I hate how expensive video games are now. It's $60 for the game (regardless of if you buy the disc or the digital copy) and then even if you buy the disc, you still have to spend an eternity downloading the game. And then you have to pay more money to be able to play online, and most games now are pointless if you can't play online. And if you want all of the maps, characters, or more options/items, you can't unlock them. You have to pay MORE fucking money. Why is it so expensive just to play one game? This is why I never spent $200+ on a system. It's almost as much for the games once you factor everything in. It's just not worth it financially. You end up spending thousands on any kind of decent collection of playable games with complete stories/full maps/a full cast of characters. It's just so much bullshit. I miss just being able to unlock cool shit by actually playing the game. And don't even get me started on all these pointless "achievements" they have. This is why I stuck with Nintendo, and now even they are going to this garbage. I'm just sick of it. I just want to play video games and not have to break the bank to do it.
I once posted a confession on here about how my dad raped me from ages 14 to 18. Some of you might remember it, I think. I basically wrote that he started by "accidentally" touching me and grabbing me down there when my mum was out running errands, and when I confronted him about it, he got angry and beat me up. Then the next day he came to my room and just raped me as I screamed and cried from the pain. I couldn't do anything about it because since we had immigrated from England to America, my mum didn't have the right to work yet, so my dad said that if I told anyone about the stuff he was doing to me, he would divorce my mom and leave us to rot. So I was left with no choice but to let him do what he wanted until I was able to move out and live on my own. Well, a few days ago, I was chatting with a stranger online and I ended up telling her about the stuff my dad did to me, and she told me that she thought it was hot. I asked her how she could possibly say that, and she told me she has a “rape” kink and a "daddy x son" kink. (Yes, I am in fact a boy, not a girl. Yes, boys can be raped.) It was hard to breathe as I read her words. I told her that no, what happened to me was not "hot." It was not a "daddy x son" fantasy. It was rape. Real rape. Not whatever bullshit she pictured rape meant when she said she has a “rape kink.” I didn't want it. I told her that my dad doing that to me made me want to kill myself, it made me feel like everything was wrong and nothing was okay. I told her about all the blood that was on my bed the first time my dad did that to me, and how I couldn't move because every part of my body ached. And about the times I puked on myself, and how he kept going, even with the puke. I told her about how when it was over, I would just sit in my room with my knees to my chest, shaking and staring at the ceiling for hours, trying not to lose my mind. And about how I almost completely stopped eating, because it reminded me of the times my dad held my jaw open and forced himself into my mouth. She said that sounded disgusting. Yeah, it is. It’s fucking disgusting. Rape is absolutely fucking disgusting. I couldn’t stop talking about it now that I had started. It was like I had opened a door in my mind and I wouldn’t be able to close it again until everything came out. I wanted her to know what it was truly like. I told her about how my mum became an alcoholic and was too drunk to realize anything was wrong, and about how I didn’t even care if my dad divorced her and left us to rot anymore like he said he would if I told anyone about the stuff he did to me. But I still couldn’t speak up because I was so fucking scared and ashamed. I was scared of what would happen to me if I spoke up and no one believed me. I was scared of people thinking it was consensual. I was so scared. Of everything and anything. I told her about the nightmares. How I would wake up feeling like my stomach was tied in a knot, and how I felt like my skin wasn’t and would never be mine again. I told her about the times I just gave up and let it happen, because it was going to happen whether I wanted it or not, and the less I struggled the less painful it was, and how my dad took that as a sign that I was enjoying it. And how he mistook my cries of pain for moans of pleasure, and how he encouraged me to let out my voice even more because it aroused him. I told her about all the times I came close to ending it all with a sip of bleach or a bullet to my head, but I didn’t because I was too scared to die. I told her about the first time I saw my dad since I moved out of the house. It had been three years. I was there for Thanksgiving. As soon as I saw him I just lost control and started to beat the shit out of him. No warning, no fucking hello how are you, no nothing. I just decked him. He was on the ground with blood surging from his nose but I punched him again and again so hard my fingers broke and I didn’t stop until my cousins pushed me off of him. Then I left. That was the only reason I had even showed up. Forget Thanksgiving. I just wanted to beat the bastard up. I told her about how I can't have sex with the girl I love or even bring myself to undress in front of her because I get flashbacks and begin to panic, sometimes breaking down crying. And about how I still won't allow anyone to touch me, even to shake hands when I'm meeting someone for the first time. She ended the chat because I was making her uncomfortable. Too fucking bad. That’s reality. That’s what I went through. That’s what rape is actually like. Fuck your kinks and fantasies to hell. If she experienced even a second of what real rape is like, she would never open her mouth again. I can guarantee that. It wasn't hot. It wasn't sex. It wasn't something to fucking lust over. It was a crime. It was pure evil. It was the worst thing anyone has ever done to me. It ruined me. I will never be able to forget it. And I didn’t fucking deserve it. I didn’t. None of it. Not even for a second. Not even when I misbehaved. Not even when I was rude. Not even when I told lies. Never. That shouldn’t have happened to me. Or anyone else who's been raped. It. Destroyed. And. Tainted. Every. Fucking. Part. Of. Me.
I’m white. When I was seven, I got adopted by a black woman. The thought of her skin color never crossed my mind for even a second. And I don’t think my skin color crossed her mind, either. I was just happy to have a mother and to get out of foster care, and she was happy to have a kid. It was good. Everything was going so well. But then after a couple of days, her boyfriend came over to meet me for the first time. He was full black, darker than my mom. (I actually don’t call her ‘mom.’ I call her by her first name but for now I’ll call her, my mom and her boyfriend, my dad). My dad took one look at me and the first thing I ever heard him say was “Oh, he’s not black?” to my mom. So my dad looked back at me and said hello and started talking to me about stuff. You know, the basics. He told me about himself and about how he was just so excited to meet me, but I could tell he was faking it. He seemed so uncomfortable and like he wanted to stop talking to me. After all that he looked at my mom and said “Can we talk?” so he and my mom went to a different room in the house and started arguing. After several minutes my dad came out of the room and told me he had somewhere to be, and left. Then my mom came out of the room with glossy eyes like she was trying not to cry. Is it because I don’t look the same as him and you? I wanted to ask her. But I didn’t ask. My ‘dad’ visited me just four more times after that. Each time was the same; he looked uncomfortable and it made me feel weird, like he just couldn’t stand being with me. Then after the fourth time, he broke up with my mom. When I asked my mom why he broke up with her, she didn’t sugar coat it. She just said it. She told me that it was because he and his family were old fashioned and wouldn’t have liked him to have a kid who was a different race as him. In my brain, that translated to, “It’s your fault for being a different race, if you were darker like them this wouldn’t have happened.” My mom then fell into a state of depression, and I grew to hate myself because of my skin color. Everyday she would cry, and seeing her cry made me feel guilty. I would look at her and her face dripping with tears and I would think, I did that, she’s like that because of me; her boyfriend left her because of me and that’s why she’s so sad. Eventually she stopped being depressed and stopped crying everyday, but whenever we got in fights or arguments, she would say, “I wish I’d never adopted you!” or something along the lines of her regretting adopting me, or that she wished she had adopted a black kid instead of me, and that it was my fault her boyfriend left her, and that I ruined her life. She never said those things when she wasn’t angry, but the fact that she even said them at all means she believed them. Doesn’t it? I guess she never really got over it, because she started being violent towards me. I wouldn’t call it abuse, but she would slap me across the face and then she'd tell me to look at her. And when I looked at her, she slapped me again in the same place, twice as hard. She also whipped me with straps and stuff and sometimes she would put her whole hand on my face and just shove me against the wall. When she got REALLY angry she would just smack me with an open hand over and over again, if I tried to run away or brought my hands up to protect my face, she would hit me even harder. Stuff like that. Oh, and best of all? She didn’t introduce me to her friends or family ever. Not even once. She actually went out of her way to make sure that didn’t happen, because she was just so embarrassed to have a kid who was white instead of black. Which made me fucking hate myself even more than I already did. So needless to say, my life was pretty fucking bad because of my skin color. I have grown to distrust every black person I meet until I get to know them and make sure they’re not racist like my ‘mom’ and ‘dad.’ Oh, and another thing: when I hear people telling me that I have “white privilege” and that my life is automatically so much better than a black person’s because I’m white, or that black people can’t be racist, I want to kindly put my hands around their throats and squeeze as hard as I can. My childhood was SHIT because I was white, and there are so many fucking imbeciles out there that have the nerve to declare that I have it easier than others as if it were a fact. Shut the fuck up. This race garbage needs to stop. Now. Stop assuming you know the circumstances of all white people because they’re white. Do you know how many other white kids have gone through something similar to what I did? Especially now, with all the anti-white propaganda on social media? I swear to god, I will punch the next person who tries to tell me I have some sort of privilege for being white. Fuck everyone and anyone who thinks like that. You all make me want to puke.
I used to have this imaginary friend when I was a kid. His name was Ray. But he wasn’t a human. He was more like a ghost or a demon or something, all tall and shadowy and see through and black all over. The first time I saw him he scared me but he told me that he was my friend. After that, he just started appearing at random times. Mostly when I was by myself. He had this weird obsession with the piano that was in our living room. Every time he was near it he would examine it closely and then say something like “what a stupendous make of a piano” and I’d shrug and say “big deal.” He hated when I said stuff like that. He always said he was my friend but I wonder if that was true because he always made me feel bad about myself. He would always say things about how we think we're so important, so great, when really we’re nothing. He always said that his people were better and smarter because everyone knew over six thousand languages while we only knew one or two, and how his people never died and that everyone he knew was over nine thousand years old while we humans only lived to be eighty. Stuff like that. Sometimes I would be alone in my room just drawing or whatever and then I’d turn around because I felt something and Ray would just be standing in the corner of my room watching me. I'd say hello and sometimes he would say hello back, other times he would ignore me and just look around at the stuff in my room. It always made me feel kind of nervous. But I never told anyone because I knew he wasn't real and I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. When I turned 13 he stopped showing up. I never saw him again. But I still feel his “presence” sometimes. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like I know he’s there watching me but I don’t see or hear him anymore. I feel it right now, too. Like he's watching me write this. He doesn't want me to post this, I can feel it. But I'm going to do it. I often wonder if he really was just an imaginary friend I made up or if he was an actual demon. Part of me wants to believe he was real. And honestly, even if he was made up I kind of miss him and wish I could see him again. Is that weird?
My mom had me at 16, my sister at 17, my brother at 19, and my youngest sister at 22. She is 28 now. Our father left us when I was five so for the past 7 years my mom has been raising me and my siblings with no trouble at all, being a stay at home mom and having two jobs to support us. She is an amazing woman and I'm not ashamed to have a 'teen mom'.
I've crossed out theater as my career of choice and I fear becoming famous if ever because I've lied too much in the past about my identity because I was formerly insecure about it. Now I stop lying that much and I'm pretty sure people would still remember me and I can't afford the hatred. Becuase I know there will be a massive amount of people that will hate me. Its not a harmful lie but it can be hurtful lie... Now I just want the simple life. The past will always chase me forever because now that I have no choice because I made that choice. It's my greatest mistake and I its also my greatest regret and it felt weird that there's no truth can set me free because I've fully drowned from those lies. Pathological lying isn't good. I was it and it's the worst thing I've ever done but it was my mental illness and its hard to break that problem. I don't know how long I've been off of the habit but as far as I know I still lie a bit but I have the control. I only do it when I have to defend myself or if people would tend to ask about me too much in which I don't trust that person I just met.
When my mom disowned me at age 15, I lived on the streets for a few weeks. I was completely homeless and I was starving and freezing and alone. I ended up prostituting myself to a gay man for money and a place to sleep. He liked me because I was young and attractive. He took my virginity and, while I know it was my decision to do it, I’m still disgusted with myself sometimes. I had to perform sexual favors for him whenever he told me to. And I had to let him do whatever he wanted to me whenever he wanted. Sometimes it hurt, badly. Sometimes I lost consciousness from the intensity and terror. Sometimes I would cry, but I wasn't allowed to say no because he gave me food, a bed, clothes, money. He helped me get my life together, but, I never would have wanted to do that sort of thing with another man. It messed me up really bad. I just had no choice. What was I supposed to do? What would you have done? I couldn't get a job. No one would hire me because I was too young and too dirty. I had no other family. I didn’t want to go to a foster home because the guys there beat me up. I just, I really was left with no options.
I hate my life. I was abused as a child by my own dad and I grew up to look exactly like him. I had to run away with my family to escape. I’ve been all over the country. I got molested by my classmates. I became overweight and had been bullied for the majority of my life. My sister became depressed and constantly let out her anger on me as a child. My sister hates me. My mother is sick and tired of my whining and complaining. I’m a pushover. I’m social but all that comes out of my mouth is a jumbled meaningless mess. I get laughed at a lot. I can’t stop smiling and it’s killing me. I’ve been straying from my religion. My cousins act slutty and I hear them fight in my old bedroom which has been inhabited by them for as long as I can remember. Everytime I try to confess my feelings that person has either exited my life, done nothing about it, or made it so much worse. I’m failing my schoolwork and I’m about to be excluded due to my low attendance and lack of effort. I’ve never had a stable place to live. I’ve never had anything of my own that isn’t torn, broken, lost, old or worthless. I’m constantly punching, scratching and tearing at myself and it leaves no marks. I get hit by people and never fight back. I have literally have no friends. I can’t talk to on any meaningful level. Everyone thinks I’m a happy go lucky idiot. Oh and- I’m twelve.
I barely live when I was born because I have this fucking disability but my mom love me anyway. grew up having my mom to always not around as well as my dad. 5 years old I was sexually abused and I get very nervous inside everytime I'd see, sense, or hear my cousin. 1st grade and 2nd I was bullied that I'm ugly and stupid because I always have short hair and dark skin (because a Filipino thing to be called ugly when you're dark skinned). i move to a different school at 3rd grade and I was picked on by these girls, gossip about my hair about my quietness, about everything they see on me and sabotage my grade once, these girls would spread these message to other grade levels so others would avoided me and I wasn't friends with anyone, all they would gossip that I was only rich because my dad is in the mafia but honestly he works in an agency in the US. I didn't study and I failed the classes then. I just don't want to do it even though I know everything I just loose interest studying then and because why bother when you'd fail anyway from their sabotoging thing (because these girls were the class president and vice president). Then I move again at 4th grade and 5th grade. I was bullied by this guy who had a friend that falsely claimed I have a stinky arm pit. This guy's friend was actually just quirky and he just do that to irritate me because he likes to see me that way I don't know he had a crush on me then because he thinks its cute.. but this bully.. nope very rude. I would walk everywhere and he would follow me and scream "putok!" meaning stinky pits and other guys would laugh at me and girls would just avoid me. The guy's friend kinda just didn't say anything. Then I move to the US at 6th grade from the philippines. I experienced racism about Filipinos from these white people. yep they said I might stink because my country is the same. I was the only one whose Filipino in that school. I move in a different state again and there are no white people much - racism is opposite (because white people are kinda discriminated against). I thought its better for me because people seemed chill and diverse. I though good timing to be myself. So yeah I did. I was nerdy and love books but I was shy because I had a traumatic incident in the past but I was bullied again because of my nerdiness. I have no friends and girls would physically bully me. No words just pushing off the stairs. Then 8th grade I tried to fit in but I get their drama which is very dumb but I was hated. high school, I had friends from all these comotion in 8th grade. I was picked on by my friends and I experienced depression finally. sophomore I was bullied because I'm the science classes and people judge me that I'm dumb just because I have a dyed hair and i'm the type of kid that don't study and probably do some weed. junior year, rumors spread about me that I'm a slut when I never even had sex before. senior year academic stress, expectation from parents and their control on what college I should go to and yeah more rumors about me. so yeah i thought this is gonna end because teenage years is done and I'm finally gonna be happy and not pretend to be this and that. But nope it's all different in college. The stress, the amount of energy you need to use for work, studying and time. I feel alone, I can't even fall in love or what else.... I can't even make friends because now I have PTSD. But you know what, screw that! I'm at this point of my life and experienced the shittiest things in life so why the hell do I fall now seriously?? I've almost killed myself from cutting, hanging, overdosing on sleeping pills but then I still can't do it. why? I love to explore the fucking timline of my life. and then I look at myself "hey! look I'm still alive and studying and a researcher in the STEM field and living in America and a state with the most opportunities! Plus I have good friends they're not around physically but at least I had real friends still" If I would talk share everything, more shitty things happened to me than the good ones but the way you see things helps with the quality. Quantity wise bad things won but quality wise good things won and I always value quality than quantity so.. Plus I have a mother and brother that I care about if die my mom will be crazy and my brother will be alone so nope not today depression. Not today PTSD. To me I just always look at one light I can find even though everything is dark around me. Imagine the sky at night where everything is dark and yet there are still things shining especially when you search for one. They're beautiful yeah? light within the darkness is beautiful if you can't find the light then be the light alright...
I think my grandfather had an influence on my parents divorce, lies were spread and my father had to spend 10 years in jail. Not having my father in my life effected me deeply. I have been spending time with my father, and we are so alike in many ways. It still hurts him to this day. It was 33 years ago. He had experienced his first child given up to adoption, because a woman didn't tell him she was married. She became pregnant with my father's son (his first child), and her husband made her give him over for adoption. My father tried to petition to get him, but the power was over married couple, and they wouldn't let him have his son. He had other children and I was the last one. I was told he hurt me, but I don't recall any moments like that. I only recall small memories of him singing, playing the guitar and sitting beside him on the piano bench at two years old trying to sing and play with him. I started visiting my father three years ago. He is 76 years old now. I drive him to the store, and help him with his groceries. Sometimes we would eat breakfast in the morning or have lunch after the shopping was finished. He would say, I remember when you were little you used to pretend to read the newspaper to copy me reading the paper. He said that I could sing my ABC's by the time I was two years old. Often times he would ride in the car and with anguish he would say, I hate that they (my mother and grandfather) took you away from me. I would never hurt you. I can't believe they lied on me. I can't help but to believe him, because I had three other half sisters and a brother (this is the second brother, not the one taken for adoption) who he had before me and he took care of them . I am his last daughter, the youngest. My two of my sisters have had children and the other married. Now at the age of 35, I have not had any children or married. My experiences with other people, have felt distant, I felt I didn't belong. My mother, raising me as a single woman, would have other people watch me in our family watch me, because they had children. The sad part is that some of their children were abusive. I have had people who would end their friendship with me, or some sort of verbal or emotional abuse from them. There were also times I felt anger, I would distance myself from others and would just rather be alone. I visit both my father and mother every two weeks unless it is a holiday. Though I try to pick up the pieces, and try everyday to figure out life, I still live in solitude, mental stagnation and unexpected feelings of agony. I did see a therapist, but couldn't afford it, even with my medical plan. For now, I just get up everyday, go to work when I am scheduled to go, pay my bills. I am glad that I get a chance to improve my life with each day that comes. Tomorrow is another day.