While some things in life should be kept private, certain secrets can be so overwhelming that you can’t help but want to come clean. These poor people were so desperate to unburden themselves of their biggest secrets that they held nothing back as they shared what they could never confess in person.
My dad passed last week. I hadn’t spoken to him for seven years after he decided to cut me off for something he was angry at my sister for. He didn’t even tell me. I panicked back then because I thought he was sick or worse, and he was the only family member with whom I had contact. I was 5000 km (3107 miles) away. When I finally got in contact with him, all I got was a gruff, “What the heck do you want”?
I said, “Well…I wanted to know you were okay”, to which he replied, “Well, screw you and everyone else. I never want to hear from you again”. My grandpa, who was and will always be my hero, told him he was being a little child. He never spoke to my grandfather again. My grandfather passed a few years later. My dad called me not long afterward, but I was so enraged that he had never tried to get back into contact with my grandpa that I couldn’t talk.
I hung up. I never heard his voice again. But then, after he passed, I learned he’d written a will before that last call—and it shook me to my core. His will didn’t even mention my name. I get nothing, and his landlords got everything. They want me to go down there and visit for a memorial in the local pub next week, where they’ll all pretend my dad was a nice bloke and that he loved my sister and me.
I haven’t told my sister or my dad’s siblings yet, but I’m just not going. Screw him.
I have been betrayed by my community, my friends, my workplace, and my family so horrifically that nobody believes one person could endure it all. I shared details with a counselor and a psychologist, and they both went from disbelief to becoming enraged after hearing it. Here’s one of the few dozen stories, and I promise to go light: I saved a little special needs girl’s life.
She was getting choked while being lifted a few feet off the ground and getting her head hit against a brick wall. It happened right outside my door. A few more seconds and she would have been gone. The worst part? Her family was mad at me for saving her life, and my workplace wanted to try to fire me. Nobody wanted her. Nobody else came to her aid. I ended up in the ER. Nobody cared.
Sometimes, I wake up at night seeing her face with her eyes rolled back and her tongue out, the attacker’s fingertips disappearing into her neck, and the rage in his eyes. I’d do it again.
My husband passed from lung cancer nine months ago. He battled very hard and survived for 16 months after being told he only had six. I was so proud of him—he was my rock and my true love. But I've been holding something in, and I can't keep it a secret anymore. I am not as sad as people assume I should be.
Whenever a song comes on the radio that he would sing to me, I will pull over and cry; but I’ve read other people’s accounts of those who have lost their partner around the same time as I did, and they are crying every day still. I never did that, and to be honest, I feel content in my life. I am not ready to start dating again. I talk about him like he is still here with me.
One of my clients, whom I see twice a week, didn’t even know for about six months what had happened, for example. I feel guilty and proud that I am not destroyed by losing my husband, but heck, I wish he were here with me.
My mom was so awful to me growing up that I don’t know how to express anything but disdain for her. I don’t hate her at all, actually...I’ve just convinced myself somehow that hating her was easier than forgiving her. The truth is excruciatingly difficult to admit, but here it is—I just want my mother. She’s gotten better, and she’s still trying, and that means the world to me. But neither of my parents taught me how to properly display most emotions.
I am relapsing from my eating disorder, and I am lying to everyone, including my treatment team. I just sent an email to my dietitian and therapist saying that I met my meal plan and nutrition goals. In reality, I didn’t eat today, and I don’t plan on eating tomorrow. My friends think I am “recovered”. I spend 1,200 dollars a month (out of pocket, after insurance) to lie to my treatment team. It's even more complicated than that, though...
If I stop treatment, I am scared that I will attempt to take my own life again.
I work in mental health. I’m no better than my patients are. I’m not ashamed of it. Everyone struggles. I just worry whether I’m helping in the best way when some nights I’m barely keeping it together. For context, I work in a psych hospital. I love my job, but it’s hard.
My wife has mammary cancer. I have to remain positive and upbeat for her sake—she’s going through enough. The chemotherapy is going really well, and the surgeon and oncologist both tell us that the prognosis is good, but still…I've been harboring a deep secret. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I wake up absolutely terrified, and I can’t breathe until I hear her move.
Intellectually, I know that things will almost certainly be all right. We have great medical care in a first-world country, and the cancerous mass has now shrunk so much that it would be near-undetectable if we didn’t know where it was. But deep down in my monkey brain, I am a gibbering simian wanting to lash out at the world.
I have low awareness. I catch on slowly. Forgetful. In school, my grades are scraping the top of the bottom, despite trying my best. I’m not good at physical fitness either; I am the type of guy people will ask if I’m okay mid-run. I made a mistake in my choice of field of study as I have no passion for it at all, but pursuing courses in other areas that I am interested in reveals I have no talent for it at all.
I’m okay with communication but have trouble keeping relationships because I’m afraid of commitment. I absolutely despise myself for my incompetence, and my inability to improve has destroyed all motivation I have for life. I have to put in a constant 100% effort to even be seen as an average person. I’m the tortoise in the race, and unfortunately, in life, there are plenty of hares that don’t slack off.
As an old woman, I’m only now willing to admit the details about all of my life: the childhood torments, both inappropriate and physical, the timely and untimely passing of my family members, my substance addictions, the things I did to fund them, the mental health problems throughout my life, my domestic mistreatment throughout my 18-year marriage, and having to find the courage to leave it. But also my finding strength. Excelling at work. Experiencing some wonderful loves.
Now, I find myself facing a whole new challenge—my terminal illness and disability and pain. I will never meet or converse face to face with the people I share bits with, but doing it is twofold. For one, I’m still alive. No matter how horrendous life is, it is always possible to change either it or yourself. Life can still have very beautiful moments or seasons, even in dark times. Nobody owes you anything. You don’t owe anybody anything.
Don’t quit because of how somebody else sees or treats you. My end is as bloody hard as the rest of my time on this planet. My second reason is purely selfish: I want to put my small thoughts out there to see some of my anonymous words on a site that will be forgotten by tomorrow by those that take the time to read them.
As a bonus, maybe I can offer a little hope, confidence, or drive to those who have none. That’s it.
Here's something I'll never admit in person—I’m jealous of my little sister. I have some very severe medical issues that have held me back on pretty much everything in life. I can’t work. Can’t drive. Can’t live on my own, so I’m still stuck living at home with my parents, and growing up, I was sheltered a lot due to said issues. My sister is sixteen and is just absolutely thriving. She’s driving and will be starting her first job this summer. She’s starting to choose where she wants to go to college. She’s studying to be a nurse.
I love my sister. She’s my best friend, and I’m so, so proud of the young woman she’s becoming…But dang it. I die a little inside every time she reaches a new milestone. She gets to do all these things I never got the chance to do. She actually has a future ahead of her, and I’m trapped because of my stupid medical condition! I feel like the worst sister ever for feeling this way.
I grew up sheltered to the point of it being embarrassing. I didn’t know a lot of basic hygiene stuff until adulthood. I didn’t know what male genitalia looked like until I was 17. I didn’t know babies came out of a hoo-ha until I was 14. It was all forbidden topics, and my parents always checked my browser history, so I couldn’t research anything on my own without being paranoid.
I’m still learning things, and I get so embarrassed seeing people online say, “Ewww. Who does that”? I know I’m that person who does that. I also experienced medical neglect because of my family’s fear of human bodies. I begged my mom to take me to the gynecologist when I was 16, and she was horrified and didn’t want me to be seen unclothed by a doctor, even though she sees one herself.
I was bleeding a massive amount and was miserable for an entire year. I had a conversation with my mom about it once, and it was an absolute nightmare. My cousin was in the car with us and said she was the same way until she got on birth control, and I literally sobbed because I knew there was no way in heck my mom would consider it. A few months later, I told my mom I was going to the bathroom every single class and missing out on important lessons, and she finally took me.
I got diagnosed with a bleeding disorder and was finally put on birth control.
I’m a teacher, but I absolutely hate it. I have anxiety every time I get up in front of the class (or any public attention, really), and I feel like I don’t know anything. I know that, ultimately, I have a lot of self-doubts and low self-esteem and am certainly not confident. I’ve been told countless times that I’m a good teacher, and I see the results in the end, but still, I just can’t make myself like teaching.
I’d confess just how desperately sad I am in my life every single day. I’m 30 years old and have no job, no car, and no home of my own due to crippling anxiety and mental health, so my daughter and I live with my parents. I see everyone else with cars and homes, happily married and further on in life than I am. A lot of them are people I actually went to school with. It’s embarrassing.
I have no friends at all. I’m friendly with some of my old school friends and chat with them now and then online, but they’ve moved on in their lives since we were kids, and I’m never invited to anything or probably even thought about. Truth be told, we are probably all so different as people now that it just wouldn’t be the same anyway.
I put my heart and soul into trying to convince myself that all of this doesn’t matter because I’m at least a good person who strives always to be kind and a good example for my daughter, but even that is starting to waiver now. The dark truth is that I am starting to feel like a bad mama and a terrible role model for her because…Well, how can I teach her anything positive?
Am I even teaching her anything? I’m still living at home with a pitiful life and zero social life or prospects. Yeah. Real great mother I am. I don’t want to feel these feelings and hate myself and how my life turned out. I don’t want to be hard on myself for things out of my control, such as my mental health. But I am hard on myself, and I do hate myself. I really do.
I even feel guilty that I think this in my head every single day because I’m privileged compared to a heck of a lot of people. But I just feel like such a loser. I am a good person; I raise my daughter right, and I love her to the point where she gets sick of my cuddles—but it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m just one of those people that sees life happening for every person around me, but never me.
I’m always left behind, forgotten, and dumped on. It’s as if people think, “Oh, it’s only her. She doesn’t matter”. I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a very long time. It hurts to even be writing this. I feel like people will see this and laugh at me or think I’m just pathetic. I should be further on in my life, man. Where did it all go wrong?
I’m afraid to be vulnerable again. Every single person I’ve opened up to has used it against me. I’m afraid to show romantic interest in the one person I’ve been romantically interested in for a considerable time because the last two times I’ve had a romantic interest in anyone, they ruined my life. I crave intimacy with the people I care about, I crave a connection with people, but I’m afraid to establish one because I always get hurt.
I’ve spent so, so long working on myself and trying to be a better person, trying to recognize the patterns, but I’m still afraid to take that step. The saddest reality of it all? I am in a room with two of my best friends, two people I know would love me through anything, and I’m still afraid to be myself. I don’t know what to do. I’m lonely. I feel so alone because I can’t just TRUST anyone anymore.
I just want love, and I feel like I can’t have it. I wear my heart on my sleeve. People take advantage of that, sometimes. It’s wearing me down, and all of my progress on myself feels like it’s been for nothing.
My wife of 15 years has BPD, and I hate her with every fiber of my being. She’s abusive, controlling, and a vicious tormentor. There's only one reason why I'm still with her at all—to protect our kids from her. Once they’re old enough to go to college, I’m leaving in the middle of the night, and she’ll never hear from me again
I don’t care that my brother and I don’t talk anymore, and the fact that I don’t care makes me angry. I miss him because I love him. But he's snaked me and my family on several occasions—skipped like nine Christmases in a row last minute after we arranged things around his schedule. I know he has kids, and that’s tough. But he can buzz off. It sucks to know we’ll just never be a priority for him.
I badly need therapy, but I don’t even know where to start. I have a good job and a healthy portfolio built, so money is not really a problem. What really is a problem is that I’m from India, and although therapy is certainly available, it’s not really that commonplace here. Also, the reason I think I need therapy is that I often feel life and our existence, in general, is pointless (especially when factored in the vastness of the universe) and that anything I do or accomplish in life is not gonna matter in the long run.
I’m definitely not thinking of ending my life or anything like that. I think I just need some assurance that my life means something.
My dad effectively swiped a large sum of money from a group of veteran bikers—not the peaceful, law-abiding type of people, but the sort with questionable morals and hate for the judicial system. They made a shocking threat—they were going to cause him physical harm and take or cause 10 times the amount of money he took from them.
They are aware my dad’s in a wheelchair and can’t defend himself, so they are going to take it out on my brothers and bring physical harm to them. They are doing it for nothing more than the sport of it; there is no financial gain here. The catch is that my biological birth family blocked me, and I blocked them on everything.
I couldn’t warn them directly if I wanted. I could call the local law enforcement and see if they warn the family, but my dad is a p*dophile, and he took things from me, burned down my trailer house, and is still a very harmful and all-around terrible person. The worst part? My brothers enable it. I am not writing a letter as it is not worth communicating with such a hateful person.
I am not really motivated to see that daddy dearest or the brothers remain safe. It is my opinion the world would be better off without that sort of trash.
I’m in constant doubt that anyone I’m talking to actually cares or wants to listen to me. I’ll be talking to my mother, and I’ll have to apologize for just talking about myself. My mom is amazing, and I know she wants to care, so it isn’t her fault. But I just feel so guilty sharing my interests with anyone. It can make me difficult to talk to because I don’t say much.
I didn’t actually graduate in the winter like I told everyone I did. I’m still finishing up my credits. I had a bunch of mental and physical health problems within the past two years, and I became extremely anxious and paranoid about my schoolwork, so I started just avoiding assignments altogether. The consequences are hard to swallow—I’ve failed four classes after getting A’s and B’s my whole life.
The only person who knows the truth is my dad. I feel the worst about lying to my boyfriend, and I get the urge to tell him, but I don’t know if I could handle that disappointed look in his eyes. I put up this façade of having everything together, and I don’t want people to see me struggle and fail.
I'm going to get a lot of hate for this one—I’m not sure if I love my own daughter. She is 14 months old, and most of the time, she is with my parents because my husband and I work messed up hours. But I don’t miss her, not even a tiny bit. I care for her; I don’t want her to be hurt, and I like spending time with her, but I don’t miss her. I don’t need to see or interact with her. I’m scared to tell this to anyone other than my therapist.
I’m not super independent, not because I think that’s the right (feminist) way to be, but because whenever I reach out for support, I don’t receive it. I’m a sideline figure in my friend group, family, and workplace, and if I share a problem, it’s just invalidated. I’m in my thirties and have long since learned to be “the hero I deserve” for myself, but dang, I’m tired.
I am on the fence about whether or not to move away from where I live, but the thought that I very likely can’t even financially make that choice until I’m over 40 freaking scares me. Like, I pretty much hate where I live. The biggest thing I hate is the dang lack of basic resources. There’s only one cop during weekdays between 7 AM and 10 PM. There’s no hospital within two hours, and those hours spent driving increase if you actually want to go to a trustworthy hospital.
And it gets worse. There’s not even a freaking grocery store within 30 minutes. The lack of resources has only gotten worse and worse within the past five years. The hope of bringing in new resources is a lost cause because if you don’t gratify the mayor, it isn’t happening. I’m on the fence about moving away because I’m worried that the issues I’m facing now will not be any better anywhere else.
However, I also feel like, within the next five to 10 years, I really won’t have a choice because my area is going under, and it is going under fast. The longer that time moves on, the more everyday life is a freaking struggle. Considering how (gesturing at everything) things are economically on a national scale, I am also absolutely terrified that I will be trapped and unable to get away when things finally give in my area.
I seriously think I have antisocial personality disorder. I feel little to no emotion on a daily basis and have never really felt any real remorse in my life. I felt nothing when I lost close friends or family members. Don’t worry, though; I understand that unliving people is not really a good idea.
I’ve been depressed for pretty much as long as I can remember. My darkest moment was when I seriously considered taking my own life around 10 years ago. I never actually went through with any attempt, though. So, my problems are partly because I’ve never actually attempted anything, combined with some poor experiences opening up to people close to me around that time about being depressed while wishing I was deceased.
I feel like some kind of fake that wasn’t and isn’t “depressed enough”, as dumb as I know that sounds.
I’m an intern in the cement industry, working for the predictive maintenance department. This week my new boss told me that if I don’t start putting on numbers, he’s gonna swap me for someone else. His friend, a coworker of mine, jokingly-ish said that I’m just not good enough. They have been having a field day for the whole week, asking me stuff they know I don’t know and making fun of me.
I’ve never in my life felt so embarrassed and worthless. To be told straight up that I’m just not good enough to be there was so hurtful. I wanted to cry, but I refused to give them that. To be honest, I haven’t been putting my 100% into learning the stuff. In fact, I think last month was the last time I remember studying pretty much anything from our department. They are right.
I haven’t been as locked in as I should be. No excuses. That said, the way they told me that was pretty freaking hurtful. I’m gonna give my best from now on because I refuse to just fold and let them have their fun. I don’t wanna be the guy people use to make jokes. I just wanted to write this here because I really don’t wanna put this on anyone I know. Thanks.
I know that my husband is sending dirty pictures to someone else. But that's not even the worst part—he has never really been aroused toward me (claiming he has a low drive). The part I can’t admit in person or even to myself is that I think I need to end our marriage.
The thing I can’t admit in person is that, in truth, I actually love one of my friends. The only reason I don’t ask her out is that back during high school, I ruined my chances with a little white lie—I defined our relationship as artificial siblings. Half of the school staff thought we were related when we were not. Both of us acknowledged it, and we both agreed to work with it.
I’m so aroused that I actually can’t function, and when I say I can’t function, I mean I can’t function. Sometimes it’s actually painful for me to stand up because of how much my legs shake and because of my downstairs cramps. It’s been recognized as a medical issue for me. I have to be on birth control to regulate it, and I’m not allowed to do hormone replacement therapy until I notice a viable change.
My partner and I did long distance for a while several years ago. As we were saying goodbye in the car before I drove back home after a visit, I, in the driver’s seat, committed an awful offense—I pooped my pants a little with a toot. I don’t think the fancy dinner we’d had agreed with me, and it was truly heinous. He was doing the totally cutesy “Bye, I love you” and then running back to the window for another kiss act.
I was like, “I HAVE TO GO” before he could smell it, and I like sped off, but I don’t think he ever realized. I had to stop and change my underwear in a gas station bathroom before completing the rest of the drive. He was definitely very confused as to why I suddenly wanted to jet. This is my greatest secret.
My secret is that I was mistreated as a kid from the ages of 10ish to 16. The physical discipline was very regular and it went way, way too far—to the point of breaking my skin and bruising me so badly that my average skin color was more purple than white. I have PTSD from it. I hate myself for being inadequate and for being unable to process/cope with what happened to me.
I want to hide it from everyone, so they don’t see how broken I am. I am currently in treatment for my PTSD, depression, and anxiety. I am seeing professional help. I also managed to find a loving and supportive wife who has been encouraging and patient with me and my difficulties.
I completely lied and continued to lie about the group of friends that never existed because I’ve only ever had two friends in my entire 18 years of life, and they both screwed me over. I just didn’t want to seem like some loser with no friends, and now I just have to randomly come up with stuff on the spot when someone asks how one of these made-up people is doing.
I literally went so far as to make, like, eight Snapchat accounts so I could text entire conversations from all sides to seem more legit.
I wouldn’t tell this to anyone other than my husband because he’s the only real-life human I’d trust to tell right now. I’ve recently had a falling out with the religion I was raised in. It both hurts and relieves me in many ways that I won’t take up space here for; I’m just adding it for context. That religion (and the environment that I couldn’t get out of) did nothing but subjugate me regarding my looks and how I could dress, and it made me feel subhuman for 34 years.
Through this, I’ve come to realize I’ve always been a naturist at heart. After posting this, I am going out into my shed before baby boo wakes up for the day to take my first in-the-buff photo outside for Canada’s [Undressed] Gardening Day. I’m going to share it with my husband proudly. I’m also going to call and reserve a campsite at a naturist retreat and ensure our camping gear is up to snuff.
I’m going to go be around other perfectly imperfect humans who have flaws just like me, and I’m going to walk through nature and feel like my own body is beautiful too.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder is tearing my life apart at the seams because the urges are nearly uncontrollable and waste literal hours of what little free time I have daily. Still, I can’t afford therapy or medication, and my entire family thinks I’m a delusional whack job, and they disassociate from me because of it. But the worst of it, above all, is that no one takes it seriously and sees it as a “haha, funny, quirky” trait, and I’ve never wanted to punch someone for that stuff so bad before.
I maybe might not be willing to admit this ONLY to a community of total strangers, but I’m insanely reluctant to admit this to people I actually know, despite being pretty sure none of them would really be that bothered by it. Even so…For a bit of context here: I grew up in a part of the UK that, while it’s maybe not conservative per se, it also doesn’t really offer the LGBT+ community a lot of real support, and it doesn’t have a lot of visibility for the community as a result.
Also, being from the UK, there’s still a somewhat prominent viewpoint on crossdressing as being a source of humor (mostly because of the pantomime dame tradition), so there’s not really a lot of encouragement to try it, especially not for guys. So, with that in mind…here is my deepest, darkest secret—I would genuinely really like to try wearing women’s fashion. I’m not talking about just a dress here; I’m open to trying high heels, makeup, and all of that stuff.
I’m not trans at all; I’ve just been fairly consistent in my belief that I’d like to try experiencing life as a woman to fully understand what women go through on a daily basis if I could. I wouldn’t be THAT upset if I woke up one morning to discover that I was, as a result, but I’m pretty certain, based on my reading of how gender dysphoria works, that I don’t actually have it and am not actually trans.
Still, it’s one of those things I’ve genuinely wanted to try for years now. I could see it being a rather fun experience if done with the right people (who don’t treat it as a source of jokes in and of itself but are willing to have fun trying out ideas and be encouraging and friendly, as I inevitably embarrass myself by doing stuff like poking myself in the eye with the mascara brush).
It’s not even something that I want to become a part of how I live my life in general since I’m mostly happy with the stuff I wear (even if I do admittedly want to update my wardrobe a bit anyway). I just would like to seriously try it once, to see what I make of it all, and then go from there based on what I enjoyed about it.
I may have a problem with connections; I’m not entirely sure. I suspect it as strongly as I do because of my various losses—I lost a grandparent and a pet, and I “almost” lost a sibling (it was something that could’ve been serious but wasn’t)—and I felt basically nothing about any of them. The only reason the losses affected me at all was that I seemed to be a highly sympathetic crier.
When I thought of the real possibility that my sibling’s life could’ve ended, I realized it’d pretty much be the same dark reaction: I’d only be affected because people would cry about it, especially at the funeral, which I’d be obligated to attend. I cared about fitting an image or personality but not about the loss of the being in question.
I know logically that my parents (at least) and siblings care about me, but I just don’t “feel it”, and I can’t manage to just force that feeling. In fact, I don’t seem to really return the feeling at all: they’re a convenience or inconvenience at different moments, but seemingly nothing more.
The reason I’m only willing to admit this to total strangers on the internet is that I don’t really have that connection, and I don’t ever feel comfortable or natural bringing it up with those I’m around (i.e., family). I’m never asked about emotional stuff anymore, not since the later years of college.
I hate being a mom. I wish I had never chosen to have a baby. I knew for a long time I absolutely did NOT want kids, but after meeting my husband, I started to feel like I NEEDED to have a baby with this man. A random maternal feeling appeared, and it felt right. After feeling that way for a couple of years and talking about it, we made it happen. It took me about two weeks to regret it.
I love my daughter so much, but I hate the responsibility of being a mom; almost all of my freedom, alone time, and ability to go on spur-of-the-moment or late adventures has been taken from me. I feel trapped and depressed and would probably be scoffed at if I dared to reveal my true feelings to those around me.
I haven’t been physically intimate with my partner for about a year now. I’m not even sure if he still thinks I’m attractive or whether he ever did so. I’m shy and “boring” when it comes to these “special sports”, and I have a lot of problems. Plus, we really don’t have the time. Apart from that, I like my relationship. Weird enough, I know! I love him, I really do, and I wouldn’t leave him over the lack of action.
But then again, it can be quite frustrating and even pretty hurtful if people (more than you’d think) make jokes about doing the deed in general or make jokes like, “Haha, I bet I know why you were late”. Things like that. It hurts because...Yeah. It just hurts.
I was touched inappropriately on a weekly basis by my stepfather. I was also verbally tormented every day and constantly physically mistreated. My mother knew but continuously tried to convince me that it wasn’t happening and that I was making it up because I didn’t like him. When I was 14 and able to, I chose to end my parents’ joint custody and live with my dad permanently; my little brother followed me.
My trauma runs deeper than that, too—I never told my dad and never will; I can’t bear the thought of putting him through that pain. I cut off all contact with my mom when I was 19, which turned into cutting off all contact with my mom’s side of the family. This includes my younger half-sister, who also doesn’t and never will know what happened.
Not a single family member reached out to my brother or me or asked why we did what we did. I have no idea the stories or lies my mother has told them, but I’ve never been sad over it. I don’t miss a single one of them and never have. My only regret was that I didn’t speak up sooner, but I don’t believe it would’ve done anything.
I should’ve taken him out when I had the chance to. That is what I regret most.
I was in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my wife. We’d hiked about a mile to see a waterfall. I started to take a video, and while doing so, I trusted a toot I shouldn’t have. I can be heard on the recording calmly saying, “Babe, we gotta go”. She asked why. My reply made her raise her eyebrows: “I just pooped my pants”. We were amongst 30 or so strangers, most of whom heard me.
My wife was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe; she laughed for the entire mile. It was pretty freaking funny. I never thought I could have so much fun pooping my pants.
My true state of well-being might sound a bit cliché, which is why I often just keep it to myself. I’m currently 19 going on 20 in six months (December 22). My family is very distant from each other, and most couldn’t care less for me—that is, from both sides of the family. My friends are amazing, but I don’t have many, a solid three or four true friends, but none of them can do anything for me besides be there, for which I’m still grateful.
I’m currently homeless and can’t find any work. I’m living off of my food stamps and staying at a friend’s place during the nights when I can. I go by my day with a smile and hope that maybe today will be that day…I’ve gone out of my way for people who didn’t deserve it, but I’ve changed and become someone I can love and, hopefully, someone my friends can love. But it still hasn't gotten any better...
My mental state is really starting to get to me, and I’m taking less care of myself. I continue to smile, but really, I just want to scream for hours and hours. No amount of words has driven me to do better, and I’m slowly giving up on hoping that nobody close to me notices. I don’t really know if I’m happy being alive at this point, but I still just keep going.
I don’t know any of you, but I love you all.
I don’t know how to form relationships of any kind. People think I’m an introvert trying to mind his own business, and that’s exactly how I make it out to look. Here's the sad truth—throughout my whole life, I have never had anyone close to me besides my family. I used to be an outgoing and funny person, but I was always just a guy who found a group of friends, cracked some jokes, and then left.
That’s because I’m unable to carry a conversation with a single person on my own. I'd seen more as a stranger stand-up rather than a person, and I have no clue how to deal with this.
I suffer from OCD and anxiety. This manifests in disturbing thoughts, which are generally carnal in nature. I think this is due to my fairly extreme Catholic upbringing. When I’m in the worst of it, I think that I am capable of doing the things I’m thinking or that because I’m thinking those thoughts, it must mean that I want to carry out the acts.
This is despite the fact that I hate myself for thinking such despicable things. I have done lots of therapy, and I know I am not my thoughts; I am my actions. To anyone struggling with their thoughts, please don’t punish yourself anymore. You aren’t your thoughts. You can get help too.
After my sister took her own life, my parents asked me over and over whether it was their fault. Of course, I told them that it wasn’t their fault because...Well, who asks someone that after their kid passed? In reality, I was protecting them from the truth—the sad, dark truth. It was 100% their fault. My parents were extremely damaging people who broke my sister down her entire life. I only recently cut them out of my life, and now that I’m free of them, I see just how negative their influence was on every aspect of my life.
Rest in peace, Katey. Sorry I didn’t recognize it sooner to help you get away from them, too.
Generally, I have always made more money than any of my boyfriends, and I have a pretty good head on my shoulders (I’m the friend people go to for advice.) I do a great job of keeping myself together and taking care of everything, and I always joke that I’m going to be a working mom and my husband will be a stay-at-home dad someday…
Deep down, I just really want to be taken care of and given a break, and I also don’t really want kids, but I feel like I can’t say that and still expect a man to want to marry me and take care of things when I’m capable of doing it myself.
My mom was great. I respected her so much growing up. She was a single mother of five kids, and she gave us everything and did it with a smile. But a mental illness in me started rearing its head in second grade and was about to take over when she had her first heart attack when I was in eighth grade. About a year later, the bubble holding in most of my mental illness burst, and I made her life a living freaking horror.
It messed up our relationship the heck up. After getting held, I felt bad. I apologized. My therapist made us do family therapy so that maybe my mom could understand that I didn’t mean it, and I could understand just what kind of damage I’d done. I was so regretful, I mean, I almost drove her into an early grave, no exaggeration, but she wouldn’t let it go.
She got bitter. Reeeeaaaaal bitter. I reverted back to being awful, but slightly less so, at least. My sister passed when I was 16, and it devastated the family. My mom was forever changed. Her health got worse. She got less bitter again. We had a relationship again. I even quit my job to take care of her when she was basically on her last legs.
I was 19–22, though, handling this all alone, even though I had older siblings. It wasn’t just her I was in charge of, but my teenage sister, my nephews, and some nieces. Eventually, I snapped. I didn’t want her in the hospital room because I didn’t want her to see what I’d done to myself, what I’d become. She took it personally.
She started really emotionally and mentally tormenting me right after I left the freaking mental health facility. It was bad. Eventually, I had to walk away from it all. Roughly one year later, she passed. Everyone in my family, aside from my sister, blamed me and said I was awful for abandoning her. Funny since when she was dying, I was the only one at the nursing home.
I had one request: I didn’t want to see her when there was nothing left, and I did NOT want to be there when the plug got pulled. I did both because no one else could be bothered. But to be honest? Her passing was one of the biggest relief periods for me. I was honestly relieved that she passed. She’d suffered a lot.
A woman who was always on the go and had such a serious work ethic became disabled at 45; she lost a daughter in a very tragic and unexpected way; she dealt with my butt. She was in pain, always on a leash (oxygen cord or LVAD cord). I was glad she passed.
During a low point in my life, I started writing a sensual fiction novel online. For the characters, I literally just used people from my life, girls I’ve had crushes on, etc. Their names (just their first names), personalities, and descriptions are exactly the same as their real-life counterparts. I did it because I was too lazy to create my own character names, and I didn’t think anyone would read them.
Thousands of people have read it. I’d delete it, but I can’t remember my password to get the story taken down, so…Yeah. There’s nothing I can do about it now. At least it wasn’t a self-insert. Then it’d be easier to trace it back to me.
I’m so lost in life. I can’t hold a job because they all make me miserable. I quit jobs every few months because none of them make me happy. So, I should just get a job I want, right? Well, I’ve worked jobs I’ve hated for so long that I don’t even KNOW what I want. My dad got me to work at his restaurant at 13 to teach me about work ethic, but all he taught me was to be miserable working a job I despise—just as he despises his.
I never went to college because I had the option of either A) Getting a job or B) Putting myself through college. My parents paid for my brother’s college tuition at UT, and I saw the fallout of that. They wanted my brother to succeed so badly that they put themselves in financial ruin to get him there. Having your mom break down to 18-year-old you about finances made me never ask for a dime from them—even when I was so poor, I’d go without eating for days.
How could I ask for help when I knew my parents were struggling? I suffered in silence for so long. I would consider baked potatoes a lavish meal as my brother had his college paid for, as well as his rent in the most expensive city in the state. I never had the option to pursue what I wanted because I was so poor. So now my body hurts, my mind is worn, and I’m only 27.
I just want to give up right now, but for some reason, I can’t.
I’ve been dealing with a voice in my head since the seventh or eighth grade. The voice was always there; it started as a coping mechanism for dealing with my injurious friend group, who tried to convert me into a lesbian by inappropriately touching me and body-shaming me. The SAs didn’t happen too often, but they still happened regardless.
By the time I was in the eighth grade, I had been going through their torments since I was 10, and at that point, I wanted to perish. I never even told my parents about what was going on. I thought I was done for until a miracle happened—this voice showed up when I started to consider taking my own life. It told me to stay calm and reassured me that I could get through this.
After a while, I named the voice “Doctor”. The voice told me what to do and how to cope, but instead of telling me to hurt myself when I got depressed, it told me to find ways to survive and to talk to it about what was happening. The only time it ever told me to even remotely hurt myself was when I got angry; it told me to scratch my arms to calm myself down.
The doctor was there until I was 15 when I’d mostly gotten out of the bad situation. I bettered myself and made better friends. This small voice in my head saved my life, and I don’t regret having it there. The voice, however, has recently come back and only starts talking when I am mad, telling me to scratch myself. I refrain from doing that, but the urges are there.
I’ll never tell my family what I truly went through in the past six years, nor will I tell them about Doctor.
My secret is that I’m tired. My mother put me as a caregiver for my four-year-old sister and my 80-year-old grandfather. I love them, and they both smile at me in the most beautiful way when I am with them, but I am tired. I can hardly go out with my girlfriend, and my work schedules must adjust to them and their needs, and not if I want to have a day off because a day off from work just means providing more care time for one of the two.
I love them. I adore them, and when I see them looking at me, I feel like a horrible person for wanting to refuse to take care of them for just one day, but I only want 24 hours of selfish behavior before I move on with them. Just that, I swear, and that’s all.
I resent my husband. I was told that if I went back to my career post-baby, we would be done (I worked in law enforcement). I never got the second child I wanted to at least discuss having before being shot down. I limited the time we spent with my mom because he kicked up such a fuss every time we went that it was miserable for me, and now she’s long deceased.
The days after she took her own life, he left me all alone to go to work, and he took his bereavement time after I returned to my job. Why do I stay? Because overall I have a very comfortable life. I’ve never discussed this with anyone. Thanks for letting me unload on you all. I oddly feel a little better.
I get really upset when I see my dad acting all nice with a kid. I was at a family reunion not too long ago. One of the relatives was a three-year-old, and my dad was acting so nice and patient as he played with him. It made my blood boil. He was being so nice to this kid he didn’t know. This was the same cruel man who burned my hands and threw a glass at me and left me in fear for my life and that of my younger siblings.
I lived in fear each day, always making sure to draw his anger toward me so my siblings would be spared—so he wouldn’t hurt them as he hurt me. Yet, there he was, going out of his way to show affection to a child he had never even met before.
I am sick of some of my female acquaintances dismissively labeling their arrogant, materialistic-oriented, rude behavior as “knowing their worth” or having “high standards” and then calling themselves “queens” for it. Then they wonder why they can’t form healthy relationships. I wouldn’t give two hoots about it if they didn’t criticize my relationship with my boyfriend.
He and I started off as friends. We took things slowly. Whenever I mentioned it to any of these “queens”, I got criticized for not demanding more from the guy. I’d hear: “Why aren’t you asking him for money? Your standards are honestly so low, he should buy you a car,” or “If you don’t sleep with him soon, he’ll leave you for someone else”. They'd make fun of my "dilemmas," but I'd soon have the last laugh.
He never left me. We took things slowly, started off as friends, and he waited for me to be ready. Now, after almost two years of dating, we have the most amazing relationship ever. Mutual love, care, trust. But still, they criticize me for not using the guy for money. They genuinely don’t get it.
Losing my smell and taste has been one the hardest things I’ve faced until now (I’m 18). Pre- COVID, I had slight anxiety where I used to catastrophize a lot, but it’s better now. I’ve lost my taste and smell for almost seven months now, and eating has become a chore for the most part, and I have to force myself to eat. But on the outside, I just make it look like nothing’s wrong.
COVID has messed up my mental health. Some days are good, while others are bad. Most of my bad days are due to my feeling lonely and depressed because of my not being able to taste or smell pretty much anything. During those periods of sadness, my chest feels heavy. I won’t feel like doing anything except lying down on my bed.
Listening to music helps, as well as sometimes punching and shouting into a pillow. Or I feel like breaking things. These periods are extremely tiring for me. Plus, my anxiety has gotten a bit worse since COVID, but now I’ve been able to manage it. Breathing exercises have helped me tremendously. I still have anxious periods, but it’s not as bad.
I joined an online support group recently as well. The past few weeks have been good, thankfully. I haven’t had as many sad days and nothing in the past week. No one knows this except my best friend (I didn’t tell too many details but it was still very hard admitting that I’m going through this).
I used to have a friend named Charlotte. She was rich, and most of her friends were, too. I was broke and struggling to find a job. She got engaged and asked me to be the maid of honor. I was skeptical of doing it because I’d previously had a very bad experience with my bridezilla cousin, but I agreed because she was my friend. But then, she asked me to pay for 3,000 roses (which were about $1,000) and give $500 for a stupid luxury wedding dress.
I gently reminded her (inside the fitting room) that I couldn’t afford it. Her reaction took me off-guard—she started being witchy and asked if I even cared about her, blabbering on and on about random bull. I got angry and told her that she was being ungrateful and that I was trying my best, but my financial struggles and keeping my house were more important than some fancy rich-lady rubbish.
Then I chucked my glass of red at her dress to ruin it. I don’t know why the shop served it.
My mom never told me how her best friend died. Years later, I was using her phone when I made an utterly chilling discovery.
Madame de Pompadour was the alluring chief mistress of King Louis XV, but few people know her dark history—or the chilling secret shared by her and Louis.
I tried to get my ex-wife served with divorce papers. I knew that she was going to take it badly, but I had no idea about the insane lengths she would go to just to get revenge and mess with my life.
Catherine of Aragon is now infamous as King Henry VIII’s rejected queen—but few people know her even darker history.
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