreral, they recycle, they care about the planet and they believe in science. My father is a Republican and I grew up looking at Democrats as the bad guys, but even deep down, I admired my grandparents and thought, in my own half-formed way, that we should all strive to be like them.
They both grew up in the sixties and met at Woodstock. Grandma came from a middle class family that she rebelled against and Grandpa came from the wrong side of the tracks, a fact of which he was perversely proud. “I’m a real common man,” he would say with a grin. By the time I was fifteen in 2015, they were retired and living in a retirement community near Daytona Beach. In the summer of 2016, they invited me down to spend a few weeks with them.
I barely got to see them after they moved in 2010 and I jumped at the chance, especially since my father and I didn’t get along. Typical teenage rebellion stuff that looks stupid in hindsight. I took a plane to Daytona in early June and they met me at the airport. “Hey, there you are,” Grandpa said and pulled me into a hug. There was something different about them, something that bothered me for my first two days there, something that I just couldn’t place. There was a..a...a glow about them, and the twinkle in my grandfather’s eye was one of a much younger man. Maybe even someone my age - a randy and mischievous boy who hadn’t been worn down by fifty years of work, kids, and mortgage payments. With Grandma, the change was physical. She seemed...I don’t know...more lively, like a young girl in the bloom of youth. I figured I kind of aged them up in my mind and thought of them as older and slower than they really were. They weren’t that old, after all, and had never been in anything approaching poor health.
Their community - called Lamplighter - was a fifty-five and over trailer park in Port Orange near the South Daytona line. The trailers were all modern doublewides, well-maintained, and the yards were green and spacious. There was a club house at the front of the park featuring a room for events, a little gym, and a library. Next to it was a pool. The residents were all friendly and nice. My first day there, Grandma and Grandpa took me to a social event at the clubhouse and I was the star of the show; old men patted my back, old ladies pinched my cheek, it was kind of annoying but also nice. Girls might get compliments all the time, but guys really don’t, and it felt good to be the center of attention for a little bit.
The only downside was the handyman, Jeff. Close to fifty, he was slow and crept around the edge of the room like an attack dog, his eyes always on me, like a painting that follows you around no matter where you go. “He’s very protective of us,” Grandpa explained, “he’s sort of our bodyguard.” He laughed like that was the funniest thing ever. “Don’t worry about him.”
Grandma and Grandpa’s next door neighbor was a guy named Jim Anderson. He wore polo shirts, plaid shorts, black socks pulled up his hairy calves, and putzed around his yard all day long doing next to nothing. His granddaughter lived with him. Her name was Lindsey. I met her at the clubhouse one day when I was getting Grandma and Grandpa’s mail. I slammed the little door and turned, and there she was, on the same mission. She was a few inches shorter than me and thicc, for a lack of a better term - I can’t bring myself to call her pudgy even if, maybe, she was. Her long brown hair shimmered in the tropical sun and she had this little gap in her front teeth that I instantly thought of as cute. Not in a demeaning way, just…
I was attracted to her. I thought she was beautiful and the moment I saw her, my heart launched into my throat. She felt me staring and turned to look at me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Uh...hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied cautiously.
“Kind of shocking to see someone around here who isn’t seventy.”
“I live with my grandpa.”
“Oh I’m visiting mine.” I shoved my hands nervously into the pockets of my hoodie and tried not to look like a dweeb. “I’m Kyle.”
“Lindsey,” she said and shut the mailbox.
We walked back together and made small talk. I was awkward and she was uncomfortable. Looking back at it now, I cringe, but I also smile.
Lindsey told me that her parents were killed in a car crash three years ago. She was a self-professed book worm and “old fashioned.” She liked the same music my grandparents did and had a real hard-on for the seventies and eighties. “I just love everything about them,” she gushed. Her face shone like a lamp, and, if possible, she was even more beautiful than she was before. “The clothes, the music, just...everything. It was so much better back then. I wish I had a time machine.”
Because she didn’t “connect” with our generation, Lindsey didn’t have many friends. “I’ve always gotten along better with older people.”
“So you’re one of them,” I said cheekily and nodded to an old woman in her yard.
Lindsey laughed. “I guess.”
She said that there were five teenagers in the community, all living with an older relative. They hung out at the clubhouse sometimes, sharing each other’s company because they were all they had in a place like this. She invited me to hang out with them, and two days later, we met at the pool. There was Lindsey, a black boy named Nathan, a white boy named Evan, a white girl named Cassidy, and an Asian boy named Tran who went by T. “I like to keep it fresh,” he told me with a big grin.
“Fresh as a dirty diaper,” Nathan said and rolled his eyes.
“You got me fucked up,” T said.
“Man, shut up,” Nathan said, “you sound so dumb. I thought y’all were supposed to be educated.”
“School of Pimpanomics Class of 2016,” T replied.
Evan snorted. “You wish.”
We hung out most of the day and when it was over, I decided that I liked them.
It didn’t last very long.
Three days later, T dropped out of sight. I went to his house and his grandparents said he moved in with an uncle in Iowa. There was something in their eyes that told me they weren’t being entirely honest.
I accepted their story anyway. I wish I hadn’t.
Me, Lindsey, and the others would walk around the trailer park together, just talking and goofing off, and after a while, I realized that every time we did, Jeff would pass in his old truck and glare at us, then follow us on foot, pretending to do other things but glowering at us like he expected us to do something wrong. I kind of got that even then - some teens do dumb shit - but the murder in his eyes creeped me out.
Did he do something to T?
Handyman Jeff...more like Jeff the Killer.
Heh.
In early July, Evan disappeared. Same thing. His grandparents said he moved away. Their eyes were red as though they’d been crying, and his grandmother’s voice trembled as she told me he was gone.
It felt like she was telling me he died.
The rest of us talked about it. Nathan agreed with me that something was wrong. Cassidy thought we were stupid. Lindsey just looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “Kids come and go here. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Nathan said, “a little too much.”
“Because they visit.”
“Not all of them,” Nathan pointed out. “How many kids have we known who moved away?”
Lindsey fell silent.
“He’s wrong,” she told me later. We were walking aimlessly along one of the twisting streets after dark, the humid light of the moon playing in her hair. “There’s nothing strange about it at all. He’s just paranoid.”
I didn’t notice the hint of desperation in her voice, I didn’t realize she was begging me to believe her.
If I had, I may have known she was lying to me.
“Maybe,” I said, “I don’t know.”
She stopped and looked at me, her eyes dark and mysterious. “Really. Don’t get caught up in some conspiracy stuff.”
We gazed into each other’s eyes, and slowly, like the moon pulling the tide, our lips met. She kissed me, her tongue light and timid, and I kissed her back, mine clumsy and overeager. She grabbed the front of my hoodie and pulled me closer, and I cupped her face in my hands. The kiss deepened and became more urgent, Her heart pounded against mine and I remember thinking She’s really into it. I was too dumb to realize that she was a lost soul, a stranger in a strange land who had always been alintated from other kids by her obsession with times gone by. I didn’t realize that deep down, she was sad and alone and on the outside looking in...that she was desperate for someone, a boy her own age, to understand her.
I just thought she liked me.
She pulled away from me and flashed a dreamy smile. “That was nice,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, the taste of her mouth like candy on my lips, “it was.”
I put my arm around her and we walked home.
The next day, I went over to Nathan’s house.
His grandfather, a stooped man in a baseball cap boasting the name of the company her served with in Vietnam, appeared at the door. “Is Nathan here?” I asked.
Even if I live to be a thousand, I’ll never forget the look of hatred that crossed his wizened face. His bushy eyebrows angled down in a deadly V and her puckered lips drew into a wild sneer. The venom in his expression struck me like a fist to the stomach and I stumbled back against the railing. “He’s not here,” he spat, “he went to visit his aunt.” His eyes hardened as he spoke and his lips puckered even more, as though the words were sour in his mouth.
“Oh...okay.”
He slammed the door, and even though it was almost ninety degrees, a shiver raced down my spine. I turned and froze.
Across the street, Jeff stood next to a bush in someone’s front yard, a pair of sheers at his side.
He was staring at me.
His expression was much like Nathan’s grandfather’s.
An old woman came out of her trailer and walked over to him. He turned to her, and the hate was gone, replaced by the look of a small puppy overjoyed to see its master. I took the opportunity to escape and made my way to the clubhouse. I found Lindsey and Cassidy sitting in the library. Lindsey smiled when she saw me, but it faded away at my pale-faced expression. I sat down across from them and stole a look around, crazily convinced that Jeff would be there, like a killer from a bad horror movie who can be anywhere he wants, anytime he wants to be there.
“Nathan’s gone,” I said.
I told them what happened, and the color drained from Cassidy’s face.
“Come on, guys,” Lindsey said, “it’s nothing. He only went to visit his aunt. He’s coming back.”
“Seems kind of strange that it just happened like this,” I said. “He didn’t even mention it.”
“That’s Nathan for you,” she said.
I was stupid and in love...so I listened to her. I trusted Lindsey over my own gut instinct and I accepted a lie, once again.
After Nathan disappeared, I didn’t see much of Cassidy. I spent most of my time with Lindsey. We would sit in the padded swing on her front porch talking and holding hands. When her grandfather wasn’t around, we touched and kissed. When he was around, she would show me music videos from the seventies and eighties on her phone. I didn’t really like any of it, but her face always lit up when the music started to play, and she would stare at the screen with a sly little smile. Mesmerized. That’s how she looked. With each video, she lost herself in a time that she never knew, a time that she fetishized and revered only the way someone who wasn’t really there can. For her, the eighties were a warm, fuzzy dream. Nothing bad happened there. It was perfect. It was paradise.
On July 25 - I can still remember every detail - Lindsey’s grandfather was away. She led me into her bedroom and we kissed on her bed until we were heady and drunk on one another. Our hands roamed and our bodies quaked with need.
She was never more beautiful than she was with her hair pooled around her head like a halo, and no woman has ever felt as right as Lindsey did. Someone, somewhere, said that your first time is always awful, but mine wasn’t.
At the end of July, Grandma and Grandpa started acting strangely. Grandpa wouldn’t look me in the face and when Grandma did, I saw mourning in her eyes. The atmosphere, light and summery since June, turned dark and tense. Grandpa didn’t joke and twinkle and all of Grandma’s liveliness seemed to have drained away overnight. It was almost like someone died. I asked them what was wrong but they said everything was fine.
Bullshit.
It was probably a cancer diagnosis or something. One of them was sick and the doctors didn’t think they’d make it. Dread gnawed at me and I laid awake at night in worry.
I’m not exactly the best at sharing my emotions, I keep things to myself, but Lindsey managed to drag it out of me one day. We were sitting on her grandfather’s padded porch swing, our fingers entwined and Lindsey’s head resting on my shoulder. She always squeezed so tight...like she was afraid someone would take me away from her. “It’s probably nothing,” I said haltingly, “I just...I’m kind of scared.”
When she didn’t reply, I turned to look at her. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. A single bead streaked down her freckled cheek like a fleck of diamond, and my heart dropped. “What?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“How much I don’t want you to leave.”
Is it possible for something to sound like a lie and the truth at the same time? Can someone mean what they say, but mean something else?
I pulled my hand out of hers and put my arm around her shoulder. She melted into me, and we just sat there, the only sound the hiss of the wind in the trees and the metallic tinkle of windchimes. I wanted to promise I wouldn’t leave her, that we could stay together, but I couldn’t, so I said nothing.
Friday night, August 2, I was sitting in my room and scrolling through Discord when Grandpa came in without knocking. Grandpa always knocked.
I looked up, and his face was pale and drawn. He looked far, far older than I’d ever seen him.
In an instant, I knew something was wrong. “Lindsey’s here.”
That’s not what I expected to hear at all. Your Grandmother’s dead, maybe, or I have terminal AIDS. Why did he look so upset that Lindsey was here?
I put my computer aside, pulled on my hoodie, and went outside. Lindsey stood at the bottom of the stairs, and when she saw me, the corners of her mouth turned up in a pallid smile. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied gloomy.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I just wanted to see if...you wanted to go for a walk.”
Hand-in-hand, we made our way toward the clubhouse. I told her about my grandfather and she listened silently. Her grip on my hand tightened the closer we got - then, I thought she did it to comfort me, but now I think it was out of desperation. The clubhouse appeared in the distance, every window blazing with light. Something was happening. A 90th birthday party or a 50th anniversary, maybe.
Lindsey stopped me. I turned to face her, and, pushing up on her tippy toes, she held my face in her hands and kissed me. Were those tears in her eyes again?
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” I replied.
Did I mean it? I don’t know. I was fifteen. Did she mean it? In her own way, I think she did.
Holding my hand again, she led me purposely toward the clubhouse, her grip forcing my knuckles together.
We were at the back door by the mailboxes when she let go. Her hand fluttered to her face and she began to cry.
I opened my mouth, but someone hit me from behind and I blacked out.
***

I came awake gradually, like a diver rising from the depths. My head throbbed in sickly rhythm with my heart and my stomach churned so badly I almost puked. I pushed myself to a sitting position and a wave of nausea crashed over me. I moaned and almost went down again.
When I recovered, I looked around, my heartbeat speeding up. I was in a cage in the storeroom, murky light emanating from an overhead bulb. I was naked save for my boxers and there was a dog collar around my neck.
A door opened, and Lindsey came in, her eyes pointed ashamedly at her feet. She wore a long brown robe with the hood pushed back. Her face was white and her steps somber. “What’s going on?” I asked, panic gripping me. “What’s happening?”
Still not looking at me, Lindsey knelt before the cage. “I tried to stop them.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Masters.”
My head spun. Masters? Who were the masters?
“I really tried,” she said, her voice breaking. “But you were chosen.”
“For what?” I asked.
Finally, she looked up at me, great sadness in her eyes. “As a sacrifice.”
Before I could reply, Jeff came in, a lesh in one hand and a cattle prod in the other. Lindsey produced a key from the folds of her robe and unlocked the cage. Jeff dragged me out, attached the lesh to the collar, and shoved me toward the door, making me stumble.
They led me into the main room, where all the events were held, and what I saw froze my blood. All of the residents - old men, old ladies, people I had spent the summer getting to know - were crowded in the middle of the floor, each one wearing a robe like Lindsey’s. Jerking left and right, I saw Nathan’s grandparents, Evan’s, mine. Grandma looked away, tears streaming down her face, and Grandpa gazed into the ether, regret stamped onto his face. At the head of the room was a metal X-shaped thing on a raised platform. Mr. Anderson stood next to it and watched me with disdain as Jeff and Lindsey strapped me into it, binding my wrists and ankles. Lindsey stroked my cheek, favored me with a longing look, then joined the crowd.
Mr. Anderson’s voice filled the room, rich and booming. “We are gathered here tonight as the Last Generation, the Greatest Generation, the Generation That Shall Not Pass.”
“Forever,” everyone intoned.
“Winter approaches each of us, but we will not give it quarter. We will not allow ourselves to fade away. We have built the altar and the works upon it and we will not hand them down.”
I struggled against my bonds, sputtering broken words and half-coherent prayers. I flexed and rolled my wrists.
The right one...the one that Lindsey secured...was loose.
“...we will not lay down and let a new generation, an inferior generation, take our place. This is our world and we will cede it to no one.”
He withdrew a wickedly sharp knife from beneath his robe, and terror burst inside of me. “We will consume the blood of this boy and it will sustain us. On their blood, we will live. On their bones, we will build. With their lives, we will dwell in power forever.”
“Forever.”
I yanked, tugged, and arched my back. The strap was looser. If I pulled just a little more, I could get my hand free.
Mr. Anderson took a step toward me, but a long, high scream stopped him. Everyone turned to look at Nathan’s grandmother. Her chest rose and fell and her eyes bulged from their sockets in madness. “This isn’t right!” she screamed. “We can’t do this!”
Her husband tried to calm her, but she pulled away. “It’s wrong! You killed my grandbaby and it’s wrong!” She broke down in tears.
Mr. Anderson looked at Jeff and Jeff walked over. Nathan’s grandfather glared. “You stay away from her. Can’t you see she’s mourning?”
“There is no mourning,” Mr. Anderson said.
Jeff grabbed Nathan’s grandfather. With surprising speed, Nathan’s grandfather punched him in the face. A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Mr. Anderson went to go help his minion. Jeff, having recovered, lunged for Nathan’s grandfather and pinned him to the wall.
Nathan’s grandmother screamed and attacked Jeff with a flurry of slaps. Jeff shoved her away, and someone held her back. I flexed and rolled my wrists harder, harder, harder. Finally, my hand slipped out, and working on pure adrenaline, I unstrapped my other hand and my feet.
“He’s getting away!” someone cried.
I jumped from the platform and bolted for the nearest door, my bare feet slapping against the tiles and my heartbeat echoing through my head. They chased me, but I didn’t look back, couldn’t look back.
Slamming through the door, I ran down the street toward the main road where traffic streaked by in both directions.
I don’t remember almost being hit by a car, don’t remember how I wound up in the back of a police cruiser sobbing hysterically. I wished I didn’t remember any of it.
The police didn’t believe my story. Grandma and Grandpa cooked up a story about a fight and said I ran away. Dad bought it because he thought I was an asshole, and Mom bought it because who wants to believe that their parents are killers?
I haven’t spoken to anyone about this since it happened. Not Mom, not Dad, and not my grandparents. They send me cards for my birthday and Christmas but I never read them. Last month, I got one for Easter, and I don’t know why, but I looked inside.
We’re sorry, Grandma had written, but we’re afraid to let go.
I believe them. They’re terrified of letting go and passing away.
They’re terrified of growing old and dying.
They’re terrified of us.
submitted by Jrubas to LetsReadOfficial [link] [comments]


2020.10.17 00:21 sis_boss Teen mom on naked and afraid

I've been a lurker on this subreddit off and on for almost a decade, but I've never posted before. I've started going back to therapy recently. Even though I'm NC, my mom still contacts me a couple times a year, and at my therapist's recommendation, I decided to write a letter responding to my mom, though I won't be sending it. I wanted to share it here.
I'm really grateful to this community. Mom,
I got your email. I didn't plan on responding. But your message last month brought up a lot of old feelings I needed to write down.
I need to clear the air about some things. Every time we have talked since you and dad separated, you seem to think that any struggle in our relationship - any lack of closeness in recent years - is because dad has somehow turned me against you. You've said I need to "hear your side," that I don't fully understand the situation. Like always, our relationship centers around you, your story, your experience. The truth is, dad never sought me out, told me secrets, or complained about you. All my life, you have been jealous of our friendship. You hated that we often understood each other, that we shared similar interests. I am disgusted to recall the look on your face and the nastiness of your comments when dad and I would have fun spending time together. How you would try to make me feel guilty for loving him and receiving his love, and how you would try to make him feel like it was inappropriate to love me or enjoy my company. Throughout your entire marriage, dad was always loyal to you, often hurting me and my brothers by defending you and giving you grace. But you were never able to see that, so blinded by mistrust and your own selfishness and jealousy.
When I finally moved out and began to form a healthy reciprocal attachment with P nearly ten years ago, the only reason you and I had any relationship at all was because I was afraid of losing my connection to dad and my brother still living at home. I know some part of you knows this, because you tried repeatedly to get me to conform to your wishes by isolating me from my family- specifically when you used your faith as some moral high ground when P and I got an apartment together. You may not be able or willing to recognize your actions, but that is the reality I faced. Eventually, you had "a change of heart," but only after I refused to be bullied into submission by you.
All my life, the thing I have wanted the very most from you - more than your love, more than your acceptance, more than your time and attention - was for you to admit to the horrible things you did to me and our family growing up. I want you to sit with the destruction of your mental illness, your hoarding, the damage your own childhood abuse caused in my life. This isn't the first time I have asked for your honesty. But you have never been able to see the truth. You would gaslight me, tell me you don't remember the trauma you made me endure, that IF you did the things I say, you're sorry. "No one is perfect," you would sob through tears. You hide behind your Christianity and "pray that God would forgive you." But the only truth you speak is about your own pain and suffering. You made me believe I was cruel, that I was crazy, that I made things up. Your needs and feelings were always paramount. Sometimes those needs lined up with my own, but most of the time they did not.
I never felt safe with you. I never knew if you would hold me or hit me. I had no expectation of physical boundaries. When I was six years old and I crossed the multi-lane street near our home in California, you had dad whip my naked butt over and over with his belt to make sure I would "never forget how dangerous it was to cross that street without a parent." As if that wasn't enough, you didn't allow me to leave the house for two weeks. I remember the older neighbor girl coming over to ask me to play and you forcing me to come to the door and shamefully tell her I was grounded. Julie and I had crossed the street together - with a dream of finding a bird's nest with eggs in the hedges - and I remember being so confused that her parents had just sat her down and asked her not to cross that street again by herself. I just didn't understand how she could be treated so differently. The only answer I could find was that I must be a truly rotten child. What else could explain my punishment? How could my mother hurt me if I didn't deserve it?
When I was about 8 years old, I did something that upset you while we were visiting grammy. I don't remember what I did, but I remember you were truly upset that I behaved in some kind of way in front of a friend that had been allowed to come spend the day with me and you were embarrassed. Whenever you punished me you would say: "There are natural and logical consequences to your actions." On that day, my "natural and logical consequence" was to be sent outside to select a switch, knowing it would be used to whip me in front of my friend. But that wasn't natural or logical. It was cruel and unusual. That memory has been so traumatic that I still get sick thinking about that poor little girl and the depth of shame and despair I felt that day.
On the way home I remember fantasizing that we were in a terrible car crash. That you died, but dad and J were okay. In my fantasy we went on to live a happy life together. Where I could miss the idea of a mother, but never be in danger of being harmed by you again. That was not the last time I would dream of your death. And I had to live with the guilt and shame of wishing you were dead, while also believing that the only way I could ever be safe was if you were out of the picture.
As I got older, you traded physical abuse for emotional abuse, a disregard for boundaries, and the true dissent into your OCD and hoarding. I would dream of living in a clean home without rotting food in the sink and fridge, without cat shit in the closets, without mice in the walls. A home where I didn't have to climb over boxes piled with junk, without tiny trails winding through stacks of papers and clothes and garbage that you wouldn't let us touch, but also blaming us for. A home where I could have friends over.
I was never afforded privacy. When I was young, J took my diary and broke the lock on it. You had him read it out loud in front of our family and you laughed at my secret, tender thoughts. I don't blame J for this - this was his bid for your love and attention.
As I entered my preteen and teen years, you opened my mail. You went through my trash. You unlocked the bathroom door and walked in while I was on the toilet. You opened the curtain while I was showering. I was not allowed an email account even as a highschooler. I was not allowed a closed bedroom door. I was not allowed to stay out late, even for special occasions. You accused me of lying and stealing. You called me selfish. You said I was ungrateful and spoiled.
There was no joy in our home, just a constant sense of dread, suffering beneath your screaming, hoarding, and explosive rage, whether directed at dad or one of us kids.
I know you would be hurt reading this letter. I haven't written this letter because it doesn't feel good to hurt you. I am angry and will probably always be angry about the realities of my childhood and young adult life. But I'm still a decent and kind person and I don't want to hurt you, no matter how justified I would feel. My lack of responses at your attempts to connect were not only to protect me, but to protect you from one disgusting truth: You were not a good mother.
You kept me alive. But that's it. Any kindness or love I was given was yanked away if I didn't do/say/act in a way that affirmed you. Becoming an adult myself has meant releasing the responsibility for your abuse and no longer excusing and justifying your truly despicable and disgusting behavior.
You say you want a relationship with me. But it will come at a price I don't believe you are willing or able to pay. To actually have a relationship, you will have to show me you can honor the reality of my experiences over the last 34 years. That you take responsibility for the trauma you inflicted on all of us. I recognize that might not be possible for you. If in the end you decide that I am crazy, my feelings are unjustified, or that I am a liar, I understand. Frankly, I don't care what you think of me anymore. You have to do what you have to do to survive. But I've learned what a real, healthy relationship can look like, and I don't have any interest in investing in any other kind of relationship ever again.
submitted by sis_boss to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]


2020.10.16 23:11 batheinsriracha Just realizing now, at 27 years old, that my "poor mother" was actually incredibly selfish and incapable of parenting, and it had devastating effects on me.

Some context: My mom got knocked up in college. My mom had primary custody and I stayed with my dad on weekends. When I was little, my mom was stalked by a guy who eventually tried to kill her. She has had PTSD ever since, and I'm sympathetic to that.
However, over the years I've realized how she used that "victim card" to her own selfish advantage, CONSTANTLY. She moved us in with a boyfriend she hardly knew when I was a toddler. Some of my earliest memories are of her and this creep walking around naked, having sex everywhere (including while I was in the bed with them). She got knocked up by the guy and they got married.
I was about 10 years old when he started abusing me (physically, sexually, you name it). I had been groomed since toddlerhood, so I didn't really know what was happening was wrong, but it ruined me. My self esteem tanked, to the point that teachers told my parents they were worried. I told my mom I hated my stepdad, I wanted to move out, etc, but she would say "How dare you! You know he loves you!" She would always say she could never move out again because she's too afraid to back to school or get a job.
When eventually my bio dad insisted I be taken to therapy for my suddenly weird behavior, my mom found a quack therapist and somehow made herself the victim in all of our appointments. He was treating HER, not me, and she knew it, but I was a kid who didn't know any better.
As a teen, I eventually told my bio dad what was really happening at home. He was mortified, but my mom's first reaction was to call me a liar. My dad insisted I move in with him to attend therapy and finish schooling in a better part of the country. However, my mom went NUTS, threatening to sue him and saying "a child needs to be with her mother, always!" We moved in with my grandparents in the middle of nowhere, and I was devastated. My school was so poor that they couldn't even feed us sometimes (yes, this is America), and I was mercilessly bullied there.
But instead of doing the selfless thing--you know, what a good mother should do--and letting me move to a better environment, my mom AGAIN played the victim, crying every night and saying "This is all my fault. I'm so terrible. I'm the worst person." I spent most nights holding her and telling her it was ok. Being her mother. I never got therapy, and went straight from this into college.
I was initially a good student with a scholarship to a good university, dreaming of going to medical school. However, I became pretty depressed (gee, I wonder why?). My mom called me one night to confess that she actually still loved my abuser, and that she wanted to keep seeing him. That side of my family somehow supported her (they're fundamentalist Catholics who believe in forgiving unrepentant child molesters, of course). I felt confused, betrayed, and so lost. I cut my family off, became severely depressed, nearly flunked out, and tried to kill myself.
I did manage to graduate, albeit with a useless degree. I moved far away from home, got a shitty job, and focused on just trying to get better. Got a lot of therapy, a lot of medication, and eventually got to an okay place. But now, I'm ANGRY. My mom is still seeing the guy, though the family has at least agreed to my stipulation that I never see his face again. She acts all lovey dovey with me, buying me things and sending me cute messages, blah blah, all while betraying me on the side. If I even hint at feeling betrayed, she immediately breaks down and internalizes everything for sympathy. That side of my family does not understand, and every time I talk to them, it's like pouring salt in the wound.
I just think, if my mom hadn't been so selfish, might I have been in a better place now? Maybe I would've achieved my dreams instead of being a poor loser who thought of suicide every day for 3 years. Oh well.
submitted by batheinsriracha to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]


2020.10.14 04:46 RivalXL Teen mom on naked and afraid

So I don't know where to even start with this but this whole thing definitely won't be structured well.
My life has been one miserable train wreck to say the least. From start up until now. My biological father has never been in my life really; when I was a kid I spent hundreds of times watching my mother and my dad fight including my step dad who practically raised me all my life. However he died in 2015 from a doctor who abused his prescriptions and as of right now my mother and I are still fighting a trial to get justice for that. I watched him die in front of me in their bedroom. It was so normal to have him pass out that when we called the ambulance I didn't think anything would happen. I remember getting the confirmation that he died. Hearing my mother's screams but at the same time I didn't even cry, nor show emotion of grief until months later. It was just too much to believe.
On top of that my education has been one hell ride. I have aspergers that was very very apparent when I was young. I didn't function in school at that time. I had to move out of two schools due to moving, had to another one because the teachers literally thought I had schizophrenia, went to a home school group, then went to a private catholic school that....ruined my life. Everyday in that school was a nightmare for me because I had no idea how to socialize and kids would literally beat me and threaten me and no one would do a damn thing about it because this school was in a small town community where everyone was either related or knew each other. I tried so desperate to socialize that I did really stupid things to seen "cool". Spat on a kid, searched up naked women on the computer, and other things because I thought being "cool" was doing really stupid things.
One day, after being threatened to be shot by one of the kids there I walked back into class after recess and did the gun sign at one of the kids and the teacher's daughter thought I was pointing it at her. Needless to say I was nearly expelled but the principal didn't want that to happen so we just made it look like we left on our own. After that happened it was like aspergers stopped effecting me socially. It's like as if it just happened and I was normal in a social form but unfortunately the next school I was put into was in a really bad neighborhood so the kids there were even worse and I had to leave there too but only to be put in another home school group that ended up being a total scam. Afterwards I tried getting into another school but I tested so low that I was going to be held back and I couldn't afford it since I didn't start school when most do because I was born in January. For years now, I've been stuck in this god damn house with a mother who constantly takes everything out on me. My mom and I have fought almost everyday since all this happened. Some of the things we've said to each other I'll never forget. I don't have friends and I didn't get to experience high school. To add to it, after what happened in the Catholic school my step dad (before he died) and my mom had the brilliant idea of putting me in a jail cell for a day "to see what it's like when you threaten" people.". I've had nightmares about this a lot. A very horrid fucking memory.
I'm about to graduate home schooling and I realized I haven't experienced high school...at all. My entire teen years have been spent alone and isolated. I think about that fact literally speaking, 24/7. I'm told high school is a really important time in your life: friends, sports, clubs, activities, studying, tests, etc. Everything I've missed out on. It's a big fucking chunk of my life wasted. Though it wasn't all bad. I spent the last 3 years in a really great discord friend group. I spend a lot of time there but last June my account was disabled for "bullying/doxxing". I know it sounds cheap when people say they didn't do anything but I literally have no idea what the hell I did. Discord told me they would send an email regarding my behavior but nothing was sent and all I got were automated responses. Nearly 3 years worth of memories archived and over 196k messages. I have a pic of the exact number somewhere but yeah, I was livid. I'm on another account but I'm still grieving all that. I know it sounds childish to care that much about an account but that discord server is the only thing I've had for the last 3 years of my life. It means the world to me. It's like I can hear my bullies from school laughing at me somehow for this.
Again, I'm about to graduate home school. My only hope is that I have a long time left to live life to its fullest. I hope to god college works out. I swear I will be a great and social student but since I've had the worst amount of luck I'm afraid something bad will happen. Honestly, if college doesn't work out I can't say I won't end it all. It's my last hope. There's other things that bother me too, I have the worst smile ever and I really look unattractive as hell. A 3 or 4/10 honestly and I hate being a guy. I don't know why but I just do.
I'm sorry all of this was poorly structured but I really needed to put this out somewhere and the more I spend time writing it the more I feel.
Do you think life will get better? I gotta try of course but I've missed so much of my youth that I don't know how to get over this. I just wanted a better life than this. Maybe I'm being dramatic I don't know but I'm wore out. I take it anymore and I really don't wanna be alone either. I was tempted at first to send all this here but I have been diagnosed with depression but I'm not sure what counts as depression and what counts as just being sad or grieving.
submitted by RivalXL to depression [link] [comments]


2020.10.13 16:43 IdolA13Octl1 Teen mom on naked and afraid

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2020.09.22 22:15 Silly_Character3807 Teen mom on naked and afraid

Hello. My family have vacationed/lived in another country for several months at a time when I was younger (at age 2, 4 and 6). Im 22 (f) now and don’t live at home.
When i was six, there was a situation with an old man who lived next to my family. At least I think so...I never told my family and didnt think much of it at all as a child. But when I was teen, I remembered something. I had this very clear scene in which the old man led me into a side-door in our house which led to a separate bedroom (my mom rented the house from this man and his family, and we were all rather close). From there, all i remember is this vauge feeling of me being naked inside there. It was not violent and I know he didn’t rape me, but it is just this strong feeling that we were alone in there, I was naked, that he made it clear not to tell, and I dont recall anything else. I feel like he might just have looked at me and touched me, and perhaps made me touch him - but i just dont know???
In later years I have looked back at my own behavior, and realized at around the time when we came back home from this other country the last time (age 6), i was very sexual. I always initiated games where i would kiss/make out with my friends. With one friend I would make this game where one was in charge and in control, and then kiss the other. With one friend we would get undressed and grind on each other. I had learned (dont remember how) that my private parts felt good to be touched and would use the shower head on them. These games and masturbation continued for not too long, and then I quickly changed. I never wanted to be naked in front of anyone, not even family, I was very stern that I did not want to see my younger cousins naked (they were like 2 and 4, while i was 6, so we were all small children), and I told them and my aunt I was disgusted with seeing them naked. I also would not disclose any romantic feelings to anyone (if i had a crush at a boy in school, or when i was in love with Aragorn from lord of the rings), anything related to the body, sex and romance, I would just strongly ... i guess i just became very prudish, but only with other people and not privately or in my mind.
So yeah, thats the background (sorry its long). Something may or may not have happened, but i also feel like it would be very odd for me to have created a false memory when I had never discussed any of this with anyone, and I also find my sexual behavior rather strange as well (although it could just be childish games and exploration). But anyway, I have developed a dislike of this country we visited, and am always very short and mute whenever my family discuss those times... for my family our times in the other country was amazing, one of the greatest times of their lives. While I always sit with this knot in my stomach when we talk about it. I have said that i have no intention of returning though, to which they just laugh and think i grew sick of the place.
Well, now my mother’s appartment which she rents has been sold and she must move. But she is seriously considering just packing up her bag and moving back to this country that was paradise for her. And now I am very conflicted between wanting my mom to be happy, having these confusing memories from when i was a child and thus not wanting her to move there. My siblings say that they think she really needs this (mom is in a dark place right now) and that it just gives us all an excuse to go there. But i am both bitter towards the whole country now and also at my family wanting to go back (not rational, i know).
I know I should tell them, but i am both extremely uncomfortable with doing that and also not entirely sure anything happend at all. Or maybe I should fix my mindset that the entire country and all its men are bad... but i dont know... I have developed a strong fear of being raped and am always highly anxious when walking out at night (even in a country with low rates), and this country mom wants to move back to now has very high rape rates and I just dont think I could go back there. Im afraid, bitter, angry and hurt about it all - while at the same time not even sure anything happened.
It’s just so frustrating and I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. I don’t even know what I want out of this post, I guess I just needed to air my thoughts and feelings. I just wish I could get a definitive answer for whether it happened or not.
submitted by Silly_Character3807 to Molested [link] [comments]


2020.08.17 14:29 deathreaper1129 Teen mom on naked and afraid

TLDR: a record of the things i delt with with my parents the highlights and lowlights
Ok for starters im on mobile so sorry for formatting i felt ive needed to do this for a long time just never had somewhere to put it but than i found this subreddit and realized how perfect it is for my story keep in mind my earliest memories arent the most accurate it was over 10+ years ago and i am by no means gonna go over everything i remeber just things that provide context to future memories without further ado heres the story of how ive gotten this far
Ok so this starts with my first memories most of which have to do with my dad who is ex ranger with a lot of mental issues kinda like me at present im just not as bad my symptoms are very managable with medication and councelling so for context i was probably about 4-5 yo (and for future potential context im male idk if it will be relevent later im kinda making this up as i go) at the time just a kid my dad was an alcoholic and still has bouts of alcoholism now i dont know if he was drunk then i didnt even know what drunk was then what i do know is one of my first memories is being hit in the legs repeatedly with drumsticks i can still remember the intense pain to this day when it hit the bones on the front bottom segment of my legs shooting fire like pain seared through them i also have another memory of being held against a wall and slapped i cant remember much about this i was young and my memory on it is extremely fuzzy my mom( no shes not the nice one she becomes the main antagonist in my teenage years but in my childhood i was a complete mamas boy) at the time worked most days and my dad would watch me on his days off the rest of the time one of my aunts or my grandma would watch me while both my parents were at work i can remember being so friggin happy when i found out that my nana or one of my aunts would be watching me because i was serously scared of my dad for obvious reasons a later memory i have while i didnt understand it at the time was of my dad passed out praying to the toilet gods because hed gotten hammered i just thought hed fallen asleep and the bathroom light was on so i turned it off he wasnt a winner of a parent as you can see which leads to my next memory me and my mom coming home to our new apartment with my little sister who i believe at that point had been born about a year prior and was able to crawl was passed out on the floor with an overflowing diaper and my dad was passed out chest down on the bed this led to an arguement between my mom and dad that got extremely loud between the shouting and my little sis crying because of the noise this led to a period of a few years i think 2 or 3 where my parents would seperate without getting divorced repeatedly i was often happier in these periods of seperation and when my dad was gone i felt like a weight was off my chest i didnt have to worry about his drunkeness a concept i now understood i didnt need to worry about his volitile temper and when he would come back the stress would come straight back hed always start out nice but hed always eventually turn back into that asshole ive known most of my life it was a lot for a little 10yo boy and i think between that and the abuse the beginnings of my mental problems were forming during this time my second little sister was born when he was back in my moms good graces skip foreward one year and eventually my mom finally divorced my dad at the time i thought this would be a good thing my dad would be gone and i wouldnt need to worry or fear getting hit by him in a drunken stupor or being yelled at cussed and slurred to tears id be with what i though of as my loving mother but little known to me she would soon be going off the religious deep end going deeper and deeper in as the years went by my sisters grew up as christians as did i we'd all been in the faith since we were born and knew no different we moved churches a few times and eventually settled on a messianic hebrew church basically christianity but focusing on direct hebrew translation and prodominantly focusing on the old testement only leaning on new testament teachings where it complemented old testament "torah" doctrine this is where my mother started to veer off the rails she would often harshly chastize me for the smallest things any minor sin against so called god was an excuse to yell and berate me i went into middle school where i was made fun of and bullied i would continuously alert the staff of what was going on and nothing changed i was a pretty average student never great at math but i exelled in subjects like english and science i always had a thirst for knowledge and in truth id finished all the books on my bookshelf by the time i was about 11 and it was around this time i became more aware of what the world outside school and my house was like as id been brought up very sheltered eventually i came to the realization that the religion made no sense when compared to what we know about the world based on scientific evidence i continued to fake believing a year passed and my mom dated a child of a man we will call him M so M like my dad had a drug problem he smoked weed incessantly (imma just add i have no problem with smoking weed i do so myself but moderation is principle in everything) all day every day and before he had met my mom he was surfing couches while working at a temp agency for crappy wage despite these glaring red flags she stayed with him even when we were evicted from our apartment homeless living out of a cramped jeep grand cherokee (this lasted for months until we eventually got a temporary housing unit from a nonprofit and lived there for a bit) my mother had constantly told me since i had known what sex even was (i kinda figured it out when i was younger knew how it worked biologically speaking eg. Sperm fertilizes egg makes offspring it was the mechanics of how the sperm got there that i hadnt figured out yet than puberty slammed me like a truck and i figured it out) that it was a sin to have children out of wedlock of course her the eternal hypocrite she was and still is had 2 kids with this loser and to this day i still will never understand what she saw in that guy dont get me wrong i love my little brothers and it saddens me that i havent seen them in years as i dont want to associate with my mother but we'll get to that bit later eventually they stopped dating and my mother was single once again at this time we were living in a crappy dusty musty mobile home not the glampimg kind the literal houses you can attach to a big trailer and move or rather you would be able to if this place didnt look like it was gonna turn to dust at any second i was about 13 then and after a few too many years of going to church as to not cause friction with my mother but still not believing it and having shared custody with my dad which at first was just on weekends but eventually was a 50/50 split 2 weeks at my dads 2 weeks at my moms being at my dads which i pretty much preferred not for my dad i was often pretty cold toward him but we got along ok and once he got clean he was much less of an asshole the person that made the place worth being in was my stepmom shes italian and makes wonderful food and i feel it was because of her and her talking to me about the world and how to be assertive and stand up for myself and not to take shit from other people between these talks and my own beliefs at the time i finally decided to tell my mom that i didnt want to go to church on saturday she told me to get up and quickly tore off my blankets i told her no that i didnt believe it anymore at whichpoint she decided to grab me and try to drag me out of bed unsucessfully as i hung onto my bed for dear life (my bed was just a twin mattress on the floor it had those rings on the side your supposed to use to help move it but quick thinking found another use for them) eventually she gave up the attempt dropping me painfully on the ground near my bed and went out of the room i thought it was over i thought id won and as i lay back down on my bed waiting for her to leave she came back promptly with a water bottle i didnt know this at the time but shed also called my auntie N who was at this time on the way over (she lived right down the road) she proceeded to spray me with water like a misbehaving puppy occasionally trying to drag me away over and over luckily for me my aunt finally came and in what felt like a few minutes but couldve been longer time us a weird thing it flies when your adrenaline is firing on all cylinders probably the reason that being dropped repeatedly didnt hurt much til a bit later and because she had heard the commotion she came in and asked my mom fairly loudly what she was doing by this time i had asumed the form of a human pill bug trying to cower very close to the wall while whimpering in an attempt not to cry i didnt expect this from my mother shed always done her best even if she made very bad decitions and while i knew she would be mad i wouldve never thought shed have gone to the extreme of covering my half naked body in cold water while picking me up trying to pry me off the the bed and than dropping me multiple times she explained that i didnt want to go to church so she thought this "punishment" was what i deserved my aunt told her to leave me alone and basically explained in a calm voice with terse harsh undertones that whether i go to church or not should be my own choice and my mom knowing that continuing would lead to her having a worse reputation than she already had in the family (she was the first born and also a bit of a black sheep because of aformentioned bad choices apparently runs in the family as both my dad and i are the first borns of our respective families and also both black sheep) so after this things went back to normal living in our shitty house in the middle of bum fuck nowhere after that extreme reaction to my lack of belief and not wanting to go to church i cant for the life of me tell you why but when it came time for church id finally be left be and id have the house to myself this was a real win for me because between my mom my 4 siblings and the friggin paper thin walls there was no silence to be had when her my sisters and my brothers were home saturdays when i was with her quickly became a respite outside of junior high(which had its own stresses none of which as hard as the constant screeching of my little brother N) which i was attending at the time got into the wrong crowd started drinking every saturday when i was home alone eventually starting to smoke weed at 14 the alcohol id steal and the weed id buy with money id get for working at my neighbor S's place S was a stand up guy he in many ways was a father figure to me he smoked weed like a chimney he often drank but he always stayed level headed and working with him was yet another escape for me i learned a great many things from him from building fences to basic house repair and as time passed i started getting worse and worse i was in a deep depression that felt like an inescapable pit at the worst times i felt no emotion but pure unbridled sadness or just straight up emptiness i asked my mom if i could get some help either councelling or medication but of course she (at this point having become anti-vax and a flat earther and a serous conspiracy nut who didnt believe doctors were genuinely there to help and thought medication was toxic and horrible for you and yes some are for sure but you have to weigh the risks against the rewards) played down my pleas telling me things like "you make your own happiness" and "you need to learn to be content with where you are" so i carried on self harming and abusing weed and alcohol to get some slanted facsimile of happiness and to continue surviving not living just surviving at 15 i tried to kill myself with tylonol it was the worst pain id ever experienced and have experienced im like 90% sure i puked out all my internal organs and while this is all very hazy i was told later i was found passed out on the floor was taken to a hospital my stomach was pumped and had to stay in the hospital for 48 hours i was given referrals to counselling which were quickly confiscated by my mother if i had known at the time that i could get my own counselling using state insurance (i live in the us in a state that allows minors over 14 to seek out mental health care with or without parental consent this my mom lied to me about and i didnt really have the means to fact check nor the motivation i had one foot in the grave and had seroiusly lost hope that id ever get help) my dad and stepmom didnt know what happened i was too scared to tell them and my mom didnt tell them because im pretty sure she was scared that theyd bring her to court over it i didnt want to tell them because my dad is about as emotionally supportive as a brick to the face and my stepmom the one i trusted the most in my life i felt like id dissapoint by telling her in hindsight it was so stupid if me to think like that but hey i was in a bad place and for a few years up to this time as well as doing drugs and drinking on the DL id been dealing with emerging gay thoughts but what was confusing to me was that it wasnt just boys it was girls too and i had absolutely no clue what i was (like i said i was very sheltered i knew what it was to be gay i knew what lesbians were but my mom tried her best to sensor everything i saw luckily for me i was able to look it up on my first phone my stepmom got me as a birthday present) so eventually found out that im bi which was unsettling for me and it just stressed me the crap out because of how homophobic i knew my mom is and even though i didnt believe in it between the religious teachings in my younger teen years how id seen people like me treated on the news and my moms general attitude toward the lgbt+ community i was worried so like a lot of other things i kept it hidden (this was a few months after i had and lost my first girlfriend much to the dismay of my mother who told me i was too young to date we dated for about 5-6 months and than we broke up a few months into sophomore year and as anyone whose had a first love knows the first is always the hardest the breakup was mostly my fault yeah she had some issues too but i just didnt want her to have to put up with my BS and in hindsight i shouldve been more communicative and told her what was going on and let her decide whether she wanted to continue the relationship but the past is the past and i live for now) as the guilt shame and secrets that i kept to myself started accumulating i kept using drugs to cut the pain id steal bottles if alcohol for quick cash because as a 15 yo soon to be 16 i couldnt get an honest job i used the profits from my theft (which i became quite good at) on various different drugs at this time id stopped drinking i no longer enjoyed it anymore but i smoked plenty of weed by myself and with my so called "friends" most if not all of which would sell me out if it meant theyd be off the hook they were users and were there for the drugs not to make friends in that time frame i experemented with lean, adderall,shrooms,xanax,and even at one point aquired a bottle of oxy and took pill after pill after pill in an attempt to for once feel ok the relief was alas temporary and eventually my mom found out about my drug use finding my weed stash and promptly telling the school who made me go to the school drugs and alcohol counseller while at the time i thought this would suck i came to meet one of my favorate school employees in my highschool career Mrs.B she was a kindly older woman and while we didnt see eye to eye on drug related issues she was trustworthy and i was finally very slowly able to get the secrets id been holding off my chest i told her a little about how my life had been so far and i told her about how i wanted mental health help and she explained that i could get it myself( i never took advantage of it because i didnt have the ability to get to the closest place that took my insurance the pain of not having a car) i eventually got what i thought to be my worst secret at the time i was so nervous then ik she wouldnt judge but before then it was just a concept in my head it was hard to make it into words but i eventually came out to the first person ever i felt liberated but still a bit guilty eventually i got up the courage to tell my real friends (the ones i actually cared about) and they were kind and didnt judge some even said that theyd had inklings that i was at least part of the lgbtq+ comunity at the very least (cant for the life of me figure out how they knew tbh im very straight presenting then and now) but although i felt a bit better i continued using drugs and one day my dad found alcohol id stolen and was going to sell and lets just say shit heated up very quickly i was basically interogated from when he found it about 8pm until after 1 in the morning they asked me why id been using drugs why i had the alcohol eventually between his and my stepmoms prying i aquiessed i basically told them that id been having problems with mental health and had been self medicating i also came out to them too my dad was weirded out (hes from north carolina so ge was raised as a christian in a very religious area and at the time was in his late 40s so this blew his mind) my stepmom was cool with it she told me there was nothing to be afraid or ashamed of(her mom was a hair dresser so she interacted with gay men from a very young age) and that made me feel much better i begged them not to tell my my mom they agreed on the condition that id not do any more drugs 2 weeks or less later i was back at my moms sitting in my room trying to block the world out looking forward to my next visit to my dads because everything had seemed great maybe even better than before when i left (couldve just been the feeling of finally opening up after keeping it inside for so friggin long i felt happy that my stepmom had accepted me) than my mom called me and sat me down on the couch she said "your dad told me that you told him and jody that your gay" at which point i corrected her that im bi not gay and explained the difference i was mad that my dad outed me i wanted to do it on my own in my own time but from how it was going i was hopeful that it would turn out ok however i was very wrong what she told me after this i will never forget "i love you but i will never accept this" i went back to my room with a heavy heart that day my mom could be downright mean at times but i still cared about her opinion so needless to say i went nosediving back into depression started sneaking out at night often getting into trouble i would walk around meet some of the homeless that i knew smoked weed did drugs (never anything super serious at least nothing that stuck) and eventually my dad caught me and told me to stop than when i didnt he felt that it would teach me a lesson by pushing me into our garage and beating the shit out of it all happened in about 30 seconds and i think he only stopped because jody told him to after i left i decided i didnt want to come back i hated my moms but it had to be better than this so in contempt of court i finished sophomore year staying at my moms full time still living without any mental health help (now that i think about it i had serous depression and anxiety issues since i was 13 til i was 17 4 years im surprised i survived) my mental health often fluctuated sometimes better sometimes worse got my first serous job and spent as much time as i could working and when i wasnt working id wake up as early as 4 in the morning and walk 3 miles to the nearest bus station taking a bus to a nearby train station to get on a train that would get me 2 counties away in 45 mins to an hour the first time and nearly every time i did this the cops were called on me for being a runaway i was never caught by them though for reasons already explained(a combination of being out of the county the police were called in and a bit of proticol i learned later that basically states that the police wont start looking until 48 hours after a report and in the end its just a misdemeanor if your parents even press charges) as well as the fact that id go to a different town every day walking around like a 16 yo homeless bum (i was doing school it was online id bring my laptop and finish my daily work either on the train or in a cafe somewhere in this time i tried to commit suicide again i got ahold of my moms shotgun loaded it and locked myself in the bathroom i couldnt get up the courage to actually do it id squeeze the trigger until i knew it was about to fire and than lost my nerve repeated this a few times every time unable to do it i felt so defeated and very much hopeless i was angry that i couldnt do it i fell into a heap on the floor and just cried for what felt like hours putting down the gun as my mom banged on the door and eventually opened it there was no comfort there were no questions asked she made no attempt to help instead she screamed at me telling me about how the bible says that taking ones own life is a sin i was too out of it to do anything i spent the rest of that day just laying in a ball on my bed occasionally breaking into crying fits again there was no pity i had no help as per usual i felt like a failure i couldbt even kill myself right i was alone eventually my mom met another guy were gonna call him garden gnome because he looks like a garden gnome he would start arguements for no reason yell and get angry with very little provocation and didnt like anyone undermining his authority (he was one of those guys that never learned that respect is a 2 way street not unlike my dad) at this point id grown some balls and this tub of lard with a beard from the great incest state of alabama didnt scare me( at this point in my life i didnt care what happened to me i could take the pain of blows and just laugh them off and i honestly wished someone would kill me because i couldnt do it myself i would engage in risky activity like climbing high buildings and by high i mean high high enough that a slip wouldve made me a flesh pancake and honestly i hoped if i did it enough id fuck up at some point and finally be at peace hilariously by being in pieces everywhere i went i instantly would make mental notes of everything i could kill myself with) i remember how much fun it was to get him all riled up i found it hilarious a small bit of levity in an otherwise horrible place i enjoyed how much he overeacted i enjoyed how dumb he acted when he got angry and would get right up in his face and take verbal jabs at him whenever he momentarily stopped yelling to take a breath i wouldnt have been surprised if people down the road could hear the yelling and i carried on living and putting up with this shit pile of a human being fast forward a few months it was night and my mom came to get me out of my room telling me that we were going to get me mental health help it was close to my 17th birthday little did i know id spend it stuck in a mental ward (when i got in the car i didnt know where i was going at all all i knew was that i was finally getting the help id wanted for years) eventually we show up at a hospital and we end up sitting for hours waiting to be admitted i was ushered into a room and was just happy that i was seemingly one step closer to the help i needed so me garden gnome and mom were in a very cramped room with only one window on the door made of re-enforced glass than garden gnome decided to add to the discomfort by starting an arguement bringing up info that A: he had gotten by snooping into my personal life via my social media and B: he knew would piss me off and i dont know whether it was how tired i was or the anxiousness from being in the room( im claustraphobic a room with no windows sends my anxiety into maximum overdrive) it probably was a bit of both but the result was me going off on both of them telling them to get out they refused i yelled to them to get out one more time when i noticed a crack in the door moving as quick as my underslept tired ass could take me i put my hand in the crack and pulled the door open there was male nurse right outside the door who in a very thick african accent told me to get back in the room at this point my adrenaline is surging and he is making an attempt to block me idk how i did it ive always been pretty agile but ive never played football in my life but i juked this nurse out and yelled for the head nurse the head nurse walks over and asks whats going on im a bit out of breath and i am pissed but i try my best to in the most polite way possible tell her that she needs to get garden gnome and my mom out of the room and than i will go back in (kinda easy to see how much i hated garden gnome and my mom at this point that id rather be half parinoid in a cramped windowless room than be around them) after theyve gone down the hall i walk back into the room and my nerves are back on instantly after the door is closed i sat down a chair in the room constantly figeting until i became so tired that i passed out i woke up laying down on the observation table the big adjustable seat thing thats in the middle of most appointment rooms at nearly every medical center like ever i didnt know how i got there i now assume someone moved me while i was sleeping and i woke up to a lady in a business looking type outfit and shes talking to me about how i got here and than lays the news on me that because of last night my mom decided it would be a good idea to put me in in patient care me being a minor i got absolutely no choice in the matter(it was either agree to it and go willingly or reject care and be made to go because my mom had spun the story like i was a harm to others when in reality id only ever harmed myself and yes i made threats that nigjt but i didnt mean them i told them to "leave the room or id kill them" (this was an empty threat i hated them but not enough to kill them as my actions after that threat showed id rather have run away and disengaged than kill anyone) i talk to the lady a bit more hoping i can get out of it but nope im stuck later a nurse comes into the room and i ask her if she can open the sliding metal doors that make up the walls of the room amd she abliged i instantly felt a million times better i ate my first crappy breakfast and was shortly after that transferred to the ward (this was during the period during which i was doing online courses and i had to catch up on a week and a half of school when i got out it sucked) not a lot happened in the ward the days were preplanned so in my memory they kinda blend together but heres the highlights and some of the downsides the food sucked being a hospital the air was kept constantly arid and caused me nosebleeds twice i couldnt shave or cut my hair (for obvious reasons) so i looked homeless by the time i got back oh and the worst thing is i was stuck in that horrible place for my 17th birthday in order to stay sane well more sane and in good shape i did calesthenics every morning by the time i got out i looked a good bit healthier i tried a few different meds spoiler they didnt help much and it would be a few more months before i got meds that really helped but it was a start i also got to be around a lot of other people with simular situations as well as my stepmom showing up out of the blue the eventual key to my exodus i also met J he was a very attractive guy he had red hair and these piercing green eyes and when he came in i think about half way through my stay there i was the first person he talked to so eventually as we talk a bit more it becomes apparent that we kinda like eachother (for those of you saying bad idea you are correct probably the worst relationship ive had but i was so starved for affection that i flew by the red flags and didnt even reverse for a second look) eventually i got out at that point i wished i could stay anything even the ward was better than that house life continued taking it day by day ( this was made slightly better by talking to J and my friend at the time and eventual girlfriend R) until eventually my dad and stepmom reached out to me i was supposed to only stay a day but i stayed for 2 weeks and it continued like this for 6 weeks eventually i coerced my aunt to advocate for me living at my dads i had serious doubts she would pull it off but she did i was still cold toward him even more so now the memories of the last time i was here were clear in my brain i understand why he did what he did but it wasnt right time passed and i did my last year of highschool not much happened i was legitimately trying to make an effort to do well this year and in first semester i didnt bomb but my grades were pretty maybe slightly above average by some metrics i had a few classes i did very well in while others like honors chem took my full attention and forced me to work extremely hard for even a C (while i had the skills to do well i never found much motivation in school it was a concerted effort for me to do as well as i did) during second semester covid hit and we started doing school from home i did my best but there was some family drama and mental stuff that kinda screwed it up but i still manage to pass (by the skin of my teeth) and get my diploma a few weeks later my stepmom divorced my dad which secretly i was happy about he kinda made me uneasy and now i live here pay rent have a job and a girlfriend and im doing my best to make it im going to be an RN ive always loved the medical field an aptitude for the profession runs in my family my great aunt my mom my auntie N my grandpa and my grandma were all nurses and im just navigating the covid struggle like everyone else nowadays and trying to get into job corps to get my CNA for free than i have money my grandparents saved for college which should be enough to do my prereques and get my LPN and RN with minimal if any student debt (great to have rich extended family and by chance be the oldest grandchild anyway thats my story sooo yeah
Thanks if you read this all the way i couldnt sleep and as i said before its something ive been wanting to do i wanted to have a refrence of what ive been through just in case i get down on myself and forget what i persevered through to get here i appoligize for rambling and misspells i was like half awake while writing it
Edit: ran through it all corrected grammar and most if not all spelling mistakes didnt feel like wasting my remaining brain power for punctuation outside of quotes and im pretty sure few will read it anyway cept my friend D
submitted by deathreaper1129 to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]