#childhood traumas

[brutussposts]

I want a real family, one with stability, comfort and care for each other.

I feel so alone, I just want a family.

[callme-batlesbian]

are u studying psychology because:

a) your favorite show is criminal minds

b) you don’t wanna share your trauma’s

c) therapy is expensive

d) are u gay

e) you are not good in maths

f) all of them

[pindanda]

[unaoverthinker]

"No eres una mala persona. Eres una buena persona a quien le han pasado cosas malas." Y estas dejando que eso te consuma.

[just-live-please]

Todos tenemos traumas de los que nunca hablamos o no sabemos a quien contarle....Usa este post para comentar libre de juicios y criticas o mandame un mensaje personal y te leeré con el corazón abierto y un hombro en cual puedas apoyarte.

[lionheartapothecaryx]

I’ve been doing a lot of shadow work and have been creating art - so here’s a little video piece on The Shadow Self - The Subconscious, Vulnerable & Hidden Strength.

Heal, Integrate & Elevate 🔯

This is not to say shadow work is easy peasy. It can be painful and even scary, since all of us are delightfully different. However it was not what I expected in the best way. So hard to explain. Fell in love with my shadow self and learned so much about myself in the process.

[riddharoykarmakar]

Or it too might've turn indifferent towards me just like I've turned indifferent. Is it indifference? Or is it just hidden pain? Regardless, I resolved being ignorant. Atleast it pains a little lessa that way.

~Riddha

[xxkai-artsxx]

It happend again....

[tobiasdrake]

We never really know what's going to leave a scar.

My father was not prepared for the responsibilities of parenthood, but he tried his best. He was never physically abusive. He could, however, be emotionally abusive at times. There was never any malice in it, however. He just didn't know what he was doing.

He was 19 years old when I was born, and he took custody of me two years later when he divorced my mom, because they both agreed he was in a better financial state for it. And I wasn't a very easy child to raise.

But he did make mistakes. And he did leave scars. I don't blame him for it. But he did.

I've never been comfortable expressing myself with spoken words. Text is where I find myself. Text is where I can be myself. From words in my notebooks to words in digital spaces, text is where I'm truly free to be the person I want to be. The person I can't be in real life. Because real life is where my scars are.

I was four years old. My dad had important people from his work over. I don't know why. I was four. I just knew that there were a bunch of people in my house, and I was curious and eager to talk to them. I told them about my favorite Nintendo games. I told them about my favorite cartoons. I told them about how I wanted to be a kitty cat. I was having a great time.

My dad wanted me to stop. I don't know if I was upsetting people or if I was making him look unprofessional or what. Maybe I was talking too much. I don't know. I was four.

But what he said to me when he pulled me aside was, "Nobody is interested in what you have to talk about." He couldn't have known at the time that he was about to change the course of my life. That he was giving me a social disorder.

Now that's been with me for 33 years. It's an anxiety, a worm in the back of my mind that makes it hard for me to talk to people. To share my interests. My beliefs. My ideas. How am I supposed to connect with another human being? Nobody is interested in what I have to talk about.

Of course, that's not entirely true. I have people in my life who've made the effort to crack open my shell. To assure me that they care. That they're invested. That it's okay for me to share what I love, and to indulge in what they have to share. I have a neat little LGBT family now that accepts me as one of their own.

But I also have text. Where I can truly be free to shout my words into the void, and let anyone who's interested simply come along and find them.

[semantic-diarium]

Um dia... Em Setembro...

( Atenção esse texto não é recomendado para quem sofre de depressão / Attention, this text is not recommended for anyone suffering from depression.)

Um dia em setembro, vim a este mundo vil, ainda no ventre daquela que mão de mim abriu, minha primeira emoção em vida, o medo, medo do abandono, medo do vazio, medo da ausência, medo da frieza, medo da indiferença.

Um dia, não só em setembro, o medo me sucumbia, entre centenas de bons casais... Nenhum deles de fato seu coração para mim abria. Dormia em centenas de quartos adornados de pelúcias e bonecas, mas sempre na velha beliche do orfanato novamente eu amanhecia.

Um dia, mesmo que setembro não fosse, um casal me queria, um pai? Uma mãe? Seria agora que a sorte me sorria? Agora eu tinha sobrenome, materno e paterno, minha vida mudaria? O medo se extinguiria?

Não...

Em cada setembro, mesmo agora adotada e registrada, um buraco em minha alma se abria e um novo hematoma eu ganhava, quem poderia imaginar? Um pai permissivo e uma mãe narcisista?

Um dia em setembro, no culto eu estava, com outra criança do lado de fora eu brincava, mas como eu poderia notar a forma que o pai daquela menina me olhava? Ainda tão jovem, maldade eu desconhecia, enquanto para o banheiro eu ia, aquele velho me seguia...

Tocou-me então a parte íntima, gritei em seguida, mas a culpa? A culpa foi minha, mesmo sendo apenas uma pequena menina... A culpa foi minha, oque minha mãe dizia se tornava lei em seguida, a culpa foi minha!

Um dia em setembro, minha mãe bebia... Com fome eu estava, mas fui em busca de seu colo, buscando amor e companhia, ainda uma criança, não entendia o porque ela me despia... E no profundo silêncio em seguida quebrado por mim de dor, após ela abrir minhas pernas, seu cigarro pressionava contra minha parte íntima.

Um dia em setembro, casei-me com o pretendente que minha mãe queria, um dia em setembro meu divórcio eu conseguia, ainda no mesmo setembro meu ex sogro meu corpo usava, enquanto eu apenas convulsionava...

Um dia em setembro, mas em como vários de minha vida, mesmo que em um setembro não fosse, física e psicologicamente ainda carrego essas feridas...

Um dia em setembro, hei de ter coragem, um dia, vou embora, não faço a mínima diferença para quem está aqui, um dia em setembro talvez encontrem meu corpo sem vida.

One day... in September...

One day in September, I came into this vile world, still in the womb of the one who never embraced me. My first emotion in life? Fear. Fear of abandonment, fear of emptiness, fear of absence, fear of coldness, fear of indifference.

One day, not only in September, fear consumed me. Among hundreds of good couples... none of them truly opened their hearts to me. I slept in hundreds of rooms adorned with stuffed animals and dolls, but always woke up again in the old bunk bed of the orphanage.

One day, even if it wasn't September, a couple wanted me. A father? A mother? Could this be the moment when fortune smiled upon me? Now I had a surname, maternal and paternal, would my life change? Would the fear go away?

No...

Every September, even now adopted and registered, a hole opened in my soul and a new bruise I gained. Who could have imagined? A permissive father and a narcissistic mother?

One day in September, I was at church. I was playing with another child outside, but how could I notice the way her father looked at me? Still so young, I did not know evil. As I went to the bathroom, that old man followed me...He then touched my private part, I screamed right after, but the blame? The blame was mine, even though I was just a little girl... The blame was mine, what my mother said became law, the blame was mine!

One day in September, my mother was drinking... I was hungry, but I went to her seeking comfort, searching for love and company. Still a child, I did not understand why she undressed me... In the deep silence, soon broken by my pain, after she opened my legs, her cigarette pressed against my private part.

One day in September, I married the suitor my mother wanted, and one day in September, I got my divorce. Yet, in the same September, my ex-father-in-law used my body while I could only convulse...

One day in September, like so many others in my life, even if it wasn't September, I still carry these physical and psychological scars...

One day in September, I will have the courage. One day, I will leave. I make no difference to those who are here. One day in September, perhaps they will find my lifeless body.

- Eu...

[brutussposts]

There really is no redemption for me, no meds, no psychologist, no love, no nothing.

Being this fucking miserable was always my destiny or punishment or whatever God is doing to me.

I just can't take it anymore like there is no end for this misery. I'm so helpless. I wanna scream and cry and rip my skin.

But there is only silent sobs, hidden so no one sees this pathetic side of me

[ru1vah]

Fico pensando em tudo que eu superei pra estar aqui hoje. Carrego comigo cicatrizes, manchas, marcas, memórias, erros, acertos, tristeza, alegria, vestígios, padrões, é mais um bucado de coisa que superei e outras que nem tanto, mas estou tentando.

A vida não é fácil, na realidade eu nem sei se é possível ser, parece que existem muitas coisas boas, mas também coisas ruins e eu não sei como seria se nenhuma delas existissem.

Particularmente eu não sei como é morar no outro, porque eu tenho apenas essa vida, essa experiência e o que eu vivi como base, mas cara, morar dentro de mim não é tão gostoso quanto pensam.

Ultimamente me sinto cansada com tudo e sei que é apenas mais uma fase que eu vou superar .. mas cara, as vezes me sinto m um videogame onde preciso ficar passando fases e fases, mas um detalhe, sou péssima em videogame, então sempre perco, morro e nunca chego no final feliz.

Quem sabe um dia eu aprenda a jogar o jogo da vida, mas por agora, sou só uma jovem mulher tentando viver como consegue, fazendo o que dá conta, sentindo tudo que pode sentir e seguindo. Acho que por hoje, apenas sobreviver, me basta.

[pindanda]

[tempo-tales]

Tempo is afraid of clowns? Is that why she attacks Lance? How does Balan survive?

"Ali, at 7 years old and Chris at 4 years old, are taken to a circus that camped in an empty lot.

Ali's parents, entered the tent and settled in to watch the show.

During the course of the show, some strange looking clowns approached Ali and Chris and began to harass to the point of touching the little girl. The little girl felt the real fear for the first time, but her father throws himself at the clowns and beats them to defend his daughter. The other parents also supported the man and everything ended in chaos, and the show was cancelled. The owners and the clowns mysteriously disappeared after the event.

Chris has no memory of the event, but for Ali, it scarred her forever."

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

-No, it's another reason and I'll tell it later.

-Balan can sense Tempo's emotions thanks to a jewel in her tie. If Tempo loses her sanity, Balan, Timmi and Wanky'u hit her head to make forget that moment and calm down. So, Balan knows how to handle the unstable Tempo thanks to that.

[linka-r9-vysocina]

I read this post a while ago about how people, especially young people and teens, just want to be appreciated, seen and known, and how emotional they can get when they are finally praised after years of criticism.

This particular post always gets me emotional and I wondered why - I was the good kid, adults talked to me, I was the kid that was praised, so why do I feel emotional over the fact that somebody would tell me I did a good job? I was told I was doing a good job my whole childhood, always getting the best grades and doing well in other areas and -

And I realize that even though I had it better than many others, whose accomplishments were never seen, I had rarely been praised about things that actually mattered to me. I was the Gifted KidTM which meant school stuff came naturally to me, I never really had to try, and I felt like a cheater when praised about my accomplishments. I even trained myself not to hear or believe the praise out of fear that it would make me self-centered.

What I would have needed was to be praised for something that was hard for me. That was important for me. That I had really put effort into. To be praised for something that I myself was proud of.

When I think about it, the problem is more nuanced - because there might have been no such thing for me in this age. I think I didn't have much passion as a kid? Except for writing, but then I was terrified of failure, I would never let anyone read my writing, especially my parents, out of fear that the text would be cringe - so how could my parents have praised me for something that they were never shown?

I don't think I can blame the people around childhood me for not giving me something they had no idea I needed. But that doesn't stop me from being a little sad for not experiencing the moment when you have tried really hard and someone appreciates it.

It also makes me think about the ways that GiftednessTM affects us when we are little. (It's kinda hard to talk about it especially when you don't want to come off as complaining too much or acting like you had it worse that people who had troubles at school - I am aware tat I was priviledged in many, many ways.) When nothing takes too much effort, you feel like you don't deserve to be praised. It's not exactly imposter syndrome - you know you are good at thise things - it's the feeling that you shouldn't be praised for something that is natural to you, the feeling that you are stealing attention from all the kids who are actually trying their best to learn and get better. It's dreading the moment the teacher announces grades from the last test because you know you will be at the top again, and you will not know how that really happened, you will get a pat on the back even though you had spent literally like half an hour with the textbook while others who had studied long into the night will be told to try harder - and you will feel terrible for how unfair it is.

[riddharoykarmakar]

Thought you all needed to hear this...