7 Soul Crushing Confessions That Will Remind You That Life Isn’t All Sunshine And Rainbows

January 30, 2019 | No Comments » | Topics: Life Experiences, TRUTH

(photo: @soul1125)

1. I was diagnosed with cancer a little over two weeks ago, after a regular checkup. Turns out I have a tumour on my colon that has spread to other areas (liver and lungs so far) and will require extensive chemo and surgery for any chance to live longer than 8 months

I’m not having any treatment and I haven’t told my wife because she’ll only pressure me to get the treatment, which result in months of pain and suffering for a relatively small chance

Instead, I’m making sure our last few months together are filled with only happy memories. I’m starting work later and finishing earlier each day, to make her breakfast in bed and take her on dates in the evenings

My landlord I rent my workshop from has agreed to let me run my business rent free for the next 6 months, which means significantly less financial stress and I can save a lot more, so she has something to carry her over afterwards

I hope she’ll forgive me for taking this path

 

2. My 13 year old died in Peru after getting caught in a whirlpool. We were on vacation. His mom (my ex) blamed me for his death and our other son also blames me so he doesn’t speak to me. He’s now 13 too. I don’t force him to see me. When I drive home from work, I pretend that I am talking to my son about how his day was at school, what kind of music he wants to listen to, what he wants for dinner, etc. That is why I haven’t gotten a new car. There are just too many memories.

 

3. I was 8 years old and he was 13. By that time, he’d already gotten sex ed classes at his school.

He came to me and for several months showed me pornographic material. I couldn’t escape because my parents would make me stay at home with him whenever they went out.

It ended up happening because I was a little bitch and was more terrified of sleeping alone in the dark than my brother sexually abusing me while convincing me it was just a little game.

I didn’t understand at the time.

I didnt even have a door in my room, so he’d often “accidentally” barge in while I was changing. I was 8 years old.

He fucking groomed me into being okay wiyh him seeing me naked while at the same time saying I was acting “obscenely” for laying on the couch. I didn’t even know what obscene meant.

It was only once our parents caught us that I realised he’d used me for his sick fantasies.

For me it was this little “secret” my brother told me to keep. I didn’t realise the implication and that he’d abused my trust in my only sibling to have sex with me, a fucking CHILD.

Even after being caught he’d still touch himself in front of me (I don’t even understand how my parents could leave me alone with him after what had happened).

By the time I turned 12 I’d have recurring nightmares about it but convinced myself that they were fantasies (I had repressed my memories) and that I was disgusting for thinking my big brother could have done that to me.

I got into the habit of locking my door everynight once I finally got one and I didn’t understand why. I slept with a lamp in my room, even more terrified of the dark than when I was a kid.

It was like my mind decided to entirely wipe every memory out of my mind, my own mind was telling me I was disgusting for having nightmares about my brother touching me. But everyday I would wake up and act as if everything was normal. None of my parents ever brought it up. We became the perfect little family once again.

At 18 I had a mental breakdown after realising I had almost no memories of my childhood save for my horrible nightmares. I confessed everything to my mom, having completely forgotten if I’d even told her or if she knew since nobody spoke about it.

She told me she didn’t remember and that it must have been experimentation. Just siblings playing wiyh each other.

She didn’t believe me. She had to ask my brother for confirmation.

And of course he downplayed it. He played the victim, saying he didn’t want it to damage my family once again and that he hadn’t done much anyway. According to him it only happened once. Hahaha

I distinctively remember everything and it hadn’t been once.

Since then I’ve been diagnosed with OCD, Anxiety and depression. I’ve been getting help and have cut all communication with my brother.

 

 

4. I’m a gay, closeted, middle-aged man married to a woman for a long time. My secret double life involves occasionally visiting gay night clubs, among other things.

On June 12, 2016 I was at the PULSE night club, enjoying Latino night (I’m not, but I enjoy Latino men for the most part). When the shooting started, I was on the far end of the club, getting a drink. I was nearly herded into the bathroom where a last-stand and breach occurred, but instead went along the wall and was able to exit. (It turns out later a dude I had bought drinks for occasionally was killed in the shooting).

I took a ricochet to the back of my calf which touched bone but didn’t break it. Bled a lot. Once outside, I immediately got clear of the area, made my way to my car which was parked a distance away, and then retreated to my office, about 15 minutes away. I did my best field dressing of the wound, stabilizing it and stopping the seeping bleeding for the most part.

I ended up seeing my regular doctor the next morning as soon as he opened. He freaked the f**k out, told me it was a mandatory reporting situation, and then sent me to the ER. I refused that plan, told him to give my information to the police. The police eventually did contact me, and I referred them to my lawyer. I worked my lawyer to give a statement to the police under confidential terms. They immediately put me in touch with the FBI. Meanwhile, about 24 hours had gone by, and my wound hurt like hell but was no longer weeping blood. The FBI was not playing around, and was very aggressive with my lawyer.

I ended up getting treatment from the hospital, a consult with a surgeon, who removed the shrapnel. I told my wife/kids that I injured my calf during an early morning run, and wore a compression sock to hide the wound. The surgery to remove the fragment followed a few days later, and was uneventful, except the FBI was there to retrieve the fragment. A plastic surgeon did a slight touch up on the wound so it looks like a mole was removed.

No one in the entire world knows what happened and how PULSE affected me. I sometimes have violent and horrible flashbacks of the scene inside PULSE. It is almost beyond words. Many of my asshole “friends” I am forced to socialize with in my “straight life” are horrible bigots, and not a few of them made cracks after the PULSE shooting mocking the victims, expressing glee, etc. It can be very difficult to keep it all inside.

 

 

5. Sometimes the most intimate touch isn’t necessarily sexual in nature. Years ago, I was in an abusive relationship. The guy I was with broke into my home, and threw my hair straightener (at full force) into my bathtub (while it was hot) in an attempt to intimidate me. When that didn’t work he proceeded to physically abuse me. He didn’t “want” to punch or slap me, because that would leave black eyes and bruises (he left massive bruises anyway). Instead, he grabbed me by my arms and wrists and drug me through the house calling me every insult known to man while doing it.

He got me into my bedroom.

He locked the door.

He threw me on the bed.

He towered over me, and he proceeded to straddle me. Once he had the full weight of his body securing me in place, he pinned my elbows down with his knees.

Then he hurt my soul.

He squeezed my face by my jaw. He left dents in my cheeks. He brought my face impossibly close to his as I struggled against him, and validated every single one of my insecurities with screams. He suddenly stopped, looked down at my defenseless body, and smiled. His eyes went cold. I could feel his erection on my abdomen.

“I could do anything I want to you right now.”

I still shudder when I think about it. Luckily, my parents chose that particular day to visit me, so when he heard the car doors, he got startled enough to get off of me. I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and ran for the door. I later learned he’d fled through the window.

I cannot bear to let anyone touch my face because of this

 

6. My son, who would have been 21 this month, hanged himself on December 24 2016. Christmas Eve. My baby boy. Gone. There are no words to describe what it did to me, and what it did to the family. I went into his room midday expecting to find him still in bed. I found him hanging in the closet. Two lives were destroyed that day. The neighbors called the police when they heard my screams. I could not leave my house for months and lost my job. My older children had to move back in to support me because I refused to go out or clean the house or even eat food. My life had lost all purpose and for a while it was over. With time and extensive therapy I am just barely functional again, but life has never felt so empty. Not a moment goes by that I don’t think of him. I spend countless hours every day thinking of how I could have changed it. I know I could have.

My son was enrolled in a general health studies program at the local university. He didn’t have an interest in health and didn’t know what career he wanted to pursue, but I pushed him into it thinking it had the most potential for a successful career path and that he could develop an interest over time. He didn’t do very well in his first year but he made it through with a few failed courses. In April 2016 he had finished the winter term of his second year. I asked him about his final grades. He kept telling me that he hadn’t received them yet. I knew he had but I didn’t push. The summer term was starting and we had agreed that he would take summer courses for the courses he had failed in first year. He told me that he had applied to them, and he also told me he had finally received his second term grades and that he had passed them all. I didn’t know at the time that neither of those were true. It was all online so I never checked. If I did, I would have known that he had failed all five of his winter courses because he had stopped showing up to classes due to depression and he never applied to any summer courses. I found this out later in August when he broke down and admitted it all. I did not take it well. I was so upset that he had failed his program, that he lied to me so many times, and that he spent the entire summer pretending to go to class while doing other things. I called the school immediately and arranged an appointment with the faculty. I explained the situation to them and they agreed to let him reapply in the fall as a special student, and that if he did well in his remedial classes he would have a chance to continue his program where he left off. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to take a break from school and apply to a different program later. I refused. I forced him to go back. I knew he hated it and I made him do it anyway. I didn’t do anything to treat his depression despite knowing about it. Instead I used it as an excuse to get him back in the program he never wanted to be in. I made him feel trapped enough to take his own life and I can never forgive myself for that.

Going back into his room was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. One step inside and I had a breakdown. Months passed. I tried again. Breakdown. We had to keep it locked until we hired a cleaner to pack his things because I could not bare to look at anything that belonged to him. I was only able to enter once the room was completely empty with just a few boxes stacked in the corner. Months later when I was home alone, I mustered the strength to open one of the boxes. Sitting on top was his laptop. I opened it and found it unlocked. I told myself I shouldn’t look through it. It would only ruin me again. But I had to. I had to know. Maybe he saw something that made him want to do it. Maybe he had messaged one of his friends, and maybe they said something to him. I just wanted to understand why. Why he would feel so hopeless that he had to take his own life. I found mostly things that would be normal to find in a young person’s browsing history. People’s Facebook profiles, assorted Youtube videos, a whole world I never knew. There was a file folder compiling images from what I could tell was shows/comics/games that he liked. I’ve never seen any of it before. I never cared. Another folder with images of my son with his friends from his high school. I didn’t recognize any of them. I never bothered to ask. I found a video in his Youtube history showcasing how to tie a noose. I had to stop there and weep until I had a migraine. Then I went back. I found entries on Kijiji. He was trying to sell his game consoles and games, which I later found out he spent his tuition to buy. I found a site called Liveleak, where there were a lot of entries on videos of people dying on camera. I believe he was trying to prepare himself for what he was going to do to himself. Then I found this site, Reddit, and I noticed his account still logged in. This one. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to find. Months of grief counseling undone in an instant. I had the worst breakdown of my life. Reading through everything he wrote in his last days tore my already scarred heart into a million shreds. He had reached out for help so many times. He felt so alone. He wrote that if he died I would only care about the money I wasted raising him. I thought I had felt the worst pain a person could feel until I read that. It was my fault. He felt so alone and hopeless in his last days. And I made him feel that way. I knew he wasn’t happy but I made him go back. I killed him.

If only I could tell him now that it doesn’t matter to me. That no school or degree was worth his life. That no matter what he did, I would love him no matter what. Oh how I miss my sweet boy. My baby is gone and I will never be okay again.

 

7. I don’t know where to start. But I’m hoping someone else on here can at least understand what I’m feeling without judging me or telling me things like “You don’t know how lucky you are; a lot of people can’t even have kids!” I know. And although I should be completely over the moon about my awesome kid, I’m just…not.

It started with the pregnancy. The second I found out I was pregnant, I had a strange feeling. Not the one of excitement or a bit scared, but that I didn’t want it. Deep in my gut, I knew I made a terrible decision to get pregnant. My husband and I agreed to try, though I was still on the fence. I also didn’t think I could get pregnant because I had horrible problems with ovarian cysts my whole life and doctors told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant past 30 (there were other reasons too but I won’t get into them). I was 34, so I figured, what the hell, we’ll try (he really REALLY wanted kids), and when I can’t have them at least we’ll say we tried. Well, turns out it only took ONE TRY. One. I know. Most people would consider that so incredibly lucky, and trust me I am well aware of the people out there who struggle with infertility.

As the weeks went on I struggled with absolutely terrible morning sickness until about week 22. That’s a long time, especially HOW sick I was. Around week 22/23 I started to feel a little better, especially because I knew I was more than halfway done with that hellish experience. At week 28 I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and was back and forth to doctors every five seconds. I felt like a science experiment.

I was induced at 41 weeks and only pushed for 12 minutes. He came out in 5 pushes. Again, I know. Luckiest person on the planet especially because I had an epidural that worked like a charm. But the second I held him I didn’t want him. I wanted to give him back. I felt no emotional connection. Nothing. And then I hemorrhaged. And then I developed eclampsia, which is high blood pressure after birth. It was the most hellish three days of my life, thinking I was going to have a seizure or stroke and possibly die. Finally when I got released from the hospital on a myriad of medications, I didn’t want to be there at all. It wasn’t the same home.

It wasn’t the home of cooking all-day meals, spontaneous trips to the wineries, sitting and reading a book for hours. I didn’t realize I actually cared about any of these things until they were gone. And that gut feeling of not wanting a baby only got worse.

In the next weeks and months I struggled with what was eventually diagnosed with postpartum depression and postpartum PTSD. It was absolutely terrible and I contemplated suicide many times. The lack of sleep paired with those things made me feel like a complete lunatic. My marriage suffered, and I believe my husband and I will never be the same because of what occurred in those months with my emotions.

Fast forward to today. My husband does SO MUCH to help me. He’s there every second I need him and works right down the road, so he can be home in a second if I truly need something. My parents watch my son one day and my in-laws another day. But it’s not enough. I don’t want to be around him. I’m bored to tears playing toddler games and even going to the playground and stuff with him. I’m looking at my watch every five seconds.

Part of the problem is that I work from home. I was very, very talented and successful in my office job, which eventually converted to a work-at-home position. So by default, I became a stay-at-home mom. Let me make one thing clear: I NEVER EVER EVER wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I made this very clear from the beginning, and I absolutely said I would never do it. I’m not cut out for it. And here I am. Sitting home with him, day after day. We do tons of things. He takes gym classes, art classes, we play outside all the time, go on outings, go to the food store. He’s clean and well-fed and loved and always entertained and happy. He really is a great kid.

But I HATE THIS. Like with every fiber of my being. Hate it. The sleep transitions, the teething, the not wanting to eat the food I make, the tantrums, everything. Like literally everything you can think about having a kid, I hate it. And the noise. OMG the noise. The tantrums, the kid songs that make you go insane…. I just can’t anymore.

I feel like being a mom brings out all of my worst personality traits. I didn’t even KNOW I was impatient, but apparently I am! I get so frustrated with him so quickly, and I have silent little anxiety attacks while I discipline him or deal with whatever is going on.

I just am so surprised – and weighed down – by the responsibility. I am one of the most responsible people on the planet. Always early to things, always organized, always on top of stuff. I have a dog, who I got as a puppy and I take a lot of pride in training her and being her dog mom. I have nieces who I take care of from time to time and I take what I say and do around them very seriously. And my job is extremely integrated with other people and working with teams. I am a director, so a lot of people rely on me. But SHIT. This is too much. Being responsible for a little human being, and every single thing I say is going to affect them in some way??? No thank you. It is a weight that is suffocating me every second of the day. And I wasn’t expecting that. On paper, I should actually be a great mom. But I’m really not.

And I don’t know what to do. I went to therapy, was on medication, everything. But I feel like the only thing that would truly make me happy would be to go back to work full-time in an office job. Right now I piece together my work. When he’s napping – if he naps – at night, early in the morning. I can never concentrate and what was once a bright and lucrative career now leaves me stressed out and awake at 3 a.m. wondering how I’m going to get my work done. I can’t concentrate and its like he needs something every other second. I keep waiting to like it. I keep waiting to feel something. But I don’t.

And don’t get me wrong. When he hurts himself or cries from being sad, my heart breaks. When my parents pull away with him in the car and I see his little face in the back seat I miss him. But then…he gets back and I’m like…when can he go over their house again???? It is truly the strangest feeling. I’m confused. And if anything ever, EVER happened to him I don’t know what I do. He is a sweet, gentle, loving, kooky kid. Always laughing and smiling, and I make sure to give him tons of hugs and kisses every single day and tell him I love him. I don’t ever want him to know these things I’m saying here.



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