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Topics - DecimalRocket

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61
I have a problem with thinking Iím worth listening to.

So first I hope someone would reply ó because Iím not sure if I could go on with this project without some hope. The more effort in a reply or the more people ó usually validates that fear for me more. But I understand if you donít want. Sorry for asking.

Iím not sure why. I canít remember. Maybe my mom made me feel like I donít deserve to be listened to ó especially when communicating my stress. Always telling me it was natural for her to yell or get annoyed by my stress. Or whenever I discuss something Iím interested in, she would often be busy on her phone.

Maybe itís that my interests tended to be nerdy ones that have a reputation for being hard to understand that most people donít bother with. Maybe itís because I find it hard to read body language so I get shy when I canít read whether people are interested or not. I tend to think rather slowly and deeply ó and the nature of most conversations that switch topics quickly in real life tend to get confusing for me. My therapist said something about social skills delay but I have to wait for a week for him to explain.

Iíve tried forums on the internet to discuss things. I could often see views. But I could not see whether they liked it. Or hated it. Or cared about it. Or anything. When I had a response, I always assumed they hated my response in some way and was lying when they said something good. I wrote over 100 long effortful articles for personal development that totaled 100,000 views and I could count the comments I received on my two hands. I wrote a journal on another forum but barely anyone bothered to read or talk to me.

In real life, I have friends ó itís actually easy for others to like me despite a lack of social skills in some areas. But I would always go with the conversation topics they chose and the interests they had. Iíve learned how to listen to any topic and I felt a warmth with people I didnít have for a long time, but it seemed something was still missing. Whenever Iíd get the chance to talk about what I wanted and someone responded well, I felt an incredible relief on a deep sadness I hadnít realized was there.

Then I came here. People seemed to respond more here ó and in a more compassionate way I need. Even if I keep getting ashamed on communicating here ó I keep thinking I donít deserve it.

I tend to have a particular insecurity with how detailed my thinking is when I communicate ó but I canít seem to control how my brain canít switch between topics that quickly and secondly, because I keep fearing being misunderstood in a way that makes people hate me.

Sigh. But Iíll give it a try, and here I am.


62
Iím exhausted. Utterly exhausted. Iíd let myself just pass out if I wasnít so in need of support here. I even feel feverish but I hope thatís just the fatigue.

I just recently found out about CPTSD. I was scrolling through some trauma stories and treatments on the internet. And as I read, I found that I related to many of these stories. How people tended to blame themselves. How they were given unnecessary burdens as a child. 

I was validated. It wasnít my fault like I thought all these years. I wasnít born weak. I realized how unhealthy my own toxic shame and lack of self-respect was all these years.

But the flashbacks came with a violent revenge. I felt the distrust and loneliness I had as a child. And I suddenly doubted everything here. My thoughts would cry out that I deserved no kindness. No support. No acceptance.

Memories of many people who listened to my  problems flashed through my mind. And I realized with shame how stupid I must have looked. How damn weak I looked more than I even thought.

Realizing how much the damage happened because of my abuser made me had a newfound anger for her. I didnít know that some of the ďnormalĒ things my M did were actually downright abusive. I grieved for the life I lived. The life I could have lived.

But I was angrier at myself than everything else most. How could I have not realized it? How could I be so blind as to not realize something this significant all these years? What a pathetic human being I thought. Flashbacks at my fear of not knowing came. I placed an obsessive importance to self awareness and knowledge ó because if I didnít have these, life would become dangerous in some way.

 I relived this. I relived it in crying. I relived it in moaning through my tears. I relived it when snot was coming throughout my nose. I relived it when I was curled up hugging a pillow and shaking uncontrollably. I relieved it when I was hitting my head with a folder. I relived it when I suddenly became quiet, my eyes were dry and I just stopped moving at all.

I feel some relief now that itís gone. But Iím still exhausted. My whole body is tense and aching in some way.

Sigh.

Iíll just . . . rest.


63
Dear Mom of My Childhood,

Iíve forgiven my mom in my present. The mom that said sorry. The mom that tried to change her words and actions. Yet I still remember and are hurt by you.

Sometimes you were kind. Loving. You made jokes. You said words of love. You were playful. Charming. Affable. Accepting.

But sometimes you were angry and critcizing. Everyone else saw you as incredibly warm and kind  so I thought this side of you was just . . . my fault. You gave donations to the poor. You were friendly looking and warm. You cried easily at sad movies.

I remember when I was too sick to go to school, I was too tired to talk. And you would talk hurriedly asking whether I wanted to go to school or not. Iíd try to speak but exhaustion would come over me. And you would scream at me for not telling you my question soon.

When I got enough energy, I ran away to my room. Iíd lock the door. And you would scream at me as you banged on the door. Today, my room has no lock because itís broken. The bathroom then next to my bedroom has broken its lock. Later on, the door knob itself was broken.

Whenever I told you how hurt I was, you told me it was natural. Thatís how mothers are, after all. They always nag and nag. And worry and worry. You told me I was overreacting. Thatís how people show discipline after all. How anger is expressed.

Youíd get mad at me when I didnít hug or greet relatives with a smile I barely know. No care whether how awkward or shy I could be as a kid. When Iíd cry, youíd apologize and youíd do it again. Youíd talk to me and when Iíd ask for some time alone, youíd tell me how cruel I was.  Youíd shout telling me how lazy I was to not take a bath at the same time each day when I always do it at a later time anyway. When I was exhausted from stress, I wanted to sleep without brushing my teeth. And you shoved it in my mouth and held me there as I cried from wanting to sleep.

I have fought back. I kicked you. I punched you. I slapped you. I shouted back. And you were angry and told me how much of a bad child I was. She said she made so much effort to be a mother. So much effort to work hard to raise money for me. And this was the thanks she got? And I spent much of my life thinking it was all my fault ó thinking of what was so wrong about me that no matter how much I research on anger, I couldnít fix ďmy anger issues.Ē

Did you ever bother to ask why I was angry? Did you ever conceive that it is not normal for a child to be so violent for no reason other than being a ďbad childĒ?

No surprise that I spent years supressing empathy and love ó because I thought love meant forcing yourself to see how disgusting you were and that you had to sacrifice your every freethinking thought to other people. That I isolated myself in my books and intellectual interests . . . because I could not trust a single person enough to feel any connection in them. And when I tried, it took months till I felt the slightest warmth towards anyone.

No surpise that I was a workaholic even as a kid. That I worked hard until I got violent coughs, colds and fevers. Because my smarts and grades were one of the only things you praised about me. That Iíd hate myself for being a liar and a braggart on social media ó because I wanted someone to love me. Praise me. And how pathetic I thought I was to be so anxious about social status or fame in every waking moment. My supressed rage included fantasies of murder and genocide.

I remember you told me how frustrated you were at how a pilot commited suicide and caused the plane he was in to crash down. You told me how much you hated him. What kind of idiot would commit suicide? And hurt all those people? Why didnít he get help?

Youíd tell me criminals needed to be killed. Thieves. Murders. Rapists. Drug dealers. The president of this country was beggining to kill criminals without giving them trials. And you told me you agreed with him. Itís justice after all. Discipline.

Iím sorry mom.

But I hated you. And I loved you. Youíve shown me the deepest expressions of both love and hate throughout my life. But I . . . needed to remember those darker times too . . . so I wouldnít be so hard on myself. Sometimes I wanted to be wrapped in your warm embrace and nurturing. Other times I wanted to beat you to the ground until you passed out from the pain and tears.

Iím sorry.

Iím sorry.

Youíre going to change for the better so much in the future.

But Iím still angry. At you . . . and myself even more.

64
I just registered on this site and I received a warm welcome. It was heartwarming until I flashed back.

I donít remember the exact memories that flashed back. But I remember the panic attack. I remember feeling the outright depression at feeling unloved as a child. I remember the intense hatred and shame I had for myself.

I remember the inner critic.

It told me I didnít deserve to be helped. That I deserve to be criticized, beaten and killed for my lack of efforts in life. It told me I was just whining. And whenever I told things Iíve accomplished, it told me I should have tried harder. Tried harder until I was aching and crying and exhausted. It told me that I wasnít some child in a wartorn country or some guy in Africa dying of hunger. It asked me what kind of first world problem it is to have flashbacks like this?

Right now Iím not feeling much of anything. Itís not even emptiness. Itís more of being disinterested yet somehow calmly content. Itís gone, I guess. I try to remember the memories I had when I was younger. . . and barely anythingís coming up. Whenever a single idea, picture or sound of my childhood pops into my mind, it quickly disappears. 

I think I might have just forgotten my entire childhood.


65
Hi there. I suspect I have CPTSD. I went to read a book on childhood trauma out of curiosity and found certain things . . . familiar. But Itís nothing compared to many of those more depressing stories, is it?

I was a sensitive kid and I cried easily. When I was a kid, other kids called me names. They kept stealing my things. Other kids always seemed to avoid me. Teachers would stop the bullies but theyíd tell me it was wrong to cry. My mom told me the same. So I hid all the pain I had for years.

When I was young as 10 or 11, I got depressed. Iíd go for weeks and months barely feeling any happiness. Iíd do things like count things Iím grateful for and it would take weeks until I felt any happiness for it. And the slightest feelings of happiness would soon go away.

Iíd cry everyday and I wouldnít tell anyone because I thought it was wrong to cry. Itíd grow more severe. In my preteen years, Iíve gotten violent outrages where once I sent someone with a bad leg in need of medical help, my crying would grow as screams and I was filled with an almost constant terror, depression, rage or complete numbness.

Iíd spend hours reading what I could on mental health. Iíve tried more than 50 meditations and everyday mindfulness exercises, did cognitive behavioral therapy for years straight, studied western philosophies on happiness like Stoicism, studied Eastern philosophies on happiness like Buddhism, studied the psychology of positve and negative emotions and much much much more than that.

My dad would always walk away. My mom would get angry at me being emotional. I remember one memory where I didnít want to take a bath because I was exhausted. Sheíd shout at me at how Iím giving her such a hard time. How I was such a bad kid. And Iíd will myself to get up badly and when I couldnít, I was in tears.  I remember that look of utter disdain in her eyes. Over and over again.

Another memory is when I was taken to a therapist. And I remember her saying that I was manipulating my mom with my tantrums and she shouldnít listen to me. I never came back.

Itís been a few years since then. Iím now in my last years of highschool. Most of the time I manage to be in a good mood. Years of trying out multiple therapies on my own have done its work. Iíve gained some passions and hobbies as fascination tends to be my strongest emotion even though everything mace me bored and empty back then. Iíve managed to get a support system even if before the slightest openess to anyone made me collapse emotionally. I go to a site with free volunteer listeners and many have repeatedly told me I was one of the most determined and wisest they met.

Iíve gained some friends, even if it took months of a technique called loving kindness meditation to actually make me feel the slightest bit of closeness with anyone. Iíve decided to try to work towards making good in the world and I set myself to work on that. After months of talking through it, my parents are much more kind.

But sometimes, I still feel intensely depressed and anxious. Something triggers me. And I remember memories ... often the memory of my mom shouting at me. Iíd relive the utter anxiety and loneliness I felt. The utter distrust of everyone I knew. And Iíd think of everyone who has been and is kind to me and suspect theyíre all going to turn on me someday. Iíd hate myself for not working hard enough, not being intelligent enough, not being physically fit enough, not being kind enough  and so on.Iíd repeat memories where people criticized me - even gently or commented on something small - and tell myself thatís proof that Iím not enough for myself and others.

And I remember that memory with my mom again. And I remember the kinds of thoughts I had back then.

That I was a bad kid. A really bad kid. And I never tried hard enough to be patient for myself, my mom and others around me. That I was never enough in every single way. That I am utterly useless, obviously worthless and forever weak.


And I think, someone love me. Someone please love me.



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