My dad would occasionally tell us stories from his childhood. Stuff like his dad grabbing him by the shirt collar and repeatedly punching him in the face.
When I was a kid it was just another story. When I got old enough to actually understand what he was talking about it was like, “God damn. No wonder you’re like this.”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It didn’t undo anything he did but it did help me hate him less.
I think I’m really fortunate that my dad somehow realized he completely fucked up and made an effort to repair his relationship with his kids. We’re on good terms now and he’s a way better Grandpa than he was a father. I know a lot of people go through their whole lives only getting to see the worst side of their parents. My dad included.
You are not alone. Your parents do not define your value. Despite their best or worst efforts, they do not ultimately get to decide what kind of person you will be.
My dad would occasionally tell us stories from his childhood. Stuff like his dad grabbing him by the shirt collar and repeatedly punching him in the face.
Bruuuh. I feel like I really shouldn’t complain that much. Some of y’all got even more fucked up childhood than I did. My parents never hit me that hard, it was merely slap on my hand. So like… in an “overton window” where corporal punishment is socially acceptable, its actually kinda tame in comparison. I’m never gonna be like “okay” with that idea, its still very… unacceptable regardless of how society views hitting your kids, but like, to be fair, judging by that standards, on that “overton window”, I didn’t get abused that badly. My parents also didn’t drink or gamble, so… I guess I got lucky the abuse is mostly just emotional. (still… depression is kinda slowly making me wanna kms)
(still… depression is kinda slowly making me wanna kms)
I tried that once when I was a teenager. Obviously, I failed. Kind of a cruel irony being told that you’re never going to amount to anything and then, as you’re working on your own suicide, you suck so bad at tying knots that you fail at that too.
20+ years later, I’m glad I failed. Depression is a deep dark hole that can feel completely inescapable.
It’s not inescapable with the right help. You don’t have to do it alone. You just have to be willing to ask for help.
My life so far has been a hard one. It’s been made much harder by the fact that my stupid little brain is broken and makes it extremely difficult to regulate my own emotions. But there’s glimmers of joy in the middle of all the hardness. I have things now that I never could have imagined on that day in my parents garage.
Things like self love and a sense of self worth, a family of my own, people to whom I matter a great deal, and a wealth of experiences that have taught me a great many valuable lessons.
Back then I didn’t think anyone would care if I stopped existing. Now, I know that’s not true. Sometimes I’m still here because I’m enjoying my life. Sometimes because I know there are people who love and need me. Somwtimes it’s because even though I don’t feel like that’s true, I know it is and I’m leaning on my meds until my feelings normalize. For me, that’s enough to keep me here until my time is finally up.
Sometimes I think I’d prefer physical abuse instead of the constant emotional stuff that makes you doubt yourself decades later. Like, my therapist tells me it was bad but they’re a therapist, isn’t that what they’d say? Mommy Dearest told me no one beat me so it’s not abuse. Abuse is complicated.
My dad would occasionally tell us stories from his childhood. Stuff like his dad grabbing him by the shirt collar and repeatedly punching him in the face. When I was a kid it was just another story. When I got old enough to actually understand what he was talking about it was like, “God damn. No wonder you’re like this.”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It didn’t undo anything he did but it did help me hate him less.
I think I’m really fortunate that my dad somehow realized he completely fucked up and made an effort to repair his relationship with his kids. We’re on good terms now and he’s a way better Grandpa than he was a father. I know a lot of people go through their whole lives only getting to see the worst side of their parents. My dad included.
You are not alone. Your parents do not define your value. Despite their best or worst efforts, they do not ultimately get to decide what kind of person you will be.
Bruuuh. I feel like I really shouldn’t complain that much. Some of y’all got even more fucked up childhood than I did. My parents never hit me that hard, it was merely slap on my hand. So like… in an “overton window” where corporal punishment is socially acceptable, its actually kinda tame in comparison. I’m never gonna be like “okay” with that idea, its still very… unacceptable regardless of how society views hitting your kids, but like, to be fair, judging by that standards, on that “overton window”, I didn’t get abused that badly. My parents also didn’t drink or gamble, so… I guess I got lucky the abuse is mostly just emotional. (still… depression is kinda slowly making me wanna kms)
I tried that once when I was a teenager. Obviously, I failed. Kind of a cruel irony being told that you’re never going to amount to anything and then, as you’re working on your own suicide, you suck so bad at tying knots that you fail at that too.
20+ years later, I’m glad I failed. Depression is a deep dark hole that can feel completely inescapable. It’s not inescapable with the right help. You don’t have to do it alone. You just have to be willing to ask for help.
My life so far has been a hard one. It’s been made much harder by the fact that my stupid little brain is broken and makes it extremely difficult to regulate my own emotions. But there’s glimmers of joy in the middle of all the hardness. I have things now that I never could have imagined on that day in my parents garage.
Things like self love and a sense of self worth, a family of my own, people to whom I matter a great deal, and a wealth of experiences that have taught me a great many valuable lessons. Back then I didn’t think anyone would care if I stopped existing. Now, I know that’s not true. Sometimes I’m still here because I’m enjoying my life. Sometimes because I know there are people who love and need me. Somwtimes it’s because even though I don’t feel like that’s true, I know it is and I’m leaning on my meds until my feelings normalize. For me, that’s enough to keep me here until my time is finally up.
Sometimes I think I’d prefer physical abuse instead of the constant emotional stuff that makes you doubt yourself decades later. Like, my therapist tells me it was bad but they’re a therapist, isn’t that what they’d say? Mommy Dearest told me no one beat me so it’s not abuse. Abuse is complicated.