Emotions second graders

just found out today that I’m pregnant with my second child, and I’m feeling so overwhelmed. My first is only 18 months old, and I’m caught between a whirlwind of emotions—happiness, anxiety, and everything in between. I could really use some words of encouragement and uplifting stories from those who have been in a similar situation. How did you manage the transition to having two little ones? What are some of the joyful moments that made it all worthwhile? I’m hoping to find some light and reassurance in your experiences.

just found out today that I’m pregnant with my second child, and I’m feeling so overwhelmed. My first is only 18 months old, and I’m caught between a whirlwind of emotions—happiness, anxiety, and everything in between. I could really use some words of encouragement and uplifting stories from those who have been in a similar situation. How did you manage the transition to having two little ones? What are some of the joyful moments that made it all worthwhile? I’m hoping to find some light and reassurance in your experiences.

just found out today that I’m pregnant with my second child, and I’m feeling so overwhelmed. My first is only 18 months old, and I’m caught between a whirlwind of emotions—happiness, anxiety, and everything in between. I could really use some words of encouragement and uplifting stories from those who have been in a similar situation. How did you manage the transition to having two little ones? What are some of the joyful moments that made it all worthwhile? I’m hoping to find some light and reassurance in your experiences.

Prepare for a wall of text, this is a long one, also, english is not my mother´s tongue. Im posting this after a question in AskMen touched a sensitive fiber and I need some advice on how to proceed. I posted this on relationshipadvice too, but the female perspective you could offer me here might help me understand this from her point of view too.
She is a married friend of mine, but our friendship is quite peculiar.
We know eachother since our last year at university (eight years ago), we did a team asignament and got along well so we continued seeing eachother after the course ended. We clicked well and talked about everything including our romantic lifes, her almost sexless relationship and my shitty and sexless dating life. We developed trust, companionship and a curiosity for trying new things together. We have the same values, political leaning and dark sense of humour. It is a great friendship and we can confide eachother anything.
She was in an almost sexless relationship for years, she married that same guy and is still married to him (14 years together and counting). Her relationship with her now husband is great except for the sexual aspect. This was a recurring conflict in her relationship up to the point than her then BF told her than "if she wanted sex so much she could find someone else", it didnt bothered him that she had sex outside of the relationship. She almost told him to go fuck himself right there. Ironically, near the marriage date she found chats his fiance had with another woman, he was planing on cheating on her. They talked thing out, she forgave him and got married. I asked her WTF she was thinkig, but she said she loved him...
Over the years of closeness, trust and mutual support, we developed atraction we both adknowledged to eachother but we both knew nothing would happen because she was married. Just to give you an example, she once told me that if she wasnt married we would have been having sex from long ago (wierd to translate from spanish), and I told her that the only thing stopping me is that she respected her marriage. This kind pull and push went on every once in a while for years. We both knew nothing would happen but we liked having someone that made us feel sexually desired, as her relationship was as sexless as before the marriage, and my dating life sucked big time.
Arround year and a half ago, she gave her husband an ultimatum and he finally went to an endocrinologist and a therapist, and after some time their sexual life improved. This went fine for arround a year until her father in law passed away, and their sex life plummeted again.
In our last meetups she told me her husband screwed up again, she found he had a collection of pictures he took from a coworkers IG profile and pictures from other women, which he looked before having sex with her to arouse and prepare himself for the act. When she confronted him, he said he was going to try to improve, but a month passed and he was caught again looking at other womens pic. He said to her that his psychologist told him he wasnt hurting anyone by doing this, as it wasnt cheating.
He said he wanted to do a clean slate, try from the begining again and she also said she had something to confess. A year after the wedding, she took some singing lessons (she sings preety well) and there was a classmate that didnt gave a fuck she was married, she hadnt had sex in months, found someone who was agresive in his aproach, lusted for her and caved in. She told me about the guy when this happened, but she lied to me and said that "it took a lot of willpower and self restraint not to cheat".
Now, here is the problem:
I never expected her to dump her BF/husband for me because that is a recipe for failure and being replaced on the same way the previous guy was. And while I stated I was interested I never pushed too far because of her morals (christian practicing woman who believed in marriage and loyalty AFAIK then). I have to admit than I if she dumped him I would have taken my chance because she is everything I want in a woman (except for the cheating part), she actually raised the standard of what I would like in a long term partner.
But it really pissed me off than the moment she decides to take the risk to set her life on fire, she does it with a random guy, and that the excuse she gave me is that she valued our friendship and would have caused her a lot of pain if her husband found out and she couldnt see me again, she didnt sleep with me because she values me. What kind of twisted, emotionally manipulative way ot thinking is that???. I didnt confront her that exact moment and emotionally dissociated because at the time we were having a coffee previous to a theater function she gifted the ticket to me for my birthday (we give eachother nice gifts), it was not the time nor the place.
I honestly feel used for the validation her husband didnt gave her for years, and a part of me wants to tell her to fuck off and never talk to her again. Another part of me sees a great friend in her, and it would hurt me dearly not having her in my life. This confession changed the way I see her, there is no going back from that. I can accept being second to her husband, for good or bad, its the man she choosed to share her life with, but not to a random stranger (one who didnt gave a fuck about her values).
I have to be honest too, and in these eight years my dating life was a dissaster, I never dated much, I tried for a month or two, then dropped the towel for months on a never ending cycle with longer hiatus each time. Dating allmost always lead nowhere for me, I only had sex with two women in all that time, I would have loved a LTR but it never happened for me. So, having someone that found me atractive as a person and as a man made me feel a bit valued.
TLDR: I have feelings for a married friend, she said she is atracted to me too. It never lead anywhere because we both knew our place. She cheated on her husband with a random guy and told me she didnt cheat on him with me because she values me.

I just found out today that I’m pregnant with my second child, and I’m feeling so overwhelmed. My first is only 18 months old, and I’m caught between a whirlwind of emotions—happiness, anxiety, and everything in between. I could really use some words of encouragement and uplifting stories from those who have been in a similar situation. How did you manage the transition to having two little ones? What are some of the joyful moments that made it all worthwhile? I’m hoping to find some light and reassurance in your experiences.

I play with my two sons, each of them in turn (we only have two computers).
So we found our first fortress, but we didn't have the Flametal to make a catapult. My youngest son and I decided to dig up this column floating in the lava.
Everything was going well, the pillar was close, I was throwing cobalt bombs and guarding, my son was mining metal. When the pillar almost sank into the lava, I told my son to get out to the shore. A particularly large influx of enemies has just appeared.
And the son said that he was overloaded, turned awkwardly and fell into the lava!
Oh, there were so many emotions! After two more of his deaths, we finally returned his belongings and the precious metal.
We made a battering ram and a catapult. Organized an outpost in front of the fortress.
We destroyed the gate with a catapult and were able to look inside. We saw that there were spawners and realized that they needed to be destroyed. My son was the gunner, I shot. We managed to destroy one spawner.
Then I played with my eldest son. He's a mage. He is a more experienced player, but it didn't help much to avoid mistakes. The son started shooting from a catapult and sent his protective staff to the fortress! A magician without a protective bubble is a disaster! I laughed so much!!
We had to return to the mistlands to collect Yggdrasil wood for a new protective staff.
Later, we returned to the capture of the fortress. Son ran into the half-captured fortress and said that he would destroy the second spawner himself. Meanwhile, I shot a little more from the catapult. We completed the capture at night in a thunderstorm. It was very dark. We ran around the fortress and in rare flashes of lightning tried to see those countless treasures that we tried so hard to get. But there was NOTHING in the fortress! With our careless catapult damage, my youngest son and I destroyed everything inside.
We found the second fortress. An outpost was built again (earthen walls, a protective dome, a portal). Son tried using a battering ram. In general, we did not immediately see that it needed to be filled with firewood and used it as a large cart, just ramming the gate. It turned out badly. More precisely, it did not work at all.
Then there was a very big enemy attack. We had to retreat and fight for a very long time, recapturing our outpost. Because the hastily constructed earthen walls were not perfect. Mobs were able to climb them.
In the end, we dealt with the ram. Filled it with wood. I tried to ram the gate backwards! I saw it shoot, but not like that! The son took ram, turned him around and the case got off the ground.
When the gate was destroyed, I was a little further away, killing mobs. And the son did not have time to put a magic bubble on himself and died.
The gate was open. The crowds mobs poured out of there as if from hell! The portal was destroyed. I shouted to my son that I was retreating! That damn Guldan poured his green shit right inside our earthen walls!
I ran, flashing my heels, taking these hordes with me so that my son could take his body.
When he cleaned himself up, he was able to climb a high column, from where he led his magic fire. He was even able to destroy one spawner inside the fortress.
We have recaptured the outpost, restored the portal and the protective dome. We returned to the base to sleep. The next day we took the fortress! Two treasure chests were waiting for us inside. It was a victory!
The son made a new magic weapon and immediately wanted to try it in action.
When it came to the troll-staff, I said, let's go outside the base. Just an intuition). There was one case. I gave the Destroyer to my youngest son and at the same time said: just don't use it in the house. I hadn't even finished speaking when he struck! All the furniture, chests, jewelry, everything fell to the floor! Including the Hot Tub, which, to put in place, you need to disassemble the wall! Mom, I'm sorry - that's all my son could say guiltily.
So, my son and I went out the gate of the base and he called the troll. We saw that he was aggressive towards everyone! And I realized that it was very prudent not to summon him at the base! As we stood there with our mouths open, the troll killed several wolves before they killed him. The perimeter of our base is guarded by 2 * wolves, lox, and now Asksvins. So far we have managed to tame 1* Asksven.
I was playing alone late at night, the kids were already asleep. I returned to our captured fortress to install a new gate. I moved the portal and the protective dome inside the fortress. And I also saw that we had not opened the hiding place in the central tower! I already knew how to handle a battering ram, and carefully destroyed the barrier. Inside there was another chest with new gems, Vegvisir and parts for bells!
I like the process of conquering a new biome. We are in no hurry to kill the boss. We will improve our equipment. I'm looking forward to starting to build a new base out of new materials. So many decorative elements, I'm thrilled!

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

Aoa folks, hope you'll well.
I plan to move out from my parents house. I'm married with a kid and currently looking for work as due to my house environment suffered from depression. I lost a lot deal of my health and my optimism in it and I feel I moved 10 years behind my age and my peers. I've to start from all over again.
The reason we want to leave is no matter what we try my family is not leaving their old ways of interfering in my life. even though they pay for my medication but the communication they hold is toxic and very emotionally unavailable.
second, the reason i plan to move out is there is no clear defined roles within this family. outside world says that i need to work hard even though i suffer form depression while my family even having good money just dont give me good ideas to work on. I have elders brothers both of them well settled and non of them seem to give me a solution based on my health.
All my life my dad has been telling i don't work hard and cannot be succeeded and now after coming back to Pakistan he got ill that is even trauma for me. and when he sees other cousins successful, I feel so left behind but is it my fault.
I don't know what my goal should be, to leave the house or stay in this house and build my self, i don't know wht to build as parents say there money is ours but when we talk about it they get angry.
Its kind of like a dysfunctional family.
The only reason I am not moving out yet is also my health.
would love to hear suggestions

Hi, I have been reading through my notes, correspondence with my psych and reacquainted myself with this subreddit having made a little bit of progress. I realise how deeply personal and different our work with schema therapy can be. It is a fraught process that is really hard work at times. Having made unexpected progress though, I thought maybe it would be helpful to describe parts of my context, not so much that people find it familiar or relatable, but moreso that people grab the toolset that schema therapy gives you and run with it in your own way.
Background: It's probably been just over fourth months of fairly intensive schema therapy. I am in the fortunate situation of having regular appointments with a clinical psychologist. I would say I had two points where I generated schemas. First one was the same as everyone else: Early childhood. Second one was 17-21 when I became effectively bedridden due to chronic illness.
When I have talked about this second period, I describe it as "Having to rebuild who I was from scratch, entirely based around energy efficiency". I remember staring into the pitch blackness of my bedroom during this time, absolutely flawed that the one part of me that seemed to function right was what Schema Therapy might describe as "Demanding Critic". This would have been 18-19 years ago so I had no idea about schema therapy at all, I just had this constant internal dialogue tearing strips off me for not trying harder, not getting up, not fixing myself. I was completely exhausted otherwise, but this damn thing was as active as ever? What the hell, why was it the last thing standing? It was so different from the rest of me. "If you know how to fix everything, be my guest, I'm in your hands, here's the keys!" I remember thinking. Alarmingly, the internal dialog responded: "Fine, I will". "Good fucking luck" I thought, and passed out for several hours. I didn't realise it, but I had just given Demanding Critic a parental role.
Demanding Critic used a process of elimination to tear apart, kludge, re-engineer and jerry-rig me from someone who slept for 16-18 hours a day out of necessity into someone with a degree, a house, a family, a part-time job. It took a while. It wasn't easy. It's amazing what can happen when you give seething self-hatred the keys to your entire self. Punitive critic used to be a thing, but had it's parts ripped out and reconfigured for completely different purposes. Entire ways to simulate being a conscious, involved person in social situations were constructed. I trained myself to do very complex tasks by muscle memory so I could do them while completely exhausted. The complex effects of depressive episodes could be filtered and rewired to emulate happiness. Fatalistic pessimism was employed towards emulating initiative and drive. Their logics and mechanisms were set to fire off automatically according to the myriad of different contexts I found myself in, so I didn't have to consciously engage in the moment, I could just react according to programming. The "machines" as I called them were fine tuned over years. But it seems that entire parts of myself were deactivated having been deemed too difficult to regulate, or too energy intensive. Demanding Critic was as brutal at he was creative. Entire emotional spectrums were pulverised, or at best used as catalysts for the activation of certain mechanics. They weren't properly experienced, because that used up too much energy, and I couldn't trust myself to make it through the day. Same with speculative, ill-defined senses like 'Hope'. It wasn't worth the effects of disappointment. No one could know how much pain I was in, or how much I was really suffering, or how exhausted I really was. Press on you stupid meat-bag. In your state what good is hope or despair? You'd be a poor judge of either. Press on! Hurry up and succeed. It doesn't matter what has happened to you, what people say or do to you, you can barely feel it above the pain anyway. MOVE. MOVE. MOVE.
This process was refined until a semblance of normativity took place externally, and internally I had acclimated to the new approaches that were by now a pretty seamless, responsive system. Something still wasn't right though, and with investigation came the ASD/ADHD diagnosis, then the CPTSD diagnosis. Once again unto the breech, I pushed myself to understand and recover as best I could. Except doing so meant realising what was happening around me, what interpersonal boundaries were, how I was being treated by my loved ones, everything that had really happened to me for thirty-odd years.
Kaboom.
In the aftermath I'm in a difficult, but stable situation, and undergoing schema therapy. Learning about the modes my therapist asked me to talk about the ones I identified. Demanding Critic spoke directly through the keyboard as an intense character: The Machinist. It became obvious that the system of schema therapy lent itself to treating modes as characters within a narrative, and I have just ran with it. The Machinist, interestingly enough, set down his tools and deactivated many of his machines, because if my Therapist and I found a "Better Solution", he wanted in on it, being fundamentally benevolent, and concerned with a Successful Result. Without Schema Therapy lending itself to narrative and mythos, I doubt I could have so easily deactivated the system of "machinery" required to prop me up. It's led to all kinds of shocking discoveries: The missing (No longer presumed dead) Happy Child that has been carefully hidden away amongst the deactivated components of myself. The fact that I lived entirely in the Past or the Future. The present was deemed "Too energy consumptive". I didn't know whether I had a "Healthy Adult Mode", but weirdly The Machinist could fill that roll sometimes but obviously had his limitations. Then out of the void, deactivated parts of me started to come back online. Something started to assert itself in the Present. It was very interested in emotions. Instead of casting them aside and pushing past them to get on with what i was supposed to be doing, it insisted I experience them, decode them and experiment with them. New experiments in the real-time interaction with people were enacted, with the emotional fallout, good and bad, further experimented with. This present-based-thing has been curiously self-compassionate, and has guided me through the difficulties and risks of fully engaging in real time with my emotional spectrum when relating with others, my work, and my life. All for the sake of her experiments. She is The Scientist. She is getting all kinds of results and recording all kinds of functions I had no idea I was capable of. The Machinist is head over heels in love with her, having watched her working over the least two weeks. She's kinda started flirting with him, allowing a desire for perfection to be felt over some work I was doing. "Show me what you can do". I consciously disparaged the desire for perfection, looked down and my consciousness was shocked to discover The Machinist had taken over my motor skills and indeed had made something perfectly, and was having fun. It seems I have two self re-parents.
Now, it's bonkers to read, I'm sure. I apologise. But it's working. It really is fucking working. Take what you can from schema therapy and run with it. Make it yours, whatever that means for you. It's gonna be weird. It's gonna be wild. I reckon the easiest way to engage with it has to be it's propensity for character and narrative, but maybe the path of least resistance for you is some other aspect of it I can't detect.

As days pass I find it amusing to be me.
I am the same everyday yet I am different.
I walk lifeless.
I walk, I breathe, I do everything that a living being is supposed to do yet somehow, I find myself lifeless.
My heart beats , I hear things ,my head hurts that means I am feeling yet I find myself lifeless.
My emotions talk , they breathe, they bleed in my paper as I write them through these lifeless hands which works perfectly yet, I ponder in my own thoughts and I find myself lifeless.
I see, my eyes communicate directly without my lips having the courage to utter a word yet I find myself lifeless.
As I call myself lifeless every second, I wish I could make myself lifeless.

As someone who has to study psychology - even i never opted to do this in real life like i have to now - after some years aside my young upwbd i just feel i need to warn, the need to get help, the impulse to help those ill cursed cluster Bs and the necessasity to feel again, especially to feel this stupid happy childish curiosity about meeting people (not gender related) without seeing them as black and evil and being overall negative.
I tried everything, materially, non materially, educating myself, healing myself, trying everything. I have dedicated fulltime to this illness, did build future arround it, still want it to work.
But at the end of every cycle you are the one takimg the toll and pay.
There are thousands of paintable pictures about the situation between my own mental illness and hers.
Same on the other side.
They have - if at all - a weak but in general negative self from my hpov, playing tough outside.
Every even small negative experience reenforces their self so they accept cruelty as normal. You can tell worst dehumanizing things to them that will not make them question your love.
You will even only give a nice look to a woman walking by without even thinking sexually about that one- it will trigger a tantrum. If not now it will be on their list for the later tantrum. This what you do is a existiential thread to them. They know tjis the, feel it, so it must be true end the panik must be extetnalized onto you.
Actually they build their own living hell in a cage. They cling onto you as they need someone in their cage not to be alone. But you may not be positive in that cage it would bring light into it, as this would expose them and aniliate them.
So they try to drag you down into that cage and keep you there
Any sane person would have keft long ago.
Your exploited codependency abd ppl pleasefixer weak core illness keeps you on the freeze effect with a arroused ANS only partionally using the fight response when you can't swallow it any more.
Problem is the trauma bond. This hell inflicted on you has two neural damage paths.
One is the ANS arrousal if shes there (walking on eggshells) of insecurity. But The second is the withdraws arrousal that happens if you try to break the bo nd. (The learned especially emotional helplessness).
Detachement is a hell of a process- the longer you tolerated it, the more mental healing you have to do.
I just feel that a open discussion in this helps me to feel if i am sane or paranoid.
At the moment i feel disgusted even at small disrespects.
As a example i wanted to do something nice at a restaurant at a fixed time which led to her rearranging the time against plan and when i arrived she already had ordered a cake and coffee and was eating with the lame "there was only one piece of that cawke left, you understand that i had to order it before you came" later ordering a secomd piece of that cake.
I feel disgusted and repelled

Tw: Transphobia, Sexual Abuse
Hey girls, I'm fucking going through it right now and just need support from others who might understand.
I'm so utterly exhausted, I feel like no matter where I am at any moment my identity can be weaponized against me or make me the target of any number of things.
It's like if ever let my guard down, especially when dealing with cis men, at any moment I can be taken advantage of or harassed or just outright assaulted.
It's happened to me in so many different forms and to some absolutely fucked up levels. The trauma of which infects every second of my life, and then every time I pick up my phone there's a sea of countless people who feel the need to go out of their way to invalidate all of that abuse and deny the power structures they stem from even exist claiming we just need to shut the fuck up and stop complaining so much as if talking about your experiences causes them to happen.
I feel like hypervigilance is the only way to avoid being taken advantage of or being put in a position where you have to defend your right to exist, But I've become so self destructive and thrill seeking from constantly Coping that I don't even have the mental energy to stay out of danger's way.
As a teenager I was a constant target of chasers, groomers, bigots, bullies, harassers, abusers, and eventually a fucking trafficker who literally found me stalking a trans mental health chat room. It's disgusting.
And it's fucking terrifying how many other girls I know you've been through some of the same shit, sometimes to lesser degrees but sometimes even worse somehow. We're being traumatized in mass and then blamed for it.
There's people who seek to destroy our mental well-being for their own gain and countless barriers to get what we need to survive all the while we spend our whole lives being told its us that's the problem.
It can at times be possible to avoid those people, or at least the worst they have to offer, but the process of doing so is so unbelievably complicated and emotionally draining.
I was put through hell and then shamed for complaining about it, I used to always feel the need to downplay how bad my experiences as a trans woman have been out of fear that I'd be seen as someone desperate for sympathy when I actually need serious fucking help.
The world scarred me for life, told me to kill myself, taught me how to destroy myself, left me with no stable support system after everyone turned on me, told me to shut up and not complain about it, and then just left me to rot and discouraged me from seeking communities that would understand.
If I hear one more fucking transphobe blame "trans ideology" or whatever for the suicide of a trans person I'm going to fucking lose it, it's getting so hard to take this shit anymore. So many of us keep getting to that state because of how we're treated and then people use that as a reason to treat us even worse.
I was hypersexualized and then criticized for being hypersexual, I was targeted by sexual predators due to being trans and then criticized for making myself too vulnerable, I was force fed terrible destructive ideas about my own identity and then degraded for acting out those ideas. I was aggressively coerced into countless things and then stigmatized for all of it.
I'm tired of seeing other trans girls go through all this shit, I'm tired of dealing with the emotional effects of it, I'm so tired of being targeted and I'm so tired of being told it's our fault.
Sorry if that was too dark, my head is a little bit on fire, have a good day/night everyone. Be as safe as you can be fellow girlies, hope everyone's doing a bit better than I am 💔

Prepare for a wall of text, this is a long one, also, english is not my mother´s tongue. Im posting this after a question in AskMen touched a sensitive fiber and I need some advice on how to proceed.
She is a married friend of mine, but our friendship is quite peculiar.
We know eachother since our last year at university (eight years ago), we did a team asignament and got along well so we continued seeing eachother after the course ended. We clicked well and talked about everything including our romantic lifes, her almost sexless relationship and my shitty and sexless dating life. We developed trust, companionship and a curiosity for trying new things together. We have the same values, political leaning and dark sense of humour. It is a great friendship and we can confide eachother anything.
She was in an almost sexless relationship for years, she married that same guy and is still married to him (14 years together and counting). Her relationship with her now husband is great except for the sexual aspect. This was a recurring conflict in her relationship up to the point than her then BF told her than "if she wanted sex so much she could find someone else", it didnt bothered him that she had sex outside of the relationship. She almost told him to go fuck himself right there. Ironically, near the marriage date she found chats his fiance had with another woman, he was planing on cheating on her. They talked thing out, she forgave him and got married. I asked her WTF she was thinkig, but she said she loved him...
Over the years of closeness, trust and mutual support, we developed atraction we both adknowledged to eachother but we both knew nothing would happen because she was married. Just to give you an example, she once told me that if she wasnt married we would have been having sex from long ago (wierd to translate from spanish), and I told her that the only thing stopping me is that she respected her marriage. This kind pull and push went on every once in a while for years. We both knew nothing would happen but we liked having someone that made us feel sexually desired, as her relationship was as sexless as before the marriage, and my dating life sucked big time.
Arround year and a half ago, she gave her husband an ultimatum and he finally went to an endocrinologist and a therapist, and after some time their sexual life improved. This went fine for arround a year until her father in law passed away, and their sex life plummeted again.
In our last meetups she told me her husband screwed up again, she found he had a collection of pictures he took from a coworkers IG profile and pictures from other women, which he looked before having sex with her to arouse and prepare himself for the act. When she confronted him, he said he was going to try to improve, but a month passed and he was caught again looking at other womens pic. He said to her that his psychologist told him he wasnt hurting anyone by doing this, as it wasnt cheating.
He said he wanted to do a clean slate, try from the begining again and she also said she had something to confess. A year after the wedding, she took some singing lessons (she sings preety well) and there was a classmate that didnt gave a fuck she was married, she hadnt had sex in months, found someone who was agresive in his aproach, lusted for her and caved in. She told me about the guy when this happened, but she lied to me and said that "it took a lot of willpower and self restraint not to cheat".
Now, here is the problem:
I never expected her to dump her BF/husband for me because that is a recipe for failure and being replaced on the same way the previous guy was. And while I stated I was interested I never pushed to far because of her morals (christian practicing woman who believed in marriage and loyalty AFAIK then). I have to admit than I if she dumped him I would have taken my chance because she is everything I want in a woman (except for the cheating part), she actually raised the standard of what I would like in a long term partner.
But it really pissed me off than the moment she decides to take the risk to set her life on fire, she does it with a random guy, and that the excuse she gave me is that she valued our friendship and would have caused her a lot of pain if her husband found out and she couldnt see me again, she didnt sleep with me because she values me. What kind of twisted, emotionally manipulative way ot thinking is that???. I didnt confront her that exact moment and emotionally dissociated because at the time we were having a coffee previous to a theater function she gifted the ticket to me for my birthday (we give eachother nice gifts), it was not the time nor the place.*
I honestly feel used for the validation her husband didnt gave her for years, and a part of me wants to tell her to fuck off and never talk to her again. Another part of me sees a great friend in her, and it would hurt me dearly not having her in my life. This confession changed the way I see her, there is no going back from that. I can accept being second to her husband, but not to a random stranger (one who didnt gave a fuck about her values and pushed until he got into her pants).
I have to be honest too, and in these eight years my dating life was a dissaster, I never dated much, I tried for a month or two, then dropped the towel for months on a never ending cycle with longer hiatus each time. Dating allmost always lead nowhere for me, I only had sex with two women in all that time, I would have loved a LTR but it never happened for me. So, having someone that found me atractive as a person and as a man made me feel a bit valued.
TLDR: I have feelings for a married friend, she said she is atracted to me too. It never lead somewhere because we both knew our place. She cheated on her husband with a random guy and told me she didnt cheat on him with me because she values me.
EDIT: added a bit of info* and typos, syntax.

Ok so I (16f) became friends with a classmate a few months ago (also 16f) and I’m her only friend. She genuinely doesn’t have any other friends than me and she is VERY vocal about how much she appreciates and happy she is that I spend my time with her. She can get really affectionate sometimes when expressing her feelings and it’s borderline uncomfortable sometimes but I let it slide because that’s the way she expresses her emotions. Like we had a sleepover and I got in my bed, and suddenly she climbed in next to me and then wrapped her arms around me and cuddled me as she fell asleep.
Today we hung out and at the end of the day I got on the subway to go back home and I said goodbye to her, and she said bye, and then suddenly she leaned in and kissed me on the mouth for a few seconds…I was caught offguard and just stood there, and when she pulled away she just waved and said to let her know when I got home (like she would if she hugged me).
I’m gonna be honest, I’m a little weirded out. I don’t think there’s a single person who can disagree that randomly being kissed is a surprising experience, but this may also bring up some questions about how she may feel towards me. Maybe she was just acting strange since she can do that sometimes, but like…how do you platonically kiss someone?

I Accepted a Job to Film on the Dark Web
Man, I am pumped to tell you chronically online content addicts my story. Wait is that too mean of an intro? Will this get taken down for harassment since I painted too accurate a picture of the people on this site? Sorry, everyone, I’m sure you all smell like an expensive bakery and have touched grass this morning. Anyway, I promise I have something interesting. It even involves the dark web you uncreative writers cream yourselves over! I mean, totally real people speaking about their strangely similar experiences. Okay, fine I’ll stop bullying you through the screen before you click off.
This all started when I was seven years old and my parents were killed in front of me in an anti-indigenous hate crime, but let's be real you don’t care. I’m just some annoying Cherokee kid with dead parents so I’ll skip to the good parts. I spent years in an orphanage, gradually becoming more interested in death and violence. As bad as it is, I went out of my way to expose myself to that content in the hopes of desensitizing myself. Which ended up working too well, since now I’m obsessed with causing and viewing pain, though I don’t find any joy in hurting myself.
I got adopted at twelve and after a few months of staying at my new family’s home on the reservation, I went with them to a state sweatier than the average Reddit user, California. Long story short, both of my caretakers, whom I referred to as Uncle and Auntie because they could never be my parents, died. Leaving me in the care of their older son, who I call cousin. I’m not stupid enough to give up any real names, so I’ll call him Brick, cause he’s as dumb as one. He was in his early 20s when he was tasked with taking care of me and is the world’s worst excuse for a babysitter.
I’m almost always alone at the apartment, with him only coming by to drop off supplies and stay for a few hours so the neighbors don’t get too worried. Unless I get in trouble at school, then he’d suddenly give a shit. It's useful because he doesn't about the gory stuff I look at, but some display of interest would be nice. Oh well, ninety percent of the population sucks so he’s just part of the majority. Now, with that said, you’ll be able to understand the perfect storm that led me here. During my time on the deep web, I found a particular website that caught my eye. They had new footage relatively consistently and they were the easiest for me to access since I didn't go too far into the dark web, especially with all the honey pots lying around.
I even bought a couple of files for myself to study and admire. One thing irritated me though, the cameraman. He was always sobbing, breathing, shaking, or some combination of those. It seriously killed the vibe of the killings. Something I commented on under many videos, often saying I would do a better job filming. A choice that in hindsight was me asking to end up in one of those recordings. I didn't think anything of it at the time. I was mostly the only one who commented but I was sure they wouldn't care. I was embarrassingly wrong.
I was staying up like usual, but it was past one AM on a school night, and back then that was a lot so I tried to sleep. Closing my eyes, tossing and turning, the works. I had just started drifting off when I heard the front door open. I remained calm but immediately found it weird since Brick never showed up this late. The thuds of the individual's feet grew louder as they got closer to my bedroom. I tried to convince myself it wasn't a stranger, especially since they got in with ease, but I knew that was wishful thinking.
They hummed as they opened my door. My dumbass had left it unlocked. I remained on my side, trying to look like I was asleep. They turned on the flashlight of their phone, shining it in my face. It was hard but I stayed still while they traced it over my features. I could tell they were smiling as they clicked their tongue.
“Heh, I knew it was a brat,” they whispered to themselves, pulling tangles out of my hair. Something I struggled not to groan from. They pulled up the hair over my ear and got so close spit got on my ear lobe.
“I know you’re awake kid,” they murmured, putting a blade to my neck. I let them grab my shoulder and move me onto my back, I knew how to fight but I wasn't about to take that big a risk with the position they had me in.
“You think you’re so cool saying you can do better than our guy.” they snickered, kneeling, their flashlight still shining in my face.
“Do you seriously believe that?” they questioned, moving the light away.
“Yeah, I do.” I stood my ground, they might have been intimidating but I wasn't gonna let that stop me from being honest.
“I wouldn't sound like I’m gonna piss myself every time it gets gory. I’m confident I could get better footage too, getting up close is something I’ve fantasized about.”
They clicked their tongue again and ran their finger over the bridge of my nose.
”Well, I know you’re a big fan of what we do, and you’re confidence makes me think you got something to back those claims up, so how’d you like a deal?”
I was surprised by how civil they were being aside from the touching and weapon against my throat.
“What kind of deal?” I asked, for all I knew this guy wanted me to lick their feet or some weird shit like that. They placed a finger underneath my eye, tracing a half moon with their nail.
“You have till this Friday to film a video of you killing an animal and put it on a flash drive that I’ll pick up here. If it impresses me and the crew we’ll hire ya with a handsome salary.” They began, moving their hand down to my cheek.
“But if you don't show, or it doesn't meet our standards, then I’m fucking up one of the parts of your face.” They warned, pinching my skin harshly.
“And if I say no to this deal?”
They put their hand over my mouth, scratching my lips.
“That’s cute, if you say no I’ll just slit your throat.” they grinned.
“Or rip it open with my teeth if you got a preference,” they smirked, before running their tongue across their sharp teeth.
“Okay, since I have no choice I’ll go with it, but I’m telling you now I can give you something way better than what you likely expect of me.” I prefaced, looking into their sunken eyes. They scratched my scalp, including the side of my head that was shaved.
“Good choice, I’ll be back to pick it up and if you're not here I’ll assume you don’t have the video. I genuinely wish you luck, because you’ll need it.” they removed the blade from my neck and walked away. I sat still for a few minutes in the dark, processing what had happened and wondering how they got into my apartment with such ease. I was confident I could blow their sniveling excuse of a cameraman out of the water, but I was worried about the people I was getting caught up with.
Sure, I had been on a lot of gore sites over the years but I was always just watching and occasionally commenting. Compared to most in the scene I wasn't much of a threat. I could defend myself and have contemplated killing for years but I hadn't murdered anyone or worse. Plus, I am part of way too many targeted groups to not be constantly at risk. Teenage, fem-leaning, two-spirit, indigenous kid with trauma? Yeah, I might as well be walking sign screaming “Hate crime me”.
So yeah, there was a lot to worry about. Regardless, I couldn't let that fear hold me back. I had a job to do and a group of sickos to appease. The next morning was rough, I got no sleep cause I’d spent all night brainstorming. I barely mustered the energy to change and drank straight mouthwash instead of brushing my teeth. Slogging onto the bus with drool on my cheek, I went to the back like usual. No one sat there cause, the seats were extra worn down, and I scared off anyone who attempted to with my active, rabies-infected bitch face. That day was different though.
I blanked on his name and where I knew him from, but I recognized his wavy hair and prominent curved nose. He glanced at each seat on the bus, before somehow settling on my area. He tried to give me space but ultimately seated himself beside me after realizing it was the only spot that didn't look like it would give him cancer. I glared at him as I did with everyone, but it didn't phase him.
“You know you could pick anywhere else right?” I murmured. He stared at the floor, then at me.
“I’m aware, but a few months ago I started a mission to sit on every part of this bus, and this is the last place.” he smiled, his lips softly curving at the sides.
“What’s the point of that?”
His mouth moved into a more neutral position, but his eyes kept smiling.
“I just thought it would be neat to see the same place from a bunch of different perspectives.” he took out his phone and snapped a photo from the point of view where he was sitting. Maybe my sleepiness made my bitch face less effective, cause he hadn't shown a hint of fear, which kind of annoyed me.
“That’s cool I guess, but I wouldn't do that if I were you. I’ve done some back here alone that would make your skin crawl.” in hindsight my attempt at unnerving him just made me sound like a pervert, which is probably why he held back laughter. Trying to hide a chuckle by clearing his throat.
“Hey, it's not my business what you do, no matter how Haram it is. It’s your life so that’s between you and whatever you believe in. Just don’t shake hands with me.” he joked, playfully putting his hands up. Strangely, I remembered his name at that moment.
“Oh shit, you’re Abdul! We have art together.” I sat up, haphazardly slamming my hand down on my leg.
“Uh yeah, I’ve seen some of your paintings, they’re pretty cool. I like the way you texture them, I’m trying to work on that.” he complimented, seeming more weirded out by my sudden energy than my accidental insinuation. I felt a little stupid for yelling his name but decided not to dwell on it.
“Thanks, you’re stuff is nice, and you’re good at shading.”
He stretched his arms while thanking me. We talked for a few more minutes, taking jabs at each other throughout. Turns out he was better at being an asshole than his artsy charismatic appearance made me think. The thing setting our insults apart being that you could tell he was a loving person underneath. It was the nicest conversation I had with anyone in a while. Though he could tell I was tired so he quieted down, letting me sleep, waking me when we got to school. We went our separate ways until the last two periods we shared. All that time, I spent my remaining energy plotting how I was going to handle the video. What I’d kill, record with, and how to dispose of the evidence. It was a lot to consider, but through three classes I devised a plan.
I’d find a stray around my apartment complex and take it out in my room. Record it on a portable camera since I broke the ones on my phone, no, I will not be answering how that happened. Then once I had my footage I’d put the body in a trash bag, throw it in the complex’s garbage, and clean the blood off my floor. It didn't seem like Brick would come by so he wasn't a factor I thought I’d have to consider. The plan was almost too easy, but I decided to believe in Occam’s razor. I got so lost in thought that by the time I reached Art, which was my second-to-last period, I didn't process that we were moving seats.
“She called your name,” Abdul reminded me. Our teacher placed us next to each other at our four-person table. The two girls sitting with us were already friends, so I didn't bother to say anything, but I was interested in talking to him more.
“So, what do you think of this assignment?” He shrugged, taking out his sketchbook.
“I’m not that good at drawing people, but the idea of combining two people’s faces into a portrait seems interesting. Any ideas on who you’ll pick?”
“Probably the members of the music duo Brain Tumor, they’re my favorite artists and they both look weird as hell.”
“Wow way to talk about your favorites, if that’s what you say about them I can‘t imagine what you have to say about me.” he joked, pulling up reference pictures.
“First, it’s not an insult, second I don’t have anything to say about you. Brain and Tumor have features and styles that make them stand out. Sure they’re ugly, but it just adds to their visual charm. Hot people are boring, there’s nothing to pick at.” I explained, unzipping my bag.
“Oh, so you’re saying you think I’m hot.”
His comment wasn’t serious but it kind of got to me.
“Shit, that’s not what I meant, I was trying to say you’re boring. All hot people are boring, but not all boring people are hot, okay?” I explained, flipping to a clean page.
“Alright, but if I’m so bland then why talk to me?”
I hesitated, contemplating how much of a dick I was gonna be.
“Because it means you probably need some spice in your life, which I can provide.”
He began sketching a head on his paper.
“I like spices, but I feel like you’re the kind of person to dump a cabinet’s worth onto me.”
I flicked my pencil over to his side of the desk, putting on a mocking grin.
“Aww, you scared I’m gonna get you into trouble?”
He picked up the pencil and started using it, putting his on my side.
“No, ‘cause I’m good at setting boundaries. I’m more concerned that you’ll get annoyed with how unafraid of you I am.”
I stared at him for a moment, I hadn't expected to hear that.
“Jeez, man you didn't have to read me like that.”
He shrugged, observing the red paint from past projects that lay on my pencil.
“It's not hard to figure out, just this morning you were trying to push me away on the bus. Lucky, or unlucky, for you I want you to have a friend and you seem like a fun person.”
“Wait are you saying I have no friends?” I squinted at him.
“Well, do you?”
I didn't answer.
“If your response is silence I suggest you take up my offer.”
I was stunned, to be honest. No one had offered to be my friend since 6th grade, and that didn't last long. Of course, I accepted it, but for the rest of the period, there was an awkwardness in my mind. As pathetic as it sounds I wasn't used to others genuinely enjoying my company like he did. Which was partly by design cause I get joy out of scaring people away, but still. I forgot how it felt to have conversations about normal things like art. He had such a nice smile too, usually when I see a grin I want to slap it off, but I liked his. His voice was also nice, it’s hard to describe what in particular but it was easy on the ears.
Okay, I’m starting to get off-topic. I’ll skip to the important part. Toward the end of class, he started talking about how he was interested in filmmaking and got a portable video camera as a gift at last year’s Eid. He didn't have it on him, but he showed me a picture.
“Heh, that’s funny, I bought the same one a month ago.” I pointed out.
“Yeah, it's a popular model, I’m still getting the hang of it though cause I’m so used to using my phone.”
“Well, maybe I could bring you over to my place or vice versa after school and I can help you out.” I suggested.
He smiled, putting his phone back in his pocket.
“I thought you said you’ve only had it for a month? You know I can always look up tutorials from trained professionals.” he reminded me with a notable smugness that I'd used with him before.
“Well those guys are stuffy and I’m a fast learner.”
He redirected his attention back to his page, picking his pencil up.
“Alright, I suggest we go somewhere public instead. You’re not exactly the kind of person I want to bring home to my parents right away. Plus they always need to meet my friends and their guardians before I hang out at their home.”
I gave an exaggerated sigh, stretching my back.
“Aw man, looks like we can’t get high in my murder pit during our first hangout.”
He didn't respond for a solid few seconds.
“Wait, you do know I'm joking right?”
He shrugged, the smile in his eyes appearing again.
“I mean, one of those things is a little less believable than the other.” he snickered, and I laughed with him.
We set up a time and a date, which is where I screwed myself. He ended up being busy with projects from his other classes and family which just left us with Friday, the same day I had to submit the video. Now, did I tell him I wouldn't be able to make it? No, of course not, because I decided to be stupid and even more overconfident. I said that I’d one hundred percent be able to hang out with him after school like I didn't have a mutilator who was going to drop by my place at an unknown time.
The rest of the day went over fine but that bad timing led me to feel like a dick later. When I got home I was able to write out my plan, even sketching a few specifics of what I’d do. It was more exciting than when I’d been brainstorming, but this is when the gravity of the situation began to set in. When I said I’d fantasized about killings I meant it. I mean my teddy with twenty-five stab wounds should say enough. Regardless this would be the first time real blood was on my hands.
It made me feel powerful, but a little afraid. I’ve heard stories of people thinking that it would be an awesome experience and then feeling like shit. I doubted I’d be one of those people but still. Plus, I didn't exactly trust the guy who gave me this job. There was a good chance that this whole situation was rigged and they’d kill me no matter how good the video was. Or worse turn me into the feds and expose my collection. Honestly, if that happened I’d probably eat a shot to avoid going to jail. Wait, can I say that on this platform? Okay to the mods, that was a joke, I want to live a long life. Ugh, I’m doing a terrible job of staying on track. The point is there was a lot up in the air despite it being a matter of life or death.
I knew I’d go through with it but it was still a lot less straightforward than it initially seemed. I wracked my brain to remember where most of the cats stayed and tried to come up with a good way to lure one without raising suspicion. This also proved harder than first thought because I didn't think to account for the cat man, an old guy who lived alone and fed all the cats in our dingy complex while also housing a few. Knowing how obsessive he was he’d probably notice if one of them disappeared. Then again not all the cats return consistently or at all. It makes more sense that he’d think one of them was run over rather than slaughtered. It was getting late again so I rested my head for a moment, a bad move cause I ended up falling asleep at my desk. Not even changing out of the clothes I’d worn before, I woke up late and barely caught the bus the next morning.
I went to my usual spot but Abdul had already taken it. He patted the area next to it, which he’d covered in a towel, a smart move knowing how nasty it was. People gave me a few dirty looks as normal, which I smiled at. I stretched, my mind slightly less out of it than the previous morning.
“Uh, you do realize that-”
“Yeah, I know I’m wearing the same clothes.”
Abdul looked me up and down, his eyes remaining soft, but with a mix of concern and judgment. He set his backpack down and took off his sweater handing it to me.
“Dude what are you-”
“Look I don't know what led to you not being able to change but I think you should at least have a fresh top.”
I was surprised he was offering me something to wear but I took it.
“Uh, thanks, I’ll change into it later.”
He nodded as I put it in my backpack.
“You know you didn't have to do that.” I reminded him.
“Well there’s a lot of stuff I don’t have to do, but I do it because I want to, and I wanted to help you out.”
He smiled, his face still warmer than an Arizona summer. I got a strange feeling in my chest at that moment, I still can’t tell if it was good or bad.
“Well, thanks, I'll give it back to you tomorrow.”
We talked a little more and he mentioned something that caught my attention.
“Have you heard about all the animals that have been turning up dead?”
My eyes widened with surprise.
“No, I haven't, when did you hear about that?”
He pulled on his long-sleeve shirt.
“My sister said her friend who works at a shelter noticed a bunch of animals were getting adopted by people around the same time, and since then gore videos with them have been showing up. She found out through her co-worker who was emailed it by some random creep.”
I covered my mouth and looked away to hide the smile growing on my face. He had just given me the perfect cover-up without knowing. Now if I killed an animal people had an entire violent ring to connect it to instead of me! I stayed quiet for a minute because I could tell he’d likely see through any phony sad sounds I made.
“Oh wow, that’s awful, do you think they’ll ever find out the people behind it?”
He sighed, running his hand through his wavy hair.
“I hope so, for now, all we can do is pray that no more animals get hurt.”
I couldn't contain my grin as he said that so sincerely like animals and people didn't die constantly and that taking down one group would somehow stop the issue.
“Is there some joke I don’t get?” he furrowed his brow.
“Uh, no, sorry I smile when nervous.”
His gaze softened again, and he didn't press further.
His bringing up the animal killings ended up being the exact push I needed to get my hands dirty. I’d spent the entire day before planning so it was time to put that plan into action. I stole some cat treats that the cat man had laid out and spread them around my apartment which was on the bottom floor. Waiting for one of them to take the bate outside my window was pretty boring but one of them came after a few minutes. A scraggly brown and black cat with a tuft of fur missing on one side of his head. It's messed up but I felt like a little less of an asshole for taking him in since he looked like he was already struggling. I scooped him up and he didn't attempt to fight back.
“Hey there buddy” I waved, feeding him some more food. His eyes had a lot of crust on them, it was kinda gross but I don’t have the right to say with how often I wash my jeans. After a minute or two he let me pet him. I knew making any kind of attachment was bad but I thought it was the right thing to do so he’d fall into a sense of security. I was just about to take him into my room when the door opened.
“Hey, I’m back with groceries!” my shithead cousin announced with two plastic bags in his hands. He looked down to see me with the cat, his eyebrows raising.
“Aw come on, you know we can’t afford a pet.”
He groaned placing the bags on a table and unloading them.
“I know, but he doesn't look like he’s got a lot of life in him I at least want to help him feel better before he kicks the bucket!”
Brick rolled his eyes, putting the cereal box on top of the fridge
“Jeez, did you even think about what diseases he might have? His eyes look puffy what if he has something that can get you sick?”
He had valid concerns which was surprising since he’s usually stupid, but I was still annoyed with him.
“I’m sure he’s fine, I’ll even try to wash him, just please let me hold onto him for a little.”
He folded his arms looking down at us.
“Have you even named him?”
I froze for a second, before using the first thing that came to mind, which ended up being pretty awful knowing my plans.
“Cash cow.” I blurted, awkwardly patting his head.
“Honestly that’s better than what I was expecting. I was sure you’d pick ‘Hellspawn Mcgee’ or something else corny.”
He meant to make fun of me but honestly, I would have named him that if I had more time.
“Ugh, anyway I got those dumb chips you like.”
He then pulled out a bag of the wrong chips.
“Dude those are the wrong ones, this is the third time you’ve mixed up the flavors.”
He threw them at me, scaring the cat slightly.
“Well, I pay for it so you shouldn't be so picky. Anyway, while I was in line I picked up something you might be into.”
He then tossed me a trashy teen magazine. One of my least favorite sorry excuses for an influencer on the cover.
“This is a joke, right?”
I couldn't believe my own adopted brother gave such little shit in my interests.
“I don't know, you decided to start being a girl for real this time so I thought the makeup tips on page ten would help you out.”
I scrunched my face at his comment.
“Dude I’ve been this way for years, just because I started wearing more makeup and dresses doesn't mean I’m more of a girl than when I didn't. I know you won’t get the two-spirit thing but come on.”
He shrugged, seeing me done with me even though he’d just shown up.
“Yeah well hey I’m trying. Anyway, just so you know a friend of mine is coming here Friday.”
My heart stopped.
“Wait why here? You live elsewhere why can’t you assholes go there or their place!”
He slammed his fist on the table.
“Will you shut the fuck up!”
He screamed with a phrase I’d grown numb to.
“I don't know, to be honest, something about wanting to move into this complex and this being a way to scout it out. I’m just letting you know now so you don’t act like a complete freak.”
“Jokes on you I’ll piss in whatever shitty beer you bring just cause you said that!”
I yelled back raising my voice higher than his. He face-palmed before putting the plastic bags in the drawer under the sink.
“Whatever, you and your ketamine-addict-looking cat have fun,” he told me while seating himself on the couch. I picked up the cat and walked into the bathroom to clean it. I closed the door and placed him in the dry tub. Using a small disposable mouthwash cup I got a little bit of water. I hadn't had a pet before so I wasn't sure how to approach the task. I dipped my fingers in the water and carefully pet it while pouring s small bit down his back. Any other cat would fight back but he just made pissed-off noises without doing anything.
I scrapped my old shampoo bottle and kneaded it into his thin fur. His skin was bumpy and dry beneath the hair so scrubbing it was uncomfortable. I made sure to avoid getting soap in its eyes but I did pull away some of the crust on its lids. His pupils were so clouded I was surprised that he could see at all, making me feel even more sure that he would be on its way out with or without me.
After drying him I set him on a beat-up shirt I wore when modifying clothes. He sunk his claws into it a few times, playing with a loose string. I ignored him for the rest of the night, hopping into the shower and changing for bed. His meows woke me up a few times but I tuned it out after a while, reminding myself that he wouldn’t be my cat for long.
The next day was Thursday and there wasn't a second that passed by where the weight of the murder I’d have to commit didn't weigh on me. I seriously shot myself in the foot by taking care of that scruffy, pubic hair pile. I was supposed to be hyped about killing it, after all, I’d dreamed and seen way worse than what I was going to do. Yet once I got home and started setting up I felt grosser with each step. I decided to record it in my bathroom instead of my bedroom so it would be harder to connect to me. I set down a few fabric scraps and a worn-out beach towel, placing it all inside a tub for easier cleanup later.
“Okay, I guess it's time,” I mumbled to myself. I brought the cat in and placed it down, setting up my camera once it was comfortable. I also wore my most generic clothes in addition to a mask, putting my hair in a bun for sanitation. When I saw the flicker of red showing that the camera was on I felt I was dreaming. I smiled, excited that I’d get to live out my violent desires. Yet, when I looked down at its pathetic frame and confused expression those urges left me.
I rationalized what I was doing, reminding myself how many animals die all the time and that I’d been forced into this, but it didn't help much in the end. I won’t get into it but under the pressure of impressing the group Cash Cow didn't go out as fast as I would have liked for a first task. Getting rid of the evidence was especially rough, the textures were pretty nasty, to put it mildly. It was surreal watching the blood go down the tub drain and gradually drip off my hands as I rinsed them. I couldn't conjure a single thought the entire time I cleaned it up.
Whether I was wringing out the clothes or putting the remains in plastic bags, it didn't matter. All I could focus on was the task at hand, with hints of disgust along the way. I ended up finishing at three AM. My hands were wrinkled and shook once I settled. I won’t deny that during the murder I didn't hate it. Slashing into something was fun and it made me feel strong. Still, it wasn't nearly as fulfilling as I expected it to be. Part of it was guilt, but it was mostly disappointment. I’d built it up for years and it wasn't earth shatteringly good or bad.
Overall, I expected to feel more, but it just left me hollow with an uncomfortable itch. There was no way I’d ever be able to see the tub the same way, hell I don’t think I’ll ever use it again. Luckily I almost always shower anyway so it's not too big of a deal. I watched a few horror game videos, trashed everything, changed and went to bed.
My scalp hurt like a bitch the morning since I kept my hair in that stupid bun. Despite getting less sleep than the past two days I held myself together a bit better in the morning. I brushed my teeth, changed, and had some fried bread before getting on the bus. Regardless I looked like complete shit and struggled to slump into my seat.
“Rough night?” Abdul asked
“Uh, yeah.” I quietly responded looking to the floor.
He frowned, looking at me with concern.
“You can talk about it if you're comfortable,” he assured me. I contemplated giving him a thinly veiled metaphor or vague explanation so he'd comfort me but stopped myself before my mouth could run a muck. He wouldn't be able to do much of anything and I don’t like opening up.
“Uhm, thanks but it's something I have to deal with alone.”
He nodded, respecting my boundaries.
“You know, I understand if you can’t hang out today it seems like you have a lot going on.”
I avoided eye contact with him as he spoke. For once I was feeling hints of guilt toward a person. I wanted to spend time with him, but I knew that I wasn't in the state to do that.
“Yeah, I think it’ll have to wait, I’m-” I cut myself off before apologizing. A fact about me that should surprise no one is that I hate apologizing. Even when I do feel kinda bad the act fills me with embarrassment.
“You what?” he asked, his eyes telling me that he knew what I was going to say.
“I’m emotionally not great.” I spat out in an admittedly poor attempt to get out of saying sorry. As always he remained calm but I could tell he saw through me.
“Okay, like I said I understand, whatever it is I hope you feel better.”
I told him thank you and we didn't speak for the rest of the day. At home I changed into more comfortable clothes and brushed my teeth. Unfortunately, I wasn't bouncing back from killing nearly as much as I expected.
“It wasn't even that bad! That thing was on its last legs anyway.” I grumbled to myself, smacking my forehead. I was feeling worse than when I did it which is weird. I ended up spontaneously decorating a ratty tie from the bottom of an accessory drawer to distract myself. It helped me get my mind off things, for a little. I had zero plan, just wanting to make something needlessly complex. Hours that felt like minutes passed and soon it was covered in patches, frills, and beads. I just tried it on when I heard the front door open.
“Man, that shit was wild!” I heard Brick laugh groggily. I didn't have to see or smell him to know he’d gotten lit. I rolled my eyes, closing my bedroom door.
“Hey, who’s there?” his friend asked, seemingly referring to me.
“Oh, that’s my little sis, don’t mind her she’s just on her emo shit!” he joked, which pissed me off for the petty reason that I didn't even listen or dress emo.
“Hey, that’s alright with me, I went through one of those phases,” they responded, their words less slurred than my cousin’s.
I fucked up and forgot to lock it when I closed it so they were able to swing it open, almost smacking my desk.
“Hey emo girl!” they waved as Brick haphazardly pulled them back.
“Okay, man, seriously I think she wants to be left alone.”
The way his friend looked at me made me uncomfortable. Like they’d snap my neck if I pissed them off. They clicked their tongue while stepping through the door frame.
“Alright, but I gotta say calling her an emo is inaccurate, they look like they watch gore and most emos just say they do.” they flashed a sharp toothy grin. At that moment I began to connect the dots.
“Easy, she’ll get pissy with you dude, now come on.” Brick warned tugging their opened button pushed him away. They looked me dead in the eyes.
“I don’t think she minds, in truth, I feel like we’ll have a lot to discuss later.” they smiled again, finally walking back into the living room. A chill ran up my spine when I saw them. The sharp teeth, New York accent, unsettling gaze, that motherfucker was the person who recruited me! They were able to get into my place so easily cause my dumbass cousin probably gave them a spare key or the opportunity to make one, and now they were a room away from me!
I dug my hands into my pillow as I contemplated what to do, no matter what happened next, I knew it was gonna be a rough visit.

During World War II, the civilian-to-combatant fatality ratio varied, but it generally fell between 3:2 and 2:1. In other words, civilian deaths significantly outnumbered military personnel deaths. Specifically:

• Civilians: Approximately 55.6 million civilians lost their lives during WWII.
• Military Personnel: Around 25.7 million military personnel died.
• This results in a 2.2 to 1 ratio of civilian deaths to military deaths1

Hamas Numbers vs. IDF Numbers:

• According to some analyses, the combatant-to-civilian death ratio in Gaza is less than 1:2. In other words, for every combatant killed, fewer than two civilians are killed2.
• An official assessment suggests that over 5,000 terrorists have been killed in Gaza, while the civilian death toll may be as high as 10,000, resulting in a combatant-to-civilian casualty ratio of 2:13.
• Another analysis indicates approximately 7,000 combatant casualties on the Hamas side and 8,075 civilian casualties, resulting in a civilian-to-combatant ratio of approximately 1.1:14

Essentially, the casualty rate of civilians happening right now in Gaza is at best better than WW2 and at worst the same. Do we consider WW2 a genocide of Germans? No. It's a stupid emotional argument i'm tired of hearing and the people making it look stupid.
Also, here's the definition of genocide: the deliberate killing of a large number of people from a particular nation or ethnic group with the aim of destroying that nation or group.
For anyone who disagrees, how is this definition more applicable now, then it was in the 1930s-40s during the second world war?

I met my husband when I was young, ten years ago. He was my second boyfriend and is from a different culture, so there were things I both didn’t understand and was fascinated by.
I am doing trauma therapy right now and learning about damaging relationships in light of my childhood. As I’m reading about the abuse a narcissistic parents imbues on their child it’s crashing into me that I might be doing this all over again.
He’s done so many things that make me believe and know he loves me. But I’m worried I shouldn’t have overlooked the red flags.. - the time when, after I made a photo book of all our dates for his first birthday, he forgot mine that year and then showed up with a bouquet of flowers and argued with me about why he couldn’t be there (I traveled to see him at work). He’s forgotten it again since. - shortly after we got married I found out he had been snapchat messaging his ex. He saved loads of their chats somehow and I stumbled upon them as he received a snap at an odd time. The texts had started when we were dating, included sexting, and he told her she’d always be his first love. He told me it was a mistake and I didn’t want to give up so easily. Nothing I know of has happened since. - he hasn’t had a job in four years. I have broken myself emotionally from trying to keep us afloat, but he spends his days playing video games. - when we get in arguments and he flat out refuses to speak to me until I apologize. - he dreams of the day I give up everything and move back to his home and family, despite the fact I’m the only one that works.
He was the one who insisted on marrying me and moved to be with me but reading patterns of abusive relationships I’m starting to wonder if it’s not just my parents who took advantage of my desire to be seen and loved. Am I making the mistake of both our lives? I also want to be a loving and understanding wife because I struggle with mental health issues and he struggles with neurological disabilities. But how much of this is me being too nice and him being too something? I really love him but I’ve been hurt so bad and I can’t even trust myself anymore.

sorry if anything feels hard to read english isn’t my first language & i have dyslexia :(
So I’ve been 2 months clean from overconsumption BUT whenever I see an items that i purchased during my overconsumption phase I get extremely guilty which is normal but Idk how to move on….
This part is more of an explanation than making excuses: a couple months back I was extremely depressed (still am but it’s kinda shifted) and I spent a lot of cash on buying stuff I didn’t really need both from second hand shops but also from temu. if i didn’t have a package coming or when i returned from the city without buying anything i’d feel extremely bad, which of course led me to buy more shit!
now I’ve gotten way better (deleted temu) and become way more mindful when it comes to shopping overall :)
Though it still feels like i poured black ink on a white cloth and if anyone has tips on how to improve emotionally when it comes to this? has anyone else felt the same? should i do anything with the items that i don’t need?
Thanks for reading!!

hi, i’m 18. from a young age the man that was to be my father was the one to abuse me for yrs. the police didn’t do anything and now he gets to live a new life with a new wife and new job, blah blah. i’m to be finishing high school this yr but because of all the trauma my teachers told me that regular school won’t work as every second i’d be in the office crying, or just in this constant state of fear, not able to focus, i also work so id be sleeping a lot in class, etc. the last straw was when i had a panick attack and they sent me to the hospital as i literally couldn’t breathe, etc.
i’ve been to therapy but they all say the same thing and give me new meds to just stay alive or else ill just sleep the whole day and lay in bed. i just don’t know how it’s even real to see someone who took everything from me get to start over with no repercussions while i suffer with everything he did. not to mention i have to walk around with features i have from him and the fact i’m related to him. no one seems to understand how disgusting and gross that is. to look similar to person that hurt you, to have their features, genes, etc.
my last option is to turn to drugs or smoking or just anything cause all the meds i’ve been given at every dosage doesn’t seem to rlly ease all the flashbacks, physical and emotional pain, etc

Can anyone tell me if I am the only one . Is it me am I the problem? I don’t know what to believe anymore I wanna know someone give me a reason an explanation fuck give me an excuse for all the moments in my life that pain so white hot and intense has wracked my body and brought me to my knees when my will to live has been brought face to face with my darkest fear. Where the only words i can hear as death whispers in my ear is my name sweetly spoken in promises of a quiet mind and peace. Can anyone hear me is this thing on. My fear is fading out and I know I should be scared at this but I don’t feel fear the same anymore. it is blurring around the edges and starts to look a lot like comfort something I just can’t seem to find or hold in my grasp, and I tell myself I should be scared at this but my soul is battered and bruised and I am running on fumes.I honestly don’t know how many more days I can wake up to this bleakness of my uncomfterably painful existence. Is my pain all in my head. Did I do something that has led the People i love to mishandle me. Do I deserve to be wrecked every day the minute consciousness returns to this weapon that is my brain. Ive torn myself apart so many times ive made myself BLEED. ive let my pain soak into me till I no longer existed in space, gone without a trace. I try so hard to do no harm. As I am falling apart. I pour and pour from my empty cup. Its been empty from my fucking start. My dad was the first to mishandle my fragle new heart. He is where my cracks did start. Home was a battle field amd my skin was where my father’s anger would wage war. I grew up being told I held the golden cup full of my father’s favor. It never would save my skin from his anger. And I was told, no reminded often, how wicked I had been to the first being my heart ever truly let in. I grew up feeling every blow they took wrapped in guilt savagely placed on my heart to go along with my skins own marks. I was Twice whipped but only one would ever heal the other would bleed me every day even till today. At 8 is when death would first whisper my name to me . I never knew never would he ever depart from my mind and heart. At 9 so small and yet already my soul felt so heavy. My wounded little family grew by one. And traveled miles back to where my first cry had taken place. Where I would be born again and die more than one time. 9 taking on a little one. The second soul who would come to know my heart. Cherished and so loved even before air would give raise to his own challenging start. My mother would finish the killing of me without stopping my heart. The tiny soul I had hoped for was ripped away from me unexpectedly. Given away to have a chance, a brand new start , Or so that is what was said. 17 years I would mourn this everyday feeling like a piece of me was lost. By 11 melancholy would already call me home. School the escape from the war at home had become a battlefield of its own. And wounds would be added to the collection that had started. My first brush with a razor and a mans warped desires would fall in this timeframe not too far apart. Ill never know why my mother would make guilt and not love in me grow. Love for my parents I have felt from the start and still with each mark on my heart they would leave on me, the only thing I would ever bleed is my desire that they would want me.that they would love me. Can a child grow up too young? I don’t think I grew up tho. Ive been trapped in the tiny body that never had a real chance to start. By 15 I had lost both parents and one sibling already I was torn apart and bleeding. My wounded heart festering as it began to rot. The razor blades became my closest friends. At least when they marked my skin, I had wanted it then. They always stayed and helped me cradle my already too heavy pain. They knew what I would feel and that it was real. They went in deeper,beneath my surface on purpose. Something no one else wanted to do or so it would seem to me that no one really wanted me. My first love found in a man would be one that would feel much like my dad. Hands too rough and words never in the only shape Ive ever really wanted L O V E He Left more torn up marks on my heart. Heartbreak at 16, you would think i would have welcomed it like an old friend . that I would have tucked it up besides my heart hidden beneath my ribs, where pain was already rattling around in. pain makes us seek out comfort wrapped in deceit. I looked to the arms that made me weep for comfort. I never would find comfort there. for me there all I found are things that broke me. 16 I was 16 when the first piece of me truly died. I watched it die in her eyes. as the words scorching up my throat and heart left my lips. I watched as they connected the dots of things that mothers should not behind her eyes as the piece of me died. I was a daughter never cherished by my father, pain the only thing he gave for me to gain. I was a daughter never loved by my Mother given to men and left to defend alone the monsters my mother let in. Pain separated me from bonds that should have been. I would later see that the monsters I fought inside of me had always really been me . I grew up lonely both on the battlefield I was forced to Fight to survive in real life and inside the prison bar confides of my own mind. I fought and waged war constantly never knowing the enemy I had been fighting the whole time was always me. I don’t know who I am I died before I got the chance to even begin . Love is supposed to fill up your heart and shape you into the person you are. Teach you to swim in the depths of our own emotions. I never learned how to swim in the oceans I hold within. Ive been slowly drowning since I was a kid. Told that the validation I would grow to need like a drug, heroin to a fiend just so that I could feel something good inside the depths of MY being, a liferaft to keep me afloat was wrong of me to ever have a need. But How do I save myself from drowning beneath each giant wave my emotions bring crashing down around me. I cant swim in the ocean beneath my skin. Waves constantly crashing in and dragging me under. My air is running out and the only thing I hear people shout is SWIM!. as water replaces my lungs empty spaces. Blood hurts more than water its true but let love boil the water and it will still hurt you just as much too. Never feeling loved by my makers I searched for it in other spaces. Except the only place it should have been. My children you will never know of the force of love I hold for them. But I am still only a human. Trapped and stunted in the child that has been calling out in pain. So many lessons I have gained I see them now neatly wrapped up in my pain. I have been told by the ones I love both with and without blood, that I am too much because of my pain. Yet when I agree and try to erase me I am told to stay as they then walk away. Why. Why. Why Do I have to stay and everyone else gets to walk away from the darkness that takes my light away. Happiness feels almost like a myth a conjured up dream to dangle just out of my reach. And I have been told that its happiness I thieve from those around me. What kind of monster does that make me. That I would take the thing I so desperately need from someone that I love. It has been told to me that I am the creator of my own misery. That I should be a better human being and stop claiming to be the victim to the things that have brought death to my mind so many times. When I reach for help. Water rushing in as my screams are ripped out. Never a hand has been held out. Only the boots of blame and shame to push me further down. My pleas have begun to fade out. my voice is weakened by the consistent beacon, the sos hanging above my head running down my eyes and out my wrists that everyone claims to miss. No one will hear me if they don’t believe me. How do I convince them my pain is real. it means its me I have to kill. Then everyone will say I had been real and not the ghost I thought I had been when i was drowning and didn’t know how to swim.