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I went up front today to take paperwork and a girl asked if I was still working out. I told her I sure am. She said, "I can tell!!" OMG!!!! I have been working so damn hard for almost 6 months now and I don't see scale results so this made me so fucking happy!!!!!!!!!! First person to say something!!!
Everything is just so fucked. My ex knows my Reddit username. She'll probably snoop and see this. I don't care. Fuck you.
Everything you did was an invasion of my privacy. Everything you did was controlling me. I am isolated from most of my friends and have to reconnect with them because of your fucking insecurities. The constant looking at my phone. The constant disrespect for personal privacy. I couldn't even post on Reddit anonymously to vent about the troubles you caused me -- about the fucking abuse you put me through -- because you would see it.
And now I have to give you my car and my dog, while you get to tell everyone that you're the one losing everything. I wish I had the energy to tell Reddit everything of what happened to me. Every shitty situation you've put me through. But it would take hours to type it all out. So, if you see this post, kindly go fuck yourself.
I have this feeling a lot.
Whenever I see a girl I think looks cute, I feel like wishing I was her. I want to wear my hair in a braid, I want to put on cute shorts. I want to wear that pretty sundress with flowers. I want to pick out makeup, or put on a skirt, or wear tons of pink.
I know I can't really do anything with these feelings, but it feels nice to say, after thinking it for so long.
When I was little and visited my dad, his apartment was atrocious. It absolutely was not a place for a kid, even for a weekend, but my mom made me visit so I wouldn't 'wonder' about my dad like she did hers. He never cleaned (including the cat box for his two cats), he smoked cigarettes and pot in the house, I now suspect he was doing other drugs in the house, drank, and usually fed me nothing but boxed dollar store “sodium bomb” foods or pizza to be chased down with coca-cola.
Luckily, he had an older German woman for an upstairs neighbor. Oma Ursula had a granddaughter, Sam, that I’d play with when she visited at the same time that I visited my dad. Sam was rarely allowed to sleep over or really visit my dad’s house because Oma Ursula wouldn’t allow it. I’d go to her apartment instead or we'd play outside.
Oma Ursula would feed me real food, bathe me (seriously, I stunk so bad from my dad’s house that she would have to have me shower), talk to me, and just spent time with me. I loved Oma Ursula a lot. In fact I started to go to Oma’s house even if Sam wasn’t visiting. Then Oma died. She was’t even seventy.
I remember my mom telling me after school just before my 13th birthday and I just cried. I called Sam that day or a day or two later to tell her that I was sorry for Ursula’s passing and I made the mistake of saying that I loved ‘Oma’ very much. Sam yelled at me (understandably) that Ursula wasn’t my grandma and then she said something that cut deep. She said that her mom said “Your dad killed her with his stink.” before hanging up on me. I tried reaching out later but I never heard from Sam again.
I think about them a lot. I mourn for the friendship with the girl who I had (for a time) considered my best friend. I mourn for myself. But mostly I mourn for Ursula who was the kindest woman. She harbored me from my dad when I had no one else to turn to. She did something, even a small something, when everyone else around turned a blind eye. Thank you Oma.
You are pushing my limits and making my uncomfortable in my own home. I hear and watch strangers walk in and out of your house at all hours and it’s frustrating because i have been clean for 6 years. I have a baby and a dog that i have to watch when they’re playing because your baggies are blowing around. I thought your lease was up to your one bedroom but i saw a truck unloading two more mattresses into ur tiny place. Although we don’t know each other and live separate lives i know what’s going on in your home and it makes me sad for you. I know from experience you won’t stop and i often debate calling the cops on you. I watch you nod out in your drivers seat and take ten minutes to exit your car. You don’t know i know or see all this but i do. I wish i didn’t. I try to protect myself and family and my mind my business but i hope you hit your rock bottom and leave these townhomes. You don’t work and contribute nothing positive, please move.
Sincerely, Your recovering neighbor with her shit together upstairs
I’ll just give one small example.
I skateboard. I have since I was 8 or 9 years old. I’m 25. I’m okay. Not great. It’s really one of my only activities. I’m not very social and don’t really have friends. I always go to the skatepark hoping to connect and/or bond with over skating. Even if it’s just a brief moment of celebrating each others tricks. But I can’t. If I’m the best one at the park, I feel great. But as soon as someone better than me shows up, I start to feel like total shit. And I go home feeling worse than I did before I came. At work, I’m forced into all kinds of social but professional situations, and I’m fine. Anything beyond that, I just fucking suck. I get in my head and just shut down. I don’t even really try anymore, and the last real couple of friends I had, that I was actually comfortable and %100 myself with, was back in high school. And that is long gone.
I'm learning to face the person I fear the most. Myself. 22 years in this planet, in this weird complex experience called life. I am learning to love myself, to see the good things I have in my own person, to see beyond my weird looking wrapping, to stop comparing myself to others. I want to be my best friend, I have big dreams in life and I need to love myself, otherwise its gonna be fricking hard. Its not about being forever alone or an egocentric, but I know this is my only chance to do things I wanna do, as a normal and crazy human being. I want to love myself, Thats all. I want to stop looking for love in other places, and love the person I have to love the most, myself.
He was only 31 years old, and I am 33, we were more like brothers. This is the first time a close family member has passed away. I so badly wish I could call him right now and hear his voice. I had a close friend die earlier this year and somehow that didn't affect me nearly to the same degree as my nephew.
His name is Wesley, and he was an army vet. He liked building computers, raising chickens, traveling, and riding motorcycles. We would always watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force together. He was always super positive and excited to spend time with people he loved. I wish I had spent more time with him.
Thank you for taking the time to read.
Me and my girlfriend got into a big fight yesterday and I left the house to cool down and I guess she thought that I wasn’t coming back home that night and invited her ex boyfriend over to get high and drink with. When I went back home the door was locked but I could see him trying to hide in our basement and her scrambling to get her clothes on. Opened the door and told him to get the fuck out of my house and grabbed some things and left. Currently at a friends house that I can stay with and ended up getting all of my things out of the house but it just came out of left field, we were fine until yesterday. 2.5 years down the drain and I was the step father to her autistic child that she doesn’t care she ruined. Just been a hard day and a half and needed to vent here
Mid 20's, virgin, never been on an actual date, and never had a girlfriend.
I've done a ton of stuff to improve my appearance over the years. Acne, hair, and lost a bit of weight. But my self esteem was super low and I had no confidence at all, social anxiety doesn't help.
Spent a few hours on tinder for the first time, hesitantly swiped right for a select few that looked like bots or scams. First match where I got a reply that wasn't from a bot was from a girl that's a 10. I somehow landed a date and I am both super excited and nervous.
I just hate everything about being here, we waste half of our lives just trying to get basic human rights.
I wish I was born somewhere else, or not even born at all. And also I am gay, which is an icing on this shitty cake.
The fact i got this ignorant shit from a grown ass black dude (and have so few interactions with black men as it is), is infuriating. I know what they say about not letting shit on the internet irritate you, but this does because it's so ignorant.
Just because i don't look "mixed" to someone doesn't mean my parentage/background changes. My mother is descended from Nigerian slaves (according to whatever 23 and me shit test she did) and my dad is pasty ass-lobster red-in-the-sun white; English with Irish and Scottish parents/grandparents. I'm light-skinned/yellow undertone, but, no, I don't "pass for white" and don't have green eyes. Since when the fuck did being biracial/mixed mean you have to fit one specific physical appearance?
Fuck ignorance and fuck that dude for his dumbass remarks.
So my wife is not a good cook. Her family love to tell the story of how she managed to burn cereal.
This means that I do all the cooking. Every night without fail I prepare a home cooked meal. I'm not chef quality but people get excited if I invite them to dinner so I guess I'm pretty good.
Tonight's dinner was baked salmon with chorizo and asparagus with home made rye bread. My wife's reaction: "oh is that it? It's so small. Can't you cook some rice or something to go with it?"
She literally expected me to go back in the kitchen and cook some rice.
She also took one bite of the rye bread and spat it in the bin then said" that was foul"
She is overweight and trying to lose it so ive created entirely new dishes and learnt new ways of cooking and spend hours in the kitchen working to make something nice and she simply doesn't care. At this point I just want to say fuck you, stay fat you ungrateful peice of shit.
But I know I wont. I love her and I'll put my heart and soul into being better tomorrow. I just wish she appreciated to the work I put in.
I'm staying with my parents since January of this year. It's been a really hard year. It's been a really hard several years. I'm 29 now, turning 30 in a few months, and until January of this year, I hadn't lived with my parents since I was 19. There are always issues when I come back, and now that my parents are much older, things have calmed down a lot.
What hasn't seemed to calm down is the difficulties I have in communicating with and relating to and understanding my mom. Sometimes I resent her so much that I hate her. I try to be grateful (and I am grateful) for the help she gives me, but it feels so meaningless compared to what I really need, which is emotional support.
She will get me to open up to her about something, and after I have, including admitting things that I wouldn't have wanted to, she uses the information later to throw back at me during an argument or to try to control me (same thing). If I protest against her accusations she'll say things that basically amount to, "well we know that's how you are..." and I am left speechless. Tonight I was thinking about this on my drive and it was like a lightbulb went off. Her behavior tells me that she doesn't trust me or respect me. Why on earth would I ever want to spend time with or open up to someone who doesn't trust me or respect me? It's why as she tries harder to pry me open, I clam shut even tighter, and tonight I was planning my escape.
I'm so tired of it. When I first got home from my road trip she was acting all solemn and treating me like a kid who had done something wrong. She sold my car for much less than it was worth (within a day of my being back), she wouldn't let me keep my beautiful stereo that my dad got me because it would be "too expensive" to get it back out (she is always willing to spend money on things she finds important, like clothes, and food, but if it's something I love, like music, which she doesn't really care about, she sees it as worthless or too expensive).
Then she saw the bottle of vodka in my room when she just "came in to check on my cat" and immediately went into panic mode. Guess she didn't know that it had been there since before my road trip, but she asked me a few days later if I thought I were an alcoholic. I told her no. She told me she thought we had had 2 more bottles of that vodka in the kitchen (implying I had drunk it all) and I said no. But she didn't believe me. She just assumed the worst, as usual, and then a few days later she cleared out the liquor cabinet and... gave it all away? I don't know. Without even talking to me about it. She just treated me like I had done something terrible, and tried to control my behavior, as usual.
Now it's weed. I have been smoking from time to time, but she's extra suspicious now. It's legal here and I don't smoke during the day, or while she's awake at all. And the other day she came home and the first thing she said to me was, "you look stoned." I wasn't stoned. I had just woken up. Now she peers into my eyes suspiciously every time she sees me. I hate interacting with her. I, just a little bit, kind of fucking hate her.
I kept envisioning this great conversation we would have when I got home tonight, since Tuesday nights my dad usually goes out and my mom is home, and I figured she'd have gone through my room and I could finally have a conversation with her to clear the air. But he's home and there was no opportunity for it, I guess.
But here's what I wanted to say to her:
It's obvious that you don't trust or respect me, so is it any wonder that I don't want to spend time with you? Is it any wonder that I don't want to tell you things? And that hurts me so much, considering everything I have been through and everything I have overcome and how much success I have had in spite of all of that. You don't see any of it, you only suspect me of wrong and spend your time obsessing over it and how to prove I'm doing it. I think we're both better off without each other.
I’ve always hated getting haircuts. Allow me to relate one not unusual experience getting a haircut, which happened when I was 18 years old. Since by this point I had gotten my driver’s license, I no longer needed my mom to drive me to the barber shop, which is about three minutes away from my house. This is the only barber shop I’ve ever been to. Now that I’m in college, I go every time I come back home. I don’t particularly like this barber shop, but I have a feeling going to another one would be worse.
I am not a skilled or confident driver, and the barber shop sits at the end of a long street. I always take the first open parking spot I see, which always leads to me walking about three blocks, passing several open parking spots along the way. The walk gives me time to think about how pathetic it all is. I am freaked out by the whole experience of getting a haircut, something so basic and mundane. Eventually I make it to the barber shop, sign in, and have a seat. Each barber is making smalltalk with their customer. After a few minutes, one of them finishes up, calls my name, I stand up, and it’s showtime.
I take a seat in the chair and get fitted with a black apron. This is about the time when most people explain to the barber how they want their haircut to be done. As they should, because for $25, you deserve a haircut you’re happy with. But I don’t know a thing about haircuts. I don’t know the lingo or what to ask for. I used to ask for a “shape up” or “about an inch off” or something, until I had the worst haircut experience I’ve ever had. I had asked the lady cutting my hair for whatever fraction of an inch of hair to be cut off, and she got to work. When she was about done, my hair was still pretty long, and it was clear that I should have asked for more off. No matter, because she asks in a very sweet voice, “Is this good, or do you want a bit more taken off?” Normally, I would have said, “No that’s great thank you. Looks great.” But I am an adult now, and this is MY haircut. Plus, she asked in a very nice way. She would be happy to do it, right? “I think a little bit more off would be good.” Then all hell broke loose. “You should have asked for more hair off in the first place. I cut off the amount you asked for. Now it’s like I have to do a whole new haircut.” I was flustered and embarrassed. I was quick to reduce her apparent burden. “Oh, sorry, no. It’s fine then. I don’t need more off”.” But she sighed and said “Ugh no I’ll do it” and started a new haircut. Those next fifteen minutes took about three hours. I felt terrible, and from then on, when the barber asks me questions during the haircut, I answer with whatever option will require the least work for them.
“How does it look?”
“Should I take more off here?”
“Nope, looks great.”
“How does it look?”
“Looks great, thanks”
Because the haircut is now totally up to the barber with no further input or guidance from me, all I can do is root for more or less hair, depending on whether this haircut seems like it’s going to be too long or too short. I now do something I find pretty clever, since it reduces ambiguity while also requiring me to say almost nothing. If a given haircut looks okay, I take a picture of myself, sometime from a couple angles, and add it to the others I’ve compiled. Then when I get the dreaded “How would you like your hair cut?”, I pull out my phone and flick through these photos. It works much better most of the time.
But there are more reasons why getting a haircut is such a miserable experience for me. One of them is the conversation aspect. I am going to be sitting motionless in a chair for thirty minutes with one person doing nothing besides cutting my hair. It makes sense that so many people hold conversations with their barbers. It’s a natural time to talk about sports, your kids, vacation, school, whatever. I don’t really want to talk with my barbers but in a weird way, there are times when I wish they did talk to me more. Because when they don’t I wonder why I am the only one not talking to my barber. It’s a situation very similar to riding in an Uber, and I’m sure a bunch of other situations. The barber/driver will initiate some small talk, I’ll respond. It might go back and forth for a minute, and then one of us lets it die. During that time, they gauged whether they thought I was feeling talkative and whether they should keep up the conversation. With me, they universally decide not to. And I think it’s that fact that makes me wish that once in a while they would. Because the truth is that it’s me that can’t keep the conversation going.
Tipping is also dumb. I’m not the first one to complain about tipping, but just charge what you want and then pay your employees. Because I for one am going to tip the same amount every time, perfectly balanced by my frugality and intense desire to not offend anyone, without any consideration of how good the haircut was. For restaurants, at least there’s a general rule: tip around 20%. Is it the same for barbers? Am I supposed to look this up? Should I have to? Do my barbers all think I’m cheap? Generous?
Recently, I think I mentioned that the last time I had gotten my hair cut was the previous time I was home from college, a few months prior. It was probably obvious I hadn’t gotten a haircut in a while. After the haircut, the barber said something like, “See you in six months.” I don’t think they meant any harm by it, but as I walked the three blocks back to the car, I thought again about how sad it all is and vowed to go somewhere else next time because screw this place and what it represents to me. To this day, I’ve still never gone anywhere else.
There is a complete loss of control that comes with tickling that I despise. My protests are ignored just because my body’s natural reaction is to laugh and smile. That does not mean I’m enjoying myself. I hate every second of it.
If someone doesn’t like being tickled, don’t fucking tickle them.
I'm a failure in life, and it all stems from my inability to commit to things. I can't finish anything because I lack discipline. I love having done things, but I hate the process of doing things.
Perhaps the clearest example is my relationship with music. I played the cello as a child. I was decent and not particularly good or bad. I enjoyed being able to play music that I liked. But I hated having to spend an hour a week taking lessons with a teacher. I hated having to spend an hour each day practicing. Songs are fun to play, but most of your time will be spent practicing etudes and scales that are vital to your technique but incredibly boring. After a few years, I quit. I can't even stand to look at a cello now. It only reminds me of the hundreds of wasted hours I spent in frustration.
I've discovered that this pattern applies to every hobby and skill. 99% of an endeavor is tedium. Creating the final product, the fun part, is only 1%. And I can't stand that.
Over my life, my relationship with the cello has played out countless times with a new hobby that I try. Fitness? It's great fun to be athletic and look good, but it lies behind the 99% - working out. Art? It's great fun to paint and draw your own works of art, but it lies behind practicing how to draw circles. Language learning? It's impressive to speak a new tongue, but the daily maintenance of new vocabulary is mind-numbing. Cooking. Writing. Coding. Even something as simple as reading has only left me with a stack of unfinished or unopened books. I've tried it all, and its the same every time.
Perhaps the most pathetic example is how I often leave TV shows unfinished.
For a long time, I lived under the delusion that if I just tried enough things, eventually I'd find something that clicked with me. I'd just be naturally good at it, and I'd have a fun hobby that I could spend my life with. But I have to face the cold hard truth: the vast majority of good chefs, writers, cellists were not born naturally talented but instead went on the grind every day to perfect their craft. To expect that you will be a natural talent in something is unreasonable, but its what I did. Now I've realized I can't.
The only thing I do is stay alive. I am nothing. When people ask what I do in my free time, I wish I could tell them something, but I can't. I can only say "I like to hang out with friends, read something, go outside. I dunno." If I died right now, I'm not sure what they would say at my eulogy. I am doing nothing with my life.
It’s like, I have enough to eat and live, so I guess I can’t complain. But my life would be a lot easier and my anxiety would improve if I could have just a little bit more. I’m so tired of this world ruled by money ugh
I love watermelon. Would be my favorite fruit if strawberries didn't exist. Today, I was at a picnic with a couple of neighborhood people and someone brought in a watermelon. Now let me tell you. This was one of the BEST watermelons I've seen in my life. I didn't think it could top the big boy I got at Walmart at 3 am but it looked like it could. I stopped the rambling with the neighbors and headed straight toward the beautiful watermelon. I could already imagine the sweet taste as it drips every bite. I cut off a slice and bring it up to my mouth. The crunch, perfect. The juicyness, perfect. The taste, perf...WTF. THERE WAS GODDAMN SALT ON THIS MELON! It was like invisible crystal ninjas attacking my sweetness taste buds. A perfect watermelon ruined by this table condiment. I didn't know what to do. I felt violated by this disgusting attack. This is worse than pineapple on pizza. At least you can see the pineapple! I was flustered and pissed off. Fuck you Jane for ruining an amazing watermelon. At least someone brought some extra watermelon. Not as good looking though.
On holiday with my parents, my SO and child. And I'm bored as fuck. I don't really want to come because I hate all their company, except the child's.
I never liked going holiday wth my parents while I was growing up, why should it be any different now?
Only another 4 days to suffer.
A little over three years ago, when I was sixteen, I was sent to residential treatment for 15 months.
I was suicidal, depressed, and my OCD was so in control of my life that I couldn't eat more than 5 different foods without having a full on panic attack, and being convinced I was dying. I was obese, had no friends, no consistent interactions with anyone, and no future. I had come out to my family as FtM trans, but had been accused of faking it for attention. I was abusing codeine.
Now, three years later, everything for me has changed. I feel like things in my life are finally going right.
I finished high school - something I thought I'd never live long enough to do. And while I'm taking a semester or two off, I even went to college for bit, which I thought was more impossible for me than finishing high school.
I got a job. It's not a great job, just making coffee and sandwiches and interacting with unpleasant hotel guests, but three years ago I would have never been able to work the 35 - 39 hour weeks that I do. I could have never kept a job at all. I get along with most of my coworkers, and I like the environment I'm in.
I came out, for real. And my family has accepted me. That alone has brought so many changes. Dysphoria is still absolutely killer most days, but I seem to pass more and more frequently as time goes by, and I'm excited to see how my transition goes, and to become the person I really feel I am.
I made some health changes as well. I stopped using codeine. I've lost over 60 pounds. I'm no longer obese; I'm vegan, I run and do yoga. I take medication for my mental health problems. I go to therapy. I feel good about myself, and I'm so, so proud of the changes I've made.
I've even found someone, which is a bonus. He's someone I can be honest with, and rely on, and I'm happy with him. I never thought I'd do that either. We're long distance right now, but I'm visiting him in a few months, and I'm super excited.
If I'd killed myself three years ago, I would have never experienced any of this. I still have problems in my life - self esteem issues, anxiety, dysphoria. I'm still working on weight loss, and I even still have suicidal ideations on occasion. I still spiral downwards when I know people don't like me. I have a whole gender transition ahead of me, and I am terrified. Things are still so far from perfect.
But the good parts of my life are so much more important than the bad. I've worked hard to be where I am, and I'm proud of the work I've done. Life is still difficult, but I'm okay with that now.
And I am so, so insanely glad I didn't kill myself when I was sixteen.
I don’t know what to say. It just hurts. I had been fine, but the last month or so it all came back. The literal empty feeling inside. I have no passion for anything anymore, no motivation. I told myself everything was alright, that things would get better. But here I am, today, alone. It’s an unexplainable hurt. It feels emotionless, without expression, but at the same time it’s every emotion all at once. I don’t know what to do.
I made a throwaway because this is pretty personal to me. My baby brother commited suicide. I had known he was depressed for a few months but I never stopd up to help him or ever ask him if he was okay. I was actually feeling anger towards him because of how self destructive he was becoming. I was also getting annoyed by him. I noticed all the stupid things he was doing and I know he was doing them to get attention but instead he would get scolded and yelled at by our parents.
It just got worse, I started resenting him, and I started to push him away and detach myself from him like if I wanted him out of my life. Now I realized all that was a mistake. I miss him now. He commited suicide and he shot himself dead with a gun that we don’t know where it came from. The last time I saw him, he was outside sitting on an bucket by himself in the rain crying. I should have spoke up and asked if he was okay or join him but I just ignored him and went off to my room to watch movies. Maybe if I would have spoke up things would have been different. He killed himself that night and nobody had found out until later in the day because my mom didn’t check up on him and left straight to work and I left the house to go with some friends. I regret it. I hate myself because a part of me is angry with him for killing himself. Then I feel horrible because I love him. He was still a teenager, in high school, it’s just so sad and I’m so upset he had to leave at such a young age
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