Abuse

This is coming from a person who have had severe depression since I was a child.

I’ve heard many of the comments of “never let your inner child die” referring to young adults, even teenagers… but well, I think there’s something people don’t tell us, and perhaps that explains a lot of the bad actions some parents take. Of course, nothing justify abuse, I’m meaning some mundane behaviours we see on parents that I will elaborate furthermore.
Being severely depressed since I was about 10yo and having my first suicide attempt at 12yo, this realisation is even more hurtful to think about. I say I’ve never had a childhood or adolescence, which is 100% true, but what’s also true is that I once had dreams, hopes, desires, joys, good thoughts and fun, but apparently I don’t have much left. I’ve been wondering today with no fixed idea at all, but got to the conclusion “damn, being an adult sucks” alongside a sense of grief.

I never chose to have any of my disabilities, I never chose even to born - which is ironic how the latter is a true statement as the doctor told my mum I didn’t want to born, so they scheduled a c-section and that doctor forced me to born. Anyway - I never chose much of anything, truth is that life is the most out of control thing ever. But as much as I still try having some “childish” fun, laugh at jokes, laugh at my mistakes… everything feels so empty.
Even when I’ve been depressed for longer than half my life, I can remember I had dreams I wanted to achieve, goals for a long term plan, desires and hopes… I’ve heard many times from adults how planning ahead is immature, because we can’t predict the future, we can’t have all in control… and yes, as much as this is true, and I’ve learned it with life, with running into many walls, it feels wrong to just not dream on a better future.
And when it comes to joy… I remember I’d like some game and go after as much content as I could, fan songs, community… and that’s not only for games, but it’s the perfect example to mirror how much I just gave up on it. I know I’ve matured a lot, but I don’t think maturity should come with giving up and grief. Nowadays I’d say my YouTube feed is mainly global politics, local news, many tech updates, disability related content and some games, and Reddit threads. And man… gonna be honest, my YouTube feed looks so boring, it isn’t just an adult-like feed, it’s something I perceive as how much my soul basically died.
Being an adult has its very real memes, the bills at the end of the month, the financial struggle, the bullshit on job market, having to do everything by myself from making calls to going places, and a little extra for me that’s facing MANY kinds of discrimination and prejudice. But that shouldn’t be what draw the line on what means being mature. Having fun isn’t wrong, having Joy isn’t wrong, being an adult should never mean that I have to be bitter everyday because the world is a mess.
I like to say that it seems parents forget what means to be a kid, or a teen and make mistakes, and grow up… and for that… today lost in my thoughts it kinda started making sense. How many years are our parents in this bitter and cruel world? How many of their dreams were crushed? How much they had to face hardships and not a single soul to actually talk about those? When you start to look into the bubble, it makes a bit of sense this kind of mindset when scolding their kids for being kids. Of course always only considering not abusing the kids in any way. But just as some of the adults in my life called me immature for thinking my life would play out smoothly. Perhaps they got desensitised through the bitterness that dreaming actually feels. I learned to not dream, I learned that any plan I make for my life has a bigger chance on failing than succeeding, that I have no control over the majority of what’s around me and that even if I try reaching out to other people when I feel bad… to put it harshly, no one cares. But not because they don’t want to care, some don’t care, but many are dealing with their own problems, their own bitterness - and one thing I learned pretty well is that I only know the pain of my own, and not because I’m in a giant pain the other’s pain is smaller, because only them know how their pain feels. I hate the phrase that “what might be minor to you, can be a lot to the other” because that means you’re still ranking the types of pain, just don’t. Any pain is pain, it has its impact and importance regardless. And we’re all living in this constant pain, hopelessness, and adult-life.
I had to learn the hard way that my co-workers aren’t my friends, that my boss won’t lose the opportunity of throwing me under the bus. I’m not currently employed, but I think many will be able to relate to those, because it’s what we live. No amount of love will bring us back to that innocence we had. I know we tend to see the bad instead of the good in life, but what’s some euphoria when mostly the bills will be there at the end of the month?
I know this is coming from someone who’s bitter and suffering at the moment, and I know I don’t know what the future awaits, other than getting 100% blind. But this is a very real thing right now, and I really hope that I can one day come back to this post and be like “So… hey past Anna, you were 23yo, right? I’m here to tell you that it gets better.” But I know that I can’t put too much strength on this little hope, or else any frustration, any crushing, will just spiral me more and more downwards.

For those who like songs and rock n roll… I’d suggest listening to Childhood End, from Iron Maiden. It does express this naked truth of what growing up feels like.
I wouldn’t give anything to go back in time, as my life always sucked and I’m very much content on not trying suicide almost everyday. But I think I’d give anything to just have that innocent hope and joy I’ve lost on the way to my inner self of today.

I think it's time to let the secret out of the box my autistic kids have the idea of a person being unfaithful.Sounds like it's worst than murder for them.
I wrote my story before, I cheated on my abusive partner. I was tired of being incompetent, stupid, the "bad mother", "the one who cannot do anything right"... I tried separation, he refused, he told I was unstable, crazy, and I would lost the kids, no judge would ever let the kids with someone like me.
One thing he said was right, I was stupid. I believed him, I was terrified of him.
I wanted someone to like me, to admire me, doesn't matter what. A bit of background, I was living in his country, not mine. So, I did, and as I expected, he found out about all the people I went out (in less than 2 years).
He still didn't let me go, the threats were even worst, of course. I consider killing myself, I started cutting myself, if he wouldn't let me go, I wouldn't be his, I would be a person in pieces. I was wearing size 0, developed a brutal eating disorder.
He raped me twice while we were still together.
The problem is, after I left, he became abusive with the kids! Then he would use everything he could against me, bullying me, saying no judge would give me the kids. -Oh he would not call rape, I was his wife afterall.
Things go up and down, I felt extremely guilt for what I did, I always try to keep a good relationship because he is lonely, he can't get along with anybody... He fights with neighbours, sister, brother, friends.
He gives, gives and gives, expecting back what he judges right, not what people have to offer.
Recently he rented the house for me, for a good price- a bit more than what I was paying before: no contract, no trace of rent - all paid in cash. I thought it was a good exchange for him because it will be hard to sell a house like that, it's just like it was in 1960; a few modifications his father made over time, just minimum to keep it. There were also the problem with the will and etc. so, the house is not empty, it's good for both of us.
No! Everytime there is a problem with the adult kids, he wants me to interfere and help them to talk to him again. Last time he called his autistic kid an idiot! That was the last straw for his brother, who can't take the abuse anymore! He is cutting contact with him.
That verbal abuse is constant against all of us, we are moving again. But the abuse won't die, next he will go back using what I did, threatening to tell the kids again. My stomach is turning around .... They are adults , 22, but it will damage their mental health even more!
At the same time, I don't think my kids should picture me as perfect; I'm not! What I did was infling damage in someone who is sooo messed up that all he could do was hurt me.
He doesn't accept his mistakes, but he took his father -while still alive- asking to say he was sorry for being phisical abusive. But he doesn't make mistakes, he is right all the time; I'm soft and destroying the kids life.

Hi, my name is TiredofTrauma. I'm here because my ACA 12 step group doesn't get my level of abuse and PTSD. Looking for connection.

#MightyTogether #Anxiety #Depression #Fibromyalgia #PTSD #OCD

I am a survivor of childhood abuse and have created an original song and lyric video that explores the fears and growth I've experienced. I’d love to share this with your community to help others feel less alone during Child Abuse Prevention Month.

youtu.be/rht6SE3rwbE

#capmonth ​#innerchildhealing ​#youarenotalone ​#EndTheStigma

Hi, my name is Brian. I'm 44 years old and have been a mess for 30+ of those years. Severe depression, bipolar2, anxiety, substance abuse, and the like. I don't know anything about this place. Just that it was mentioned as a community or resource I might find useful. I have no idea.I'm in the process of trying to become a mental health/substance abuse peer counselor in California. Actually I'm moving in a few months and plan to do process in the Fall of 2026 when I'm established in my new city. Until then I'm learning about things, blogging, and trying to hold on. I mean... I don't know. What did I just say? There's so much more. I'm glad to be here! Thanks!

#MightyTogether

By now, those of you who keep coming back have probably noticed a pattern in my story—trauma, hard decisions, abuse, and moments that could have broken a person.

But today, I want to talk about something different.

I want to talk about going from broken to brave.

I want to talk about growing your wings.

About becoming your own warrior princess.

About choosing courage, even when it feels impossible.

Today is about what I’m proud of.

I want to start with overcoming addiction—because that alone is a mountain. Not just the act of quitting, but everything that comes with it: the pain, the withdrawal, the emotional unravelling, and the deep, uncomfortable work of facing your trauma head-on.

Kicking a 20-year habit wasn’t just about putting something down.

It was about picking myself up.

It meant going to therapy, digging into wounds I had buried for years, and learning how to heal a heart that felt completely broken.

And today, I am incredibly proud to say that I am six and a half years clean and sober.

Even more than that—I no longer want that life. I don’t crave it. I don’t miss it. I’ve built something better.

I am proud of the mother I’ve become.

My son is almost 14 now, and he is thriving. He’s growing into an incredible human being—kind, strong, and resilient. He towers over me now in more ways than one.

There were times when the people around him were not kind, not safe, not what he deserved. And in those moments, I became what he needed.

I became steady.

I became strong.

I became his safe place.

And I am so proud that I was able to show up for him in that way.

I am proud of who I’ve become despite everything that tried to bring me down. The people, the circumstances, the weight of it all.

I rose anyway.

I am proud that I didn’t stay broken.

I’m also proud of this blog.

This has been six years in the making. For a long time, I thought I needed to write a book to tell my story. But one day it clicked—this is where I’m meant to start.

And now, here I am.

About 100 of you are reading my words today. And while that number might seem small to some, to me, it means everything.

Because if even one person feels less alone because of something I’ve shared, then it matters.

I hope to reach more people—those navigating trauma, mental health struggles, low-income life, single parenting, and everything in between. People who are just trying to survive and maybe, one day, learn how to thrive.

I’m proud of the friend I’ve become.

There are still days when I have to cancel plans because my mental health needs my attention. And that used to come with guilt and shame.

But now, I’ve built a circle of people who understand. People who support me, who cheer me on, and who want to see me happy and successful.

I’ve learned to let go of the people who didn’t.

And that, too, is something to be proud of.

I am proud of the partner I am today.

After six years of being single, I took a chance on love again. I opened my heart when it would have been easier to keep it closed.

And this time, I chose differently.

I chose someone who is right for me. For my son. For the life I am building.

I’m proud of myself for allowing love back in—and for recognizing what healthy love actually looks like.

That is bravery.

So today, I’m allowing myself to celebrate all of this.

Not quietly. Not with hesitation.

But fully.

And I want you to do the same.

Take a moment today to recognize how far you’ve come.

The things you’ve survived.

The ways you’ve grown—even when it felt slow, or messy, or invisible.

Be proud of yourself.

Even for the small things. Especially for the small things.

Because of those small steps? They’re what carried you here.

Go forward today with love for yourself.

With pride in your journey.

With courage for whatever comes next.

You are stronger than you think.

Today, I sign off.

I love you all.

I should never have joined the Navy. The experience harmed me. Nevertheless, I find myself defending the Navy at times. On one such occasion, one of my college English professors insisted that I had trouble with the Navy because I was not allowed to think for myself. That was not why my service was difficult for me, and when I tried to tell the professor that, she dismissed me. "What would you know?" she said. What would I know about my own experiences, for which I was present and she was not? What, indeed.

I was, at this point, hardened to being misunderstood and unheard. I was shocked, nonetheless, that an educated person could think in such a defective way. Aside from sending me running from English as a major as quickly as I could go, her misrepresentation of my experience also left a splinter in the part of my psyche that insists on correcting misunderstandings where they occur. I have been misunderstood so extensively throughout my life, and suffered the consequences of those misunderstandings, that I have to fight to let go when I see confusion playing out in front of me. Most of these incidents are trivial and most of them aren't my business. However, circumstances sometimes drive the splinter deep into the wound, and I feel compelled to interject.

"Consider interpreting failure as a sign that you are choosing growth over comfort."

This message was on a therapist's website. I don't know why, but the first thing that popped into my head was reading about a Navy mechanic who left a wrench inside a jet engine cowling. When the engine was started, the wrench was sucked into the turbine, shattering it and sending shrapnel through the fuel and oil lines. The subsequent explosion killed one sailor and maimed two others. It seems callous to "choose growth over comfort" when something you did means two children are growing up without their father and two men barely out of their teens will never walk again.

I didn't say any of that. I should know better at this point, but I tried humor. I said, "I told my drill instructor that exact thing when I failed a test in boot camp, and he invited me to consider the hundreds of pushups he made me do as a sign that I was a screw-up." I was surprised when the therapist responded. “That’s heartbreaking - I’m so sorry you had that experience. Shame is so rarely an effective strategy for motivation or change.”

The content of her reply surprised me even more. The only other person who ever expressed sympathy for my boot camp experience was an ex-girlfriend who, much like my professor, misunderstood why serving was difficult for me. Sympathy wasn’t otherwise extended because war is unpleasant and training people to cope with war cannot be pleasant, either. I had assumed that Americans generally understood this. When I read the therapist’s reply, my first thought was “My God, has this woman never seen Full Metal Jacket? An Officer and a Gentleman?” The film Stripes had Bill Murray belting out set after set of well-deserved pushups because he wouldn’t be a team player, a flaw that boot camp aims to correct in real life. If military personnel are hardasses, it is because their screw-ups are often hard to live with. However, I declined to say anything further and regretted opening this can of worms as much as I had.

More recently, a post about the film Full Metal Jacket prodded the splinter further. In this instance, the discussion contrasted the “abusive” practices of Marine drill instructors in the 60’s and 70’s with the belief that the sternness of such training was necessary to prepare recruits for war. The post raised some complicated and conflicting feelings in me. I experienced abuse in the Navy, most notably when I worked in the galley. In boot camp, I was a Gomer Pyle level screw-up and suicidal. I blamed myself for being a weakling. Later, I would blame myself for lacking the insight, at age seventeen, to recognize that the Navy would not be a healthy environment for me. However, I have never regarded my boot camp experience as abusive. The VA agrees; A VA psychiatrist told me that basic training is considered “moderately stressful.”

One comment in the discussion of Full Metal Jacket said that people believing “Wow, this drill sergeant’s methods were really helpful” have misunderstood the film. Given my experience, I am probably supposed to agree with that sentiment. Private Pyle’s murder of his drill instructor and subsequent suicide was hard for me to watch. It could have been me. But the reality, one that is hard for Americans and their toxic individuality to grasp, is that the military did not begin and end with my experience of it. The loss of one drill instructor and one private does not change the horrific nature of what military training prepares people to face.

The film Jarhead was based on Anthony Swofford’s non-fiction account of his time as a Marine in the first Gulf War. He related that when he was in boot camp, his drill instructor was relieved of duty for being abusive. Later, when Swofford was in the war, he wished that his training had been a hundred times tougher than what the abusive drill instructor dished out. He would have been adequately prepared. The non-abusive instructors failed him.

Feeling overwhelmed with how complicated these issues are for me, I deleted everything I posted in the discussion, deeply regretting my involvement and resolving to do better in staying in my own lane. However, as the splinter impales me further, I must finally confront what underlies it all. The Navy told me that I was a worthless screwup, and nothing in my life since then has disproven it. The final nail in my coffin is my failure to make it as a writer. Writing is the only thing for which I have shown even the slightest bit of competence, and the constant rejection of my work proves that the Navy was right. I am worthless. My first suicide attempt occurred while I was on active duty, and all I can think is that I should have tried harder.

#Depression #Trauma #Suicide #PTSD #MentalHealth #Disability

I should never have joined the Navy. The experience harmed me. Nevertheless, I find myself defending the Navy at times. On one such occasion, one of my college English professors insisted that I had trouble with the Navy because I was not allowed to think for myself. That was not why my service was difficult for me, and when I tried to tell the professor that, she dismissed me. "What would you know?" she said. What would I know about my own experiences, for which I was present and she was not? What, indeed.

I was, at this point, hardened to being misunderstood and unheard. I was shocked, nonetheless, that an educated person could think in such a defective way. Aside from sending me running from English as a major as quickly as I could go, her misrepresentation of my experience also left a splinter in the part of my psyche that insists on correcting misunderstandings where they occur. I have been misunderstood so extensively throughout my life, and suffered the consequences of those misunderstandings, that I have to fight to let go when I see confusion playing out in front of me. Most of these incidents are trivial and most of them aren't my business. However, circumstances sometimes drive the splinter deep into the wound, and I feel compelled to interject.

"Consider interpreting failure as a sign that you are choosing growth over comfort."

This message was on a therapist's website. I don't know why, but the first thing that popped into my head was reading about a Navy mechanic who left a wrench inside a jet engine cowling. When the engine was started, the wrench was sucked into the turbine, shattering it and sending shrapnel through the fuel and oil lines. The subsequent explosion killed one sailor and maimed two others. It seems callous to "choose growth over comfort" when something you did means two children are growing up without their father and two men barely out of their teens will never walk again.

I didn't say any of that. I should know better at this point, but I tried humor. I said, "I told my drill instructor that exact thing when I failed a test in boot camp, and he invited me to consider the hundreds of pushups he made me do as a sign that I was a screw-up." I was surprised when the therapist responded. “That’s heartbreaking - I’m so sorry you had that experience. Shame is so rarely an effective strategy for motivation or change.”

The content of her reply surprised me even more. The only other person who ever expressed sympathy for my boot camp experience was an ex-girlfriend who, much like my professor, misunderstood why serving was difficult for me. Sympathy wasn’t otherwise extended because war is unpleasant and training people to cope with war cannot be pleasant, either. I had assumed that Americans generally understood this. When I read the therapist’s reply, my first thought was “My God, has this woman never seen Full Metal Jacket? An Officer and a Gentleman?” The film Stripes had Bill Murray belting out set after set of well-deserved pushups because he wouldn’t be a team player, a flaw that boot camp aims to correct in real life. If military personnel are hardasses, it is because their screw-ups are often hard to live with. However, I declined to say anything further and regretted opening this can of worms as much as I had.

More recently, a post about the film Full Metal Jacket prodded the splinter further. In this instance, the discussion contrasted the “abusive” practices of Marine drill instructors in the 60’s and 70’s with the belief that the sternness of such training was necessary to prepare recruits for war. The post raised some complicated and conflicting feelings in me. I experienced abuse in the Navy, most notably when I worked in the galley. In boot camp, I was a Gomer Pyle level screw-up and suicidal. I blamed myself for being a weakling. Later, I would blame myself for lacking the insight, at age seventeen, to recognize that the Navy would not be a healthy environment for me. However, I have never regarded my boot camp experience as abusive. The VA agrees; A VA psychiatrist told me that basic training is considered “moderately stressful.”

One comment in the discussion of Full Metal Jacket said that people believing “Wow, this drill sergeant’s methods were really helpful” have misunderstood the film. Given my experience, I am probably supposed to agree with that sentiment. Private Pyle’s murder of his drill instructor and subsequent suicide was hard for me to watch. It could have been me. But the reality, one that is hard for Americans and their toxic individuality to grasp, is that the military did not begin and end with my experience of it. The loss of one drill instructor and one private does not change the horrific nature of what military training prepares people to face.

The film Jarhead was based on Anthony Swofford’s non-fiction account of his time as a Marine in the first Gulf War. He related that when he was in boot camp, his drill instructor was relieved of duty for being abusive. Later, when Swofford was in the war, he wished that his training had been a hundred times tougher than what the abusive drill instructor dished out. He would have been adequately prepared. The non-abusive instructors failed him.

Feeling overwhelmed with how complicated these issues are for me, I deleted everything I posted in the discussion, deeply regretting my involvement and resolving to do better in staying in my own lane. However, as the splinter impales me further, I must finally confront what underlies it all. The Navy told me that I was a worthless screwup, and nothing in my life since then has disproven it. The final nail in my coffin is my failure to make it as a writer. Writing is the only thing for which I have shown even the slightest bit of competence, and the constant rejection of my work proves that the Navy was right. I am worthless. My first suicide attempt occurred while I was on active duty, and all I can think is that I should have tried harder.

#Depression #Suicide #PTSD #Trauma #MentalHealth #Disability

Hi, my name is eandrews74. I'm here because of previous sexual abuse in my childhood. Im 51 and an adult now I have depression and anxiety.Not sure what to do, im in a 6year relationship and im extremely needy with my Bipolar boyfriend. Any suggestions

#MightyTogether #Anxiety #Depression #BipolarDisorder #Migraine #PTSD #ADHD #Crohn 'sDisease#Grief