Vent / Bad Words

I need a place to put stuff (and maybe have conversations) that I can't have on any of my mains. Everything is OK to rb. You're also better off blocking me than trying to start shit.

[unkind-undead]

Had a dream that my own mom (you know, the pedophile?) tried to proposition me and I remembered that on at least one occasion she has said something along the lines of “haha you know if I were 30 years younger and we weren’t related...” and now I feel sick

Can’t talk to anyone about it either cause I dreamed it and that makes ME the freak

[unkind-undead]

Okay here’s my high hot take idk if it’s good yet:

Any time you use an entheogenic drug, even recreationally, it’s still an entheogen — but you might want to consider what divinity you’re evoking

[unkind-undead]

I feel shitty thinking this and I know how bad it is but god!! I just!!

I hate when insecure people seek out tragedy for themselves! It’s like. Okay if you’re going out and getting hurt for clout obviously there’s an underlying reason you need that attention and an internal problem that’s making you seek out harm as a strategy to meet that need. I get that. I empathize. It just pisses me off!!!

A friend of mine either a) went out and met a stranger who bought him drugs, got him extremely high and then raped him OR b) got too high and had sex with a dude and dramaticized it because he needed attention. Because he’s insecure — and honestly even if the worst did happen to him HE SOUGHT THAT OUT because he’s INSECURE he knew that something bad would happen and he did it so that something bad would happen!

And what pisses me off is that I would do the same thing! Because IM insecure! I have vivid fantasies about being attacked and raped and drugged and kidnapped and HURT because I want to be SEEN and SYMPATHIZED WITH and nothing else will meet the rush of being the victim of violent tragedy! I want to be hurt! I want to be raped and seen for my trauma! GOD I’m so mad at him and I’m so mad at me

[unkind-undead]

I’m better now

[unkind-undead]

I feel like garbage rn because if I eat then I’ll hate myself but if I don’t eat then Harper will hate me, which is great

Like he asked me to eat something and I did and now if he wants lunch then I’ll have eaten more than him which means I’m Bad And Fat And Ugly and he will break up with me

[unkind-undead]

But also if he doesn’t eat lunch I’ll have eaten more than him

But if he eats and I don’t I’ll cry because I’m a fat stupid food idiot cunt fuck

[unkind-undead]

I have to make sure he eats because I’m responsible for his health and well-being and like if he doesn’t eat then I’ll be a fat cunt and ALSO a bad partner so he’ll DEFINITELY hate me

[unkind-undead]

I feel like garbage rn because if I eat then I’ll hate myself but if I don’t eat then Harper will hate me, which is great

Like he asked me to eat something and I did and now if he wants lunch then I’ll have eaten more than him which means I’m Bad And Fat And Ugly and he will break up with me

[unkind-undead]

But also if he doesn’t eat lunch I’ll have eaten more than him

But if he eats and I don’t I’ll cry because I’m a fat stupid food idiot cunt fuck

[unkind-undead]

I feel like garbage rn because if I eat then I’ll hate myself but if I don’t eat then Harper will hate me, which is great

Like he asked me to eat something and I did and now if he wants lunch then I’ll have eaten more than him which means I’m Bad And Fat And Ugly and he will break up with me

[unkind-undead]

Hey everybody kin shifts DON’T fucking excuse bad behavior! Go to therapy!!!

[unkind-undead]

I know it’s unhealthy I know I know but it’s not fair that I’ve spent so long just caving and buckling to other people’s plans and ideas and it pisses me off a lot when someone is just unwilling to suffer through my plans one time just bc they’re tired 😖

[unkind-undead]

Adults online who age regress and then interact with minors are so fucking insidious. Imagine if you were a teacher or a parent and you found out your kid was close friends with someone who said they were 15, but “my body is 25” like I’d lose my fucking mind

If you age regress I understand! It’s a response to trauma, it’s something that seriously affects people and it can be really unpleasant to have to maneuver around. I feel for you! But it’s your responsibility as an adult to be the grown up when you’re interacting with minors — if you’re regressing, step out of the fucking discord and go take steps to do self care on your own, with your caretaker, with irl friends or family who you’ve communicated your needs with. Leave kids on the Internet out of your trauma.

[unkind-undead]

Hey if I was born to prevent my moms death then what the fuck is supposed to happen to me when she dies?

[unkind-undead]

I Was Raised by a Pedophile

CWs for pedophilia, CSA, exposure to pornography (and cp) as a child.

When I was a fourteen-year-old girl, I found my dad’s search history full of fourteen-year-old girls.

Growing up was pretty normal. My whole world was a single city block and the elementary school not far from it. A corner store. A candy shop. A short drive from my godparents’ house or my best friend’s place. Me, a little brother, and a pair of divorcing parents. As the eldest daughter, I had a special role in the family -- second mother, second wife, therapist. Adult. Many eldest daughters can speak to the experience.

I was 7 when my parents separated, late one summer, in the interim between my brother’s birthday and my first day back at school. My mom moved between apartments, and my dad transferred to a motel and then, eventually, a trailer park. Mom worked more, and openly put her career ahead of her family. It’s something she tries to repent for, these days, but our relationship is shot to shit at this point, and there’s nothing I can cultivate in it anymore. I was a daddy's girl, through and through, because he was the one putting in an effort to raise me. I imprinted on him hard, and Mom cracked down on that by forcing a mirrored relationship with my brother. Because her workaholism made her distant and ephemeral, that left Little Bro without a solid parental figure. But, then again, there was always me. Parent number three.

I only ever got Dad’s version of the events -- what led up to the divorce -- and it evolved as I aged. “Mommy says Daddy is addicted to the computer” eventually became “Mom couldn’t handle that Dad watched porn,” which ultimately translated to “Dad is addicted to pornography and it ruined the marriage.” Fine. Dad said Mom was going around spreading nasty rumors about him at work, which was why he didn’t have good connections with the adults around him. I don’t know if he was hiding the full truth from me or not.

I cuddled Dad at night for a long time. I’ve never liked sleeping alone in a bed. We were physically affectionate and emotionally close all through my childhood. One night he mentioned to me that Mom didn’t like us cuddling together.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well,” he confided, full of trust, “I think she’s worried I’ll touch you.”

We didn’t cuddle that night. We didn’t cuddle ever again. It brought him to tears. He didn’t like sleeping alone in a bed, either.

Starting in late middle school, and up through high school, I would occasionally catch glimpses of things on his computer that I found noteworthy. Search history for keywords that came too close to me and my peers. Photos of girls even younger than me, in compromising and intricate ballet poses. He had a long-term and intense crush on a thirteen-year-old friend of mine, which he trusted me enough to mention, and which he coped with by sending her tender anonymous messages and writing lighthearted fiction that starred her as a protagonist. All of these things, I saw, I refused to process, and I compartmentalized. These were obstacles to my love for my father that I carefully sidestepped, never mentioned, never confronted head-on. I forgot things on purpose, excused them away, made up new rules that allowed me to accept them, forgive them, and even passively support them. I mean, this was a man who preached safety and respect and consent to me! This was a man who openly hated pedophiles! This was a man who had suffered at the hands of pedophilia, who maintained trauma that destroyed his sense of self and worth, who delighted in fantasies of violence against evil men. During this span, I was in a deeply toxic and emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive relationship with a young man significantly older than me, who I and my dad both loved and treated as family. My dad told me to tell him immediately if he ever did anything to hurt me. I promised to tell him and I never told him. Eventually, it ended on its own.

I moved to college. I never mentioned anything.

I was not the most communicative little bird to ever leave the nest. We called around monthly and texted about weekly, unless there was anything important to catch up on or plan for. Sophomore year, we were talking over text back and forth, planning his next visit, when he was suddenly interrupted by days-long radio silence. If you’ve grown up with anxiety, you might recognize the feeling you get when your parent is several minutes later to get home from work than they agreed on, and you begin planning your life as an orphan. This was like that. But even as a panic-oriented young adult, I was completely, dreadfully unprepared for this. A week went by, and then another, and I finally got a single text from him. “I’m driving up today so we can talk,” I asked if he was okay: nothing. Already on the road. I didn’t go to class all day. I sat at home in all my dread, rereading texts. Checking the clock against google maps’ estimated arrival time. I tried texting my brother, too, but he didn’t reply either. Finally, two hours after he should’ve been there, I got another text. “I’m out front.”

I went down to his car, and he was there alone. That two-hour gap had apparently been spent in that parking spot crying. He sobbed, and I consoled him, but he refused to tell me in detail what was wrong. He drove us to a park. We got out of the car and walked down to the river. I was frightened. I didn’t know what was going to happen. It was the only time I’d ever been really fearful of him. When we were alone, somewhere quiet and natural, I asked him again. He said he was being investigated by the FBI.

As it turned out, two FBI agents showed up at his place of work and took him aside. They told him they had reason to believe he had downloaded child pornography and that they would be going to his house, and they confiscated his work computer. They let him go and he retrieved his phone -- which he would have had to hand over if he had it on him -- and texted his unofficial roommate, a young woman around my age, telling her to take his tablet and computer away and destroy them immediately. She had, without asking questions. He clarified to me that this was something she’d done for her own father before. The FBI took his phone and laptop, as well as my brother’s. He claimed that they’d likely bugged his home and car during their search. He could lose his job. He could lose his friends. He could lose his family. He broke down, apologizing. He swore he’d never acted on it. He swore he’d never harmed a child directly. He said it was rooted in his own childhood sexual trauma. He begged for forgiveness. And I gave it freely, even as I hoped in my heart that something horrible would happen to him. Then we got lunch, and he went home. Things were tense and quiet for several months.

One day that summer, I got a call. The FBI was at my apartment. They wanted to talk. I was on my way home from therapy when they intercepted me at my apartment door, pulling me aside into their car. They asked me questions about my dad. I told them I didn’t know anything for sure, only what little he had told me. I was scared to lie, but I didn’t know what to do but protect him. He was like my own child, not the other way around. He had raised me to take care of him. They came inside, took my phone and laptop, and we chatted as they ran programs to sort through my photos. They were nice. They were horribly, horribly frightening. I got my electronics back after a couple of days.

That was sort of the end of things. When people asked what had happened in those awful few months, I told them he’d been investigated for e-terrorism. He tweeted enough about the presidency and the police force that it was far from unbelievable to anyone that asked after him. Nobody got a hold of his tablet or computer hard drive. Nobody went to prison. Jobs were kept, and friendships too... mostly. I still talk to him with the same irregular frequency as I did when I initially left for college. It’s been three years since the majority of the drama went down. He’s been in therapy for those three years to work through his pedophilia and trauma. I don’t know, these days, where he stands in that recovery.

So, how was I affected by being raised by a pedophile? He never touched me, and he taught me from a young age that pedophilia and child abuse were wrong, that it should be reported, that I should protect myself, that pedophiles were worthy of horrible violence. I still believe all of that. But I was raised, also, to support and uphold him, to kiss and cuddle, to tend to him when he was ill or sad or hurt -- even when he was, fundamentally, the “bad guy.” As his daughter, I was his mother, his wife, his therapist, and his best friend. Growing up, I was commended for my maturity, and I formed close personal relationships with grown-ups while I felt alienated and distant from other kids. The very plain and simple fact is that I was groomed for pedophilia, however accidentally.

As a teenager I was, and still am as an adult, deeply attracted to older men, especially those in positions of power over me. Teachers especially have been subjects of fantasy since my sexual awakening, but I’ve also frequently found myself thinking about bosses, older friends, and even strangers as alluring, sexual villains who could use their age and power over me to get what they want.

I nurture people to the point of ignoring my own needs, triggering my own mental illness and sending myself into mental and emotional decline. I had a very hard time making friends my age until I left my hometown. I dated a boy who was (thankfully only) three years older than me, who verbally, emotionally, and occasionally physically abused me, and I used the nurturing I learned from/for my dad to forgive him for it.

I recently started working in a school. I hadn’t worked with children before. I had to do the deeply traumatic, heavy work of looking within myself and asking myself if my dad had accidentally taught me to be attracted to kids. If I had any concern that he had, after that, I wouldn’t have been able to morally take that job. In fact, I truly believe that if I had found that I harbored pedophilic attraction, it would have been my moral obligation to kill myself. I was so, so relieved to explore that part of my psyche and find that I genuinely was not a pedophile. And it hurt my heart so much to have required asking myself that question.

When I have children, I’m going to have to sit my partner/s down and reveal to them why grandpa can never be alone with the kids. My current partner is the only person I’ve given any real details, and she doesn’t know the full extent of all of this. I’m going to have to recount my trauma, re-traumatize myself again, in order to maintain my own set of morals. Forever. And I’ve already compromised my ethics so deeply by not telling people.

The hardest part for me is that I truly, deep in my heart, wish violence and death upon my own dad. I believe he is a fundamentally broken, horrible person for his attraction to children. I believe that he never should have had children, that he should have chosen death over pedophilia, and that he should be in prison for having ever consumed child pornography. But I also love him. I was raised to love him. He was my best friend as a kid because I was raised to connect more with adults, with him, than kids my age. And when he dies, as he eventually will, I’m going to be devastated. I don’t want my dad to die, even though I do. I don’t deserve to lose my dad, even though he deserves to lose his life.

I hope someday I can find peace with my beliefs about morality and family. I hope that he never ever knows the horrible things I feel about him. I hope he finds peace when he does die, and that the world will be a better and safer place without him.

[unkind-undead]

nobody here knows who i am right? i need to write some very anonymous shit

[unkind-undead]

GOD I fucking HATE Harley and Jaden for how cruel they are to my girlfriends for NO FUCKING REASON LIKE

UGH

I just wanna go off, I wanna go over there right now and smash their fucking windows in, fuck

They just?? Make my girls feel like shit

No okay it’s SPECIFICALLY JADEN who’s going around telling lies, treating them like garbage, shitting on lesbians, acting like a FUCKING FREAK and then pretending he’s somehow hurt?? I shouldn’t be being this nice!!! I’m being nice for the girls’ sake but he has everything to lose and I have no reason but genuine goodness to allow him to keep living his life and interacting with the community

HE’S NOT A SAFE PERSON IN THIS COMMUNITY

He’s racist, he’s lesbophobic, he’s a HUGE misogynist, he’s transphobic despite being a trans man himself, and he’s somehow wormed into this community like a parasite (I say somehow like this cis white gay male community isn’t built upon those facets) and someday he’ll be lucky if all I do is fuck up his reputation and leave his ugly ass face as-is

[unkind-undead]

Being a traumatized adult sometimes feels like an ever-expanding collection of ways I don’t like to be touched

[unkind-undead]

its beginning to look a lot like liftsmas

[unkind-undead]

I really wanna count calories but my roommates would notice immediately