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I’m new here!

Hi, my name is Karen Eklund. I'm 43 years old with 4 beautiful children 21, 18, 9 and 7. I'm here because quite a few reasons. My brother had schizophrenia and committed suicide due to his mental illness in 2022. My daughter that I raised from birth to 14 (she is now 18) decided to stop all communications with me due to narcissistic, triangulation and alienating father and overbearing stepmother who treated my daughter as if she birthed her and slowly inched out every part of my entire family's side from her life, not just me, but starting with me, including 3 siblings all on our side of the family because we have mental health challenges. I know people say things like this but oh, if you knew the story of my life and truly understood who these two people are, you would agree, truly, for my daughter's sake, they shouldnt have been introduced into her life. I'm new here, so, if I could say how I really felt, I would probably be immediately kicked off, lol. But anyway, sadly, I had to grieve her for many years before I had to grieve the death of my best friend and brother who committed suicide due to his mental health. I have my youngest daughter who is 7. She is diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. I myself have suffered since I can recall, probably 1st noticed around 22, when my 1st daughter was born, when I began cutting then I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, OCD and generalized anxiety disorder. Since then I have been diagnosed with ptsd, post partum, bipolar 2 disorder, substance abuse disorder along with dual diagnosis, adjustment disorder with mixed emotional features and I have been admitted on more than one occasion to a psychiatric facility for suicidal ideation and attempt. I have sought therapy and have done alot of work on my self, been in group therapy and just in general looked for any and all things that can help me keep joy in my life and keep a happy life

#MightyTogether

(edited)
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Neurodivergent People, Substance Abuse And Alcohol

Neurodivergent People, Substance Abuse And Alcohol
Neurodivergent people are more likely to have a higher risk of substance and alcohol abuse for a variety of reasons. The main two reasons being that they may not have a good support system or often use them as a type of self- medication to help them cope with the neurodivergent issues that they face like sensory overload, emotional dysregulation, mental health issues, social challenges, and executive functioning issues. Thankfully, there are positive strategies that neurodivergent people can use to learn how to cope with and overcome substance abuse and alcohol addictions such as specialized treatments, engaging in hobbies, addressing underlying causes, and attending support groups.

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HI 2 POSTS IN 1

HI I've been dealing with a week of immense Bullying, it's better now, it's scary and it harms it and I don't love it in some of it's ways, but I forgive cause in reality I don't f ing understand it, turning to mental health help, Anon and the Police doesn't always work, we Endure, seek ballance through yourself, the past is gone, don't destroy the present with every grain of Hope I've ever had, and as for sleep, whoever has a bed can sleep, whoever is not threatened with incarceration hospitalization and homelessness can sleep, whoever has good food can sleep, whoever has friends, industry, effective occupations, Peace, non- war, some income, love, friendship, the ability to grieve, a shoulder, music, sadness and joy, can sleep but sometimes it's hard, I wake at 4 or 5 n put ambiance screens n drink coffee n nurture my pet w clean bed food n drink, I value the quiet of the am, be busy, get your mind out of it, n don't abuse others, the Nothing can envelop I know, don't let it, Wake up n save yourself from it

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The Blessing

The girl who sat behind me in U.S. History did not succeed in setting my blue jeans ablaze with her lighter. She did burn a hole clear to the skin, causing me to leap out of my seat with a yell. Mr. Nelson punished me, my side of the story unheard, as usual.

I stood in the right-hand corner at the front of the classroom, a hint of buttock peeking out through the hole in my jeans. The whispers of my classmates, needles in my ears, did not impede Mr. Nelson's monotonous drone. The unspoken agreement was in place. He would teach. My classmates would abuse me. I stared at the dingy white paint covering the concrete block of the wall, straining to vanish inside myself.

At first I thought they were cracks in the wall, black lines that became letters as I watched. "They are all against you." My head hung as I mouthed the words. I know. I blinked, and the words had changed. "Take the gun." A crude grafitti drawing of a pistol appeared about waist high on the wall. I pressed my palm against it. Nine years of cruelty. Three more to go, with no promise that it would end there. My cousin, dead from a college hazing. My mother, beaten down by living, unable to spare a kind word to anyone, including her children. I dreamed of a single shot through the mouth. The pistol was heavy and cold in my hand. The curve of the trigger fit my finger perfectly. Squeeze, and end it all.

The words changed again. "If you die, they will laugh at you forever. Kill them." Fine lines of blood wept down the concrete, flowing together, painting a demon's face. In a moment of clarity, I knew that what the demon asked was wrong. And I could be a hero. I aimed at the hideous leer painted on the wall and fired once. Blood ran between the demon's eyes, and the bullet ricocheted. It punched through the head of the girl who had burned me before bouncing off a desk and through Mr. Nelson's heart. The bullet ended its journey in my neck. It pulsed against my carotid artery with every heartbeat, and I understood the blessing of the bullet. It would slow the bleeding long enough that I could write my side of the story. I tried using a pen. I was so sick of being accused of drama that I tried to get ink to cling to that wall. When I felt faint, I gave in, dipping my finger in the slow ooze of blood sliding down my neck.

You will judge me. You will call me a murderer. But you don't know what living with these monstrous people took from me. You don't know me. . .

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

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The Blessing

The girl who sat behind me in U.S. History did not succeed in setting my blue jeans ablaze with her lighter. She did burn a hole clear to the skin, causing me to leap out of my seat with a yell. Mr. Nelson punished me, my side of the story unheard, as usual.

I stood in the right-hand corner at the front of the classroom, a hint of buttock peeking out through the hole in my jeans. The whispers of my classmates, needles in my ears, did not impede Mr. Nelson's monotonous drone. The unspoken agreement was in place. He would teach. My classmates would abuse me. I stared at the dingy white paint covering the concrete block of the wall, straining to vanish inside myself.

At first I thought they were cracks in the wall, black lines that became letters as I watched. "They are all against you." My head hung as I mouthed the words. I know. I blinked, and the words had changed. "Take the gun." A crude grafitti drawing of a pistol appeared about waist high on the wall. I pressed my palm against it. Nine years of cruelty. Three more to go, with no promise that it would end there. My cousin, dead from a college hazing. My mother, beaten down by living, unable to spare a kind word to anyone, including her children. I dreamed of a single shot through the mouth. The pistol was heavy and cold in my hand. The curve of the trigger fit my finger perfectly. Squeeze, and end it all.

The words changed again. "If you die, they will laugh at you forever. Kill them." Fine lines of blood wept down the concrete, flowing together, painting a demon's face. In a moment of clarity, I knew that what the demon asked was wrong. And I could be a hero. I aimed at the hideous leer painted on the wall and fired once. Blood ran between the demon's eyes, and the bullet ricocheted. It punched through the head of the girl who had burned me before bouncing off a desk and through Mr. Nelson's heart. The bullet ended its journey in my neck. It pulsed against my carotid artery with every heartbeat, and I understood the blessing of the bullet. It would slow the bleeding long enough that I could write my side of the story. I tried using a pen. I was so sick of being accused of drama that I tried to get ink to cling to that wall. When I felt faint, I gave in, dipping my finger in the slow ooze of blood sliding down my neck.

You will judge me. You will call me a murderer. But you don't know what living with these monstrous people took from me. You don't know me. . .

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

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The Effects of an Emotionally Unavailable Mother By BigmommaJ

Not everyone grows up with the kind of mother they needed. For some, “Mom” was a source of safety, love, and unconditional support. For others, that same word carries pain, confusion, and loss. The truth is, the absence of a nurturing mother leaves wounds that reach far beneath the surface — wounds that can shape how we see ourselves, how we love, and how we move through life.

A mother is meant to be the foundation — the one who teaches us what love feels like. But when that love is cold, conditional, or inconsistent, the message we receive is clear: you’re not enough.

And that message can echo for decades.

Emotional Instability and Insecurity

Children rely on their mothers to be their safe place — the one constant they can turn to. When that safety is replaced by neglect, criticism, or inconsistency, the child learns early that love is unpredictable. Research shows that early attachment patterns with a caregiver strongly influence emotional regulation and mental health outcomes later in life (Ainsworth, 1978; Bowlby, 1988).

A child who doesn’t experience consistent love may grow up struggling with anxiety, hypervigilance, or fear of abandonment — always waiting for the next emotional storm to hit.

Low Self-Esteem and Self-Worth

A mother’s voice becomes a child’s inner voice. If that voice was harsh, dismissive, or cruel, it becomes the soundtrack that plays in their mind — whispering that they’re not good enough, smart enough, or lovable enough.

Psychologists have found that maternal rejection or criticism in childhood can significantly lower self-esteem and lead to internalized shame in adulthood (Rohner, 2004). These individuals often spend years seeking validation from others, chasing a sense of worth they never felt at home.

Struggles in Relationships

The relationship we have with our mother sets the foundation for every relationship that follows. When a child grows up with emotional neglect, manipulation, or inconsistency, they carry those lessons into adulthood. They may unconsciously seek partners who mirror those same patterns — people who are emotionally unavailable, critical, or distant — because it feels familiar.

Attachment theory supports this idea: children who experience unsafe caregiving often develop insecure attachment styles, which can lead to unstable adult relationships (Hazan & Shaver, 1987).

Difficulty Regulating Emotions

When a mother dismisses her child’s feelings — saying things like “stop crying,” or “you’re too sensitive” — the child learns to suppress emotions instead of expressing them. Over time, this emotional suppression can lead to depression, anxiety, or emotional dysregulation (Linehan, 1993).

In families where emotions are minimized or invalidated, children often grow into adults who struggle to identify their feelings, trust their intuition, or express vulnerability.

Guilt and Shame

Even when a mother’s behavior is clearly harmful, children often take on the blame. They tell themselves, “If I had been better, she would have loved me.”

This internalized guilt can turn into a lifelong struggle with people-pleasing, perfectionism, or self-punishment. According to trauma experts, children naturally assume responsibility for their caregiver’s behavior as a way to maintain a sense of control in an unsafe environment (Herman, 1992). But that false sense of control often evolves into deep-rooted shame in adulthood.

Generational Trauma

Pain doesn’t start with us, and it doesn’t have to end with us either. Many emotionally unavailable or wounded mothers were once hurt children themselves. They carried their own unresolved trauma, repeating what they were taught because no one showed them another way.

Intergenerational trauma research supports this: patterns of emotional neglect, abuse, and dysfunction are often transmitted across generations unless actively addressed (Yehuda & Lehrner, 2018). Understanding this doesn’t excuse harmful behavior — but it can help us see the bigger picture and break the cycle.

Healing the Mother Wound

Healing from an emotionally unavailable mother isn’t about pretending the pain didn’t exist. It’s about acknowledging it. It’s about saying, “Yes, I was hurt. But I’m not going to let that pain define who I become.”

Healing means learning to mother yourself — to nurture the parts of you that were neglected, to listen to your own needs, and to speak kindly to yourself when the old wounds start to ache.

You are not the reflection of her brokenness. You are the survivor of it.

And when you heal, you don’t just change your story — you change the story for the generations that come after you.

Final Thoughts

An emotionally unavailable mother can leave deep scars, but those scars can also become the roadmap to healing. They remind us of what we deserved, even if we never received it. They push us to rise above the patterns, to become the kind of parent, friend, or person that our younger selves needed.

Your pain is real. Your story matters. And your healing — that’s where the cycle ends and love begins again.

Bigmommaj

#Motherhood #MentalHealth #Trauma #EmotionalHealth

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Living With BPD: A Father's Truth The Fire I Constantly Burn In But Didn't Set #nogoodatmakinghastags #Healing #chooselovenotbitterness #BPD

I need you to understand something that most people will never truly grasp: living with Borderline Personality Disorder isn't really living. It's surviving. Every single day.
Since I was ten years old, I have wanted to die every single day. No one should know what that feels like. But when you feel pain on an amplified scale, when even the smallest things make you feel like you might die from the emotional pain, only another Borderline knows how to die every day like I do.

Dr. Marsha Linehan, who created Dialectical Behavior Therapy and has a PhD in psychology from Loyola University, described it perfectly: "Borderline individuals are the psychological equivalent of third-degree-burn patients. They simply have, so to speak, no emotional skin. Even the slightest touch or movement can create immense suffering."
That's not poetry. That's my daily reality.
What Trauma Does to a Developing Brain:
BPD doesn't just appear out of nowhere. It's carved into you during the years when your brain is supposed to be learning safety, love, and connection. For me, that carving started early, and it was brutal. I’ll gloss over the gruesome details and some of the horrors too terrible to subject others to having to stomach. But when you're abandoned at two, discarded behind a dumpster with your siblings, surviving on rotted food until paramedics describe you as looking like Auschwitz survivors, that rewires everything.
Your amygdala
The part of your brain that processes fear and emotion, becomes hyperactive.
Your prefrontal cortex
The area which is supposed to regulate impulses and provide that critical pause between feeling and action, gets overwhelmed and weakened.
The HPA axis
Your body's stress-response system gets stuck on high alert. Your brain learns to treat normal stress to others instead as a mortal threat. A raised voice becomes a siren. A look of disappointment becomes proof of your worthlessness.
And the most devastating part?
Your mirror neurons fire so intensely that you also absorb other people's emotions more powerfully than they even feel them themselves.
The result?
You grow up with no sense of self. No armor against the world. Just raw nerve endings and a distorted lens through which everything you learn gets filtered and warped.
The Paradox of Who I Became
Here's what breaks my heart and fills me with something like hope at the same time: despite everything, the abandonment, the abuse, the three separate times I was discarded at the most formative ages of childhood, I scored as an ENFJ 1w2 on personality assessments.
Do you know what that means?
It means that after being abandoned, broken, brutalized, and betrayed, I still chose to care. Still chose to lead. Still chose to love.
I organized my entire personality around doing what's right and helping others heal, even though I desperately needed to heal myself first. Like those pre-flight safety briefs about putting on your own oxygen mask before helping others.
I became a reformer, a mentor, a light-bringer. Not bitter. Not cruel. Not a mirror of what hurt me.
That's not weakness. That's a kind of strength most people will never have to summon.
The Daily War
Here's the truth that needs to be said:
Having that heart, that desire to bring joy and light, it doesn't stop the biological mechanisms that fire off when I'm cornered or triggered.
When someone hurts me, my brain doesn't give me a vote.
The amygdala hijacks the show.
Fight-or-flight kicks in before rational thought can catch up.
And suddenly, I'm reacting from a place of pure survival instinct, not malice, not manipulation, just a nervous system that learned decades ago that threat equals death.
And then?
I'm left holding the pieces.
Being called a monster.
Being labeled dangerous, unstable, manipulative.
They see the fire.
They never ask who set it.
The Cruel Irony of Reactivity
Here's something most people don't understand: reactivity isn't a sign of instability. It's evidence of a pulse.
You know who doesn't react?
Sociopaths.
Psychopaths.
People who can calmly discuss dismemberment or watch someone crumble without blinking. Emotional absence isn't strength, it's a void.
When I cry, when I rage, when I collapse under the weight of betrayal, that's not dysfunction. That's proof there's still a soul fighting in here. Still someone who cares deeply enough to ache when things go wrong.
The world rewards composure.
But composure isn't character.
Stillness isn't sainthood.
And emotion is absolutely not evidence of guilt.
What I've Done to Heal
I'm not hiding from my past.
I'm confronting it.
Learning from it.
I’m always seeking to evolve beyond it.
I've completed:
Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT).
Kaiser's full addiction and substance dependency program.
Ongoing individual therapy.
I'm actively pursuing entry into the VA's Men's Trauma Recovery Program.
I haven't touched alcohol since February 2022.
I practice alpha brainwave meditation.
I use creativity, music, poetry, storytelling, not as hobbies but as lifelines.
This isn't performative healing.
This is sacred, brutal work that most people will never have the courage to do.
Every day I choose not to become what hurt me.
Every day I rewrite the neural pathways that trauma burned into my brain.
Every day I prove that healing is possible, even when the world tells you you're broken beyond repair.
To Other Borderlines:
You're Not Alone
If you have BPD, I need you to hear this:
Your mind is lying to you 24 hours a day. You feel everything way stronger than anyone around you can comprehend. You're being fed lies from your own brain, and you have no built-in filter to separate truth from distortion.
You deserve grace.
You deserve empathy.
You deserve space to heal.
Yes, we're difficult to deal with.
But it's far more difficult living as one.
Because we have no armor, no sense of self to ground us. We're powder kegs in a world that feels like it's constantly trying to light the fuse.
And yet:
Many of us, at our core, want nothing more than to bring joy and light to the world around us. Unfortunately, because of an intolerant world and an inescapable stigma, it's our darkness that gets brought out most often. That furthers the stigma, enforces self-hatred, and in far too many cases, leads to lives cut short.
The suicide attempt rate for people with BPD is 87.5%.
We're not dangerous to others, we're dangerous to ourselves.
The Fight for My Children
I'm in a custody battle right now. My ex-partner has cut off all contact between me and my daughters since February 2024.Only since the court stepped in on my behalf at our first custody preceding a few weeks ago did that change.
518 days without being able to see my babies.
One who will soon turn five, and the other who will soon after that turn four.
12,432 hours that I didn’t even get to see my baby girl’s darling faces.
No calls. No video chats. No visits.
She frames herself as protective while creating a hostile, obstructive environment.
When it was she, not I, that was arrested for domestic violence.
After striking me while I was holding our youngest child who wasn't even 1 yet.
When I set boundaries, when I calmly stated that our calls were meant for my time with the children, not for her manipulative commentary, she escalated by cutting off communication altogether.
This is what reactive abuse looks like.
Triggering a reaction, then blaming the person for reacting.
And my daughters?
They're caught in the middle.
Either they're told false narratives about why Daddy isn't there, or they're being conditioned not to miss me at all.
Both scenarios are forms of psychological harm.
My children deserve both parents. Not a villain and a hero. Not a rewritten history. Just two imperfect people committed to healing, cooperation, and honest reflection.
I had more to say but ran out of room.
But if you need help please call 988

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i feel stuck

Hey everyone,

This is my first time ever posting about what I’ve been through — but there’s a first time for everything. Expressing, or even acknowledging, my feelings has always been one of the hardest things for me.

For the past 27 years, I’ve dealt with my emotions by numbing, repressing, and suppressing them. I couldn’t face them when I was younger, and I forgive myself for that.

Now, I’m 27 years old — I’m not a child anymore — but I still don’t know how to regulate my emotions. I’m always in survival mode, constantly feeling like I have to flee. I isolate myself a lot, and my self-esteem is very low.

I’ve come to understand that what happened wasn’t my fault and that I didn’t deserve it. But even with that realization, I feel stuck — like I can’t move forward.

Professional help in my country doesn’t really recognize emotional or physical abuse as a serious problem. I’ve seen several doctors, but when I try to talk about my past, the look in their eyes says, “Get over it. You’re still thinking about that?”

I really want to be happy. I need to be happy for once in my life. I’m 27, and life is ahead of me — but I can’t enjoy it. I keep hiding from it because I simply can’t feel safe.

I feel really stuck and don’t know what to do next.

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I'm new here!

Hi, my name is Khalloussa. I’m a survivor of childhood abuse, and it’s left many scars that I’m still learning to live with. I’m here because I really want to connect with others who’ve been through similar experiences. Opening up about my feelings is one of the hardest things for me, but I’m trying to take that step.#MightyTogether #Anxiety

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