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Me? Struggling with past childhood trauma?

Ha! No way!

I’m just enjoying all of that ✨built character

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Bro I fucking hate PTSD like. There’s nothing like having a perfect fucking day and then just ONE repressed memory resurfaced while you have a moment alone after it all and suddenly you’re breaking down sobbing over it like dude. I had a great day what the fuck brain why do you unearth that NOW

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I am venting and you don’t need to read this

There are possible triggers so please be careful


who else ever just shares too much?

like someone will say “of course I will listen!”

And so you talk

And you let go of some of the thoughts that have been plaguing your mind for months

But then they say stop

Because it’s too much for them

And all you can feel is heavy because you made them feel bad

And so you learn to keep your thoughts to yourself.

And maybe every now and then someone will ask, and you’ll share

But it always has the same result

“This is a lot. Do you mind if we finish this some other time?”

And so you smile, and nod because of course!

But you see their eyes

Those eyes that say “wow they are very fucked up and I don’t wish to be around them”

And you know that look. You’ve seen it countless times.

So you smile and say thank you for listening to me and give them a see you later!

But you don’t

At least it’s not the same.

They never want to be alone with you in fear that you’ll go on

They don’t sit or stand next to you anymore

They kept their distance as much as they can

On your birthday, they only hug you because it’s expected of them

But those hugs that used to be warm are now empty and cold and awkward

And maybe it’s you

Maybe it is your fault for opening up

If it always ends the same, why do you keep doing it?

And let’s be honest, it’s probably because you’re about to collapse. You’ve never opened up entirely.

No one knows about this. No one knows about that. No one has stayed long enough for you to open up about the thing.

And you’re in no rush to open up about it now because it’s been years since it happened and to talk about it now?

They would all call you an attention seeker

So you stay quiet

You stay quiet and calm and smile and laugh the way you’re supposed to that sometimes you forget you’re not okay.

Until someone sees the look on your face when a word is said

Until someone notices that you flinch when you’re randomly hugged

Until someone hears the soft almost inaudible sigh you give when people interrupt when you talk about something you’re excited about

And they learn the best ways to keep you comfortable

They have your favorite food when it’s been a bad day

And they bring a coffee/tea when they plan to see you because they know that you forget to eat and drink

And so you think that maybe this time will be different

And you open up when they say those stupid words

I am here for you

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Do I have a crush on my straight best friend or am I just desperate for affection 😳.

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tomorrow i will finally let you go. I will love you until after death and don’t worry about me and our promises. I know that in the another life we ​​were kindred spirits

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The narcissist wasn’t ignorant of their abusive nature. In wanting to prove to themselves that they aren’t exploitative, they’d occasionally create situations to enact being kind to me. In those acts, they were the performer, & they were the audience. I was merely a prop!

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“ go see a therapist” do you have therapist money?

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the “parents convinced you they hit you because they love you” to “being bullied by peers growing up” to “ending up in abusive relationships as an adult” pipeline

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A small problem

What was not so clearHas given itself to some transparencySitting as if in daylightResigned helplesslyTo your blindednessYou notice yourselfAs if for the first timeBut it’s comfortably familiarThis is fittingAnd describable no lessYou are a manIntelligent but not the featurePassionate is your nameYou seek to taste beautyCreating it is your great challengeAnd great desireOtherwise jollyRecklessly…

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Abusi della Chiesa cattolica: solo una frazione delle vittime si fa avanti, dice il gruppo di sopravvissuti

Abusi della Chiesa cattolica: solo una frazione delle vittime si fa avanti, dice il gruppo di sopravvissuti

Di Andrew McRae di RNZ
Un gruppo di sopravvissuti per le persone vittime di abusi mentre era sotto la cura della Chiesa cattolica dice che solo una piccola parte di loro si sta facendo avanti.
Alcuni hanno parlato con la Commissione reale in Abuse in Care, ma viene visto come solo la punta dell’iceberg.
Il dottor Christopher Longhurst di SNAP (Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests) ha…


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i’m not mad about being alone sometimes but i’ve basically been social distanced since i was born you feel me. my mother isolated me it’s not my fault i’m weird :(

i’ve been trying really hard to use all my experiences with people to make better decisions my whole life. and it works. but when you have so little data and your single mother neglected you and preferred your sister then the first random chick who cams with you when you’re a teenager because she likes the attention you’re gonna think she’s the love of your life and that she can somehow save you :/

and she can’t. because she doesn’t care, because she’s sixteen and boys like you are a dime a dozen for girls like her so she ghosts you after only talking for three months. and to her it’s just the right decision because you’re not compatible, and for you it’s the reason you wish your suicide attempt had worked the first three times. and you spend seven years sleeping with anyone who will touch you desperately trying to get the thought of her being your soulmate out of your head and trying to make the memory of having felt loved for the first time fade into the dizzying whirl of half-sober half-dying string of one night stands and two night stands and hookups and the times you were probably too drunk to say yes or the times they did it when they thought you were sleeping or wouldn’t put up a fight but it’s worth it if this is what it takes to find love right?

and i found love.

anyways fuck u ****** and fuck u for not knowing this and fuck u for not reading my mind and fuck u for not knowing that i needed help and fuck u for assuming whatever it was you assumed…fuck u for leaving and fuck u for coming back and fuck u because even though i’m saying fuck u please please please give me a real genuine conversation to apologize and explain and know you except now there’s new info and i don’t know how i even still care and i don’t know if it would keep what i wish could happen from happening i’m so fucking caught up in this whirlwind of other people’s emotions and imaginations i allowed to seep into my own…

please take me back in time and let me do it right again i don’t know how i’m gonna live my life

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When I was six going on seven,

we moved places from west L.A.

to a little clueless valley,

in which any direction too far out

would be an entirely different city.


I had a next door neighbor

who used to pray in the evening

when me and my friends would play outside.


He sat on a foldable chair,

the metal kind with the fabric cushion,

in an eerily empty garage—

the door left completely open.


He sat there watching the world revolve,

beaded rosary in hand.

Scootering, biking, running back and forth,

since there wasn’t really anywhere to go.

To the left was a deadend

and to the right was a rusty closed gate

(which was occasionally open when the motor was broken).


Somedays, he would be gracious enough

to give me gifts and such

where he’d rise from his chair and call to me.


He’d invite me into his garage,

and I know I shouldn’t have listened,

but I was never really good at saying




He’d give me things like

toys, watches, and cookies.


I’d say “thank you” with a smile.


As a token of gratitude,

I suppose,

he would turn his head slightly to the side

and tap his cheek with his index finger.


I k*ssed him on the cheek.


I didn’t think anything of it

because I didn’t want to think anything of it—

because I couldn’t think anything of it.


The only promise I made to myself

was that I’d never step foot into his home,

and even that was hard to keep.


The closest I’ve ever allowed myself to go,

was to the actual door in his garage

that lead into the kitchen,

because although I was young,

I was not stupid.


I’ve never felt truly safe stepping foot in his garage.


One day was particularly bad

where instead of tapping on his cheek,

he tapped on his lips.


I remember saying something along the lines of

oh I shouldn’t

and laughing to ease the tension.

What more could I have done at seven years old, right?

I was never really good at saying




After that day,

I didn’t enjoy playing outside again like I used to.

I didn’t enjoy it when my father would ecstatically cheer

that he had a gift for me—I never did.


I didn’t even know his name.

I still feel his stubble on my cheek.

I still feel his gentle yet firm grip

on the sides of my face and jaw.

I can still smell his cologne

and remember the way his lips pursed.

I’m embarrassed.

Even now, ten years later, I ask myself:

was I being groomed?”


This was how I learned about transaction.


One day was particularly good

where the news was brought to me that he had died.

The old man next door who lived alone

(except on Tuesdays when his son would visit)

had some sort of heart attack in his sleep.


I feel bad saying this,

but in a way,

when I heard the news,

I felt glad he was gone.


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“Trauma knows exactly where you live - who did you think built the house?” - Brenna Twohy

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sometimes I get really resentful of my mom for not being in my life consistently and having to grow up with just my dad but then I remember that time her one boyfriend brought us to his very wasp family’s home for dinner and his mom thought shabbat was a curse word and I think “yeah, maybe it’s a good thing she wasn’t around often”

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