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  1. Kham


    So rather than cruise the boards, I feel like writing and thought I would do it this way. Hi. Probably like a lot of you (if anyone is reading this), I go through cycles between when things are good and I'm floating, and then another where it's hard to function. Sometimes something happens to cause it - this time it was my father passing away from cancer - sometimes it's nothing. The good swings aren't perfect, but I usually stop cutting, I usually quit therapy if I'm in it, I stop medication if I'm on it, and I get shit done. I think I'm cured, and I suppose the therapy or whatever else I did worked. Then, when I'm in the low swing again, I drink, have occasional nights with no sleep and many others with 3 hours or less, shake and cry, overwhelming fear, ocd rituals that my broken mind tells me will make the fear go away (they don't), and cutting. And my memories are everywhere, and I realize how stupid I was to think I was done with them. I'm over 30 now, so my childhood is two decades in the past. I know that the moment when these events actually mattered is long gone, and that I let it pass by not talking to the people who might have listened. Now I'm a man, which is super weird to think. I don't like being a man, and never have. I don't know if the abuse did this to me, made me this way, or if it just gummed up the works so I couldn't see who I was. I don't like men, I don't trust them, I don't like talking to them, I don't like being around them or feeling their presence, and to think that I am one is so fucking wrong. I feel like if I have to talk to a man, it's like I have to play this fucking script as to what I think a proper "male interaction" is supposed to look like. It fucking sucks. I do remember that, when I was a child, I would fantasize about what it would be like to wake up and just not be a male anymore, and how awesome that would be. My father beat me when I was a child, a lot. Therapists have told me he was bad, an abuser, and that I should focus on how he was the villain in my story. But he was my father, and I loved him. So much. I wish he wasn't gone, and that I had a few more years. His absence feels like a part of me is missing. But he did beat me, and my sister, and my mother. My mom taught us to lie to him so he wouldn't hurt us. He worked often, so he didn't always know what was happening at home. We learned not to tell him, because him finding out would mean beatings, crying, and the time after where I went to the bathroom to look at what he did to me. I actually don't have many memories of him hurting me directly, mostly what I remember are the terrifying ramp-ups and the cleanup periods after. First on the same block, and then another block after they moved, my family made friends with another family who had a 16 year old son. I was 9. Fuck my world is shaking as I try to type this. This is still so, so hard to type. My father, if he knew, would ask me what the fuck is wrong with me that I would ever want to tell anyone at all. I don't know, a lot I guess. I spent a lot of time with this boy over 2 years, till I was 11. He was all of my firsts. He started by showing me porn, including some very violent material that still makes me cry to think of. He told me this is how older boys do it, what older boys look at and how they act. I can't I can't. When I was 11, not long before it stopped, my mom asked me if he was touching me. I froze, my stomach dropped out from me, and I told her no. What else can you say? I remember her facial expression, just confusion and disbelief. She said "ok?" but she did let it go. I think it was probably too awkward for her to say either. Maybe this had something to do with it ending not too long after. I don't know, and lord knows I could never bring it up with her. Should I publish? No one will care. Hi internet.
  2. Kham


    Hi, new to the site.
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