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I have a problem with thinking I'm worth listening to.

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

I'm not sure why. I can't remember. Maybe my mom made me feel like I don't deserve to be listened to — 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 I'm interested in, she would often be busy on her phone.

Maybe it's that my interests tended to be nerdy ones that have a reputation for being hard to understand that most people don't bother with. Maybe it's because I find it hard to read body language so I get shy when I can't read whether people are interested or not. I tend to think rather slowly and deeply — 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.

I've 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 — it's 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. I've learned how to listen to any topic and I felt a warmth with people I didn't have for a long time, but it seemed something was still missing. Whenever I'd get the chance to talk about what I wanted and someone responded well, I felt an incredible relief on a deep sadness I hadn't realized was there.

Then I came here. People seemed to respond more here — and in a more compassionate way I need. Even if I keep getting ashamed on communicating here — I keep thinking I don't deserve it.

I tend to have a particular insecurity with how detailed my thinking is when I communicate — but I can't seem to control how my brain can't switch between topics that quickly and secondly, because I keep fearing being misunderstood in a way that makes people hate me.

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

[But I'm still angry. At you . . . and myself even more.]

Dear Mom of My Childhood,

I've 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. I'd 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. I'd lock the door. And you would scream at me as you banged on the door. Today, my room has no lock because it's 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. That's how mothers are, after all. They always nag and nag. And worry and worry. You told me I was overreacting. That's how people show discipline after all. How anger is expressed.

You'd get mad at me when I didn't hug or greet relatives with a smile I barely know. No care whether how awkward or shy I could be as a kid. When I'd cry, you'd apologize and you'd do it again. You'd talk to me and when I'd ask for some time alone, you'd tell me how cruel I was.  You'd 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 — thinking of what was so wrong about me that no matter how much I research on anger, I couldn't fix "my anger issues."

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 "bad child"?

No surprise that I spent years supressing empathy and love — 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 I'd hate myself for being a liar and a braggart on social media — 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 didn't he get help?

You'd 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. It's justice after all. Discipline.

I'm sorry mom.

But I hated you. And I loved you. You've shown me the deepest expressions of both love and hate throughout my life. But I . . . needed to remember those darker times too . . . so I wouldn't 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.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

You're going to change for the better so much in the future.

But I'm still angry. At you . . . and myself even more.

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

I don't 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 didn't 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 I've accomplished, it told me I should have tried harder. Tried harder until I was aching and crying and exhausted. It told me that I wasn't 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 I'm not feeling much of anything. It's not even emptiness. It's more of being disinterested yet somehow calmly content. It's gone, I guess. I try to remember the memories I had when I was younger. . . and barely anything's 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.

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

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 It's 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 they'd 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. I'd go for weeks and months barely feeling any happiness. I'd do things like count things I'm grateful for and it would take weeks until I felt any happiness for it. And the slightest feelings of happiness would soon go away.

I'd cry everyday and I wouldn't tell anyone because I thought it was wrong to cry. It'd grow more severe. In my preteen years, I've 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.

I'd spend hours reading what I could on mental health. I've 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 didn't want to take a bath because I was exhausted. She'd shout at me at how I'm giving her such a hard time. How I was such a bad kid. And I'd will myself to get up badly and when I couldn't, 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 shouldn't listen to me. I never came back.

It's been a few years since then. I'm 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. I've gained some passions and hobbies as fascination tends to be my strongest emotion even though everything mace me bored and empty back then. I've 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.

I've 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. I've 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. I'd relive the utter anxiety and loneliness I felt. The utter distrust of everyone I knew. And I'd think of everyone who has been and is kind to me and suspect they're all going to turn on me someday. I'd hate myself for not working hard enough, not being intelligent enough, not being physically fit enough, not being kind enough  and so on.I'd repeat memories where people criticized me - even gently or commented on something small - and tell myself that's proof that I'm 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.