lilli_188
éşľ lili
- Apr 8, 2026
- 1
Hello, to anyone reading this. I guess this is my 'introduction' thread, though I'll be trying to share a bit of my story along with it.
I'm pretty new to this site, having only found it a week or two ago. At first, I was a little hesitant to make an account, not really sure how things worked or how I'd fit in. But I think, deep down, I knew I wanted a space where I could connect with people like me. I've never really had the chance to talk about my own life beyond what I'm expected to become or achieve, and it eats me up trying to imagine a predisposed life of victories and bliss, that quite honestly… I know is not ahead of me.
For a bit of background on who I am and why I feel this way: I feel as though I am an incredibly ordinary person, though due to a rather traumatic childhood I have had to endure up until recently, I guess I have my 'quirky' traits.
âš Please just keep in mind of a few trigger warnings for what will be mentioned: physical and emotional abuse/violence, intergenerational trauma, substance abuse of all sorts, and $h.
My parents conceived my older sister at a very young age, far before either had landed stable jobs, a home, and more importantly, an education. They lacked guidance or direction on how to raise my sister as they were both well wrapped in the scene of drugs, alcohol, poverty, and committing petty theft and miscellaneous crimes. I was born into this not much later. For the first few years of my life, I feel comfortable saying that things weren't so bad, but that is only because I was living with my grandmother as an infant. My parents had lost custody over me and my sister for the first two to three years of my life. It was due to a severe drug incident that involved baby me getting my hands on something I definitely should not have been. I can't say I recall anything from those times, but I know those were the days things were just… okay.
As the years went by, my parents tried to sober up to get their children back. My grandmother and aunt were against the idea, but the law (mainly child protection) can only do so much with the information available. My grandmother soon passed due to a sort of cancer, but I am not too sure of any details beyond this. Ultimately, I ended up returning to my parents care at the beginning of my school life. My aunt did her best to watch over my siblings while we stayed at home, but again… what can you really do?
My early elementary school days are nothing noteworthy, though a few things to mention here. My family moved around the city a lot due to evictions (indisputable damage to the property -> hoarding was a big issue which I will cover later, failed rent payments, going against landlord's wishes). Even though we moved from home to apartment to motel, my sister and I remained enrolled in the same elementary school. It wasn't long before my mother had given birth yet again, this time to my little brother.
Something I have failed to mention yet is just how terrible my parents parenting and living habits were, and how this deeply affected my siblings and I. My mother was nothing short of a hoarder, and I mean the worst of the worst. I wish I was exaggerating when I say these things, but I cannot. The walls were covered in black gunk, garbage, debris, and feces (human and animal) littered every room of the house, adequate food and proper hygiene supplies was scarce, and all kinds of insects and rodents roamed around us. My mother was the leading source for all of the junk in our house, but my father wasn't exactly innocent either. He lounged every single day on a mattress in our living room playing video games or watching cartoons. My father never helped me get dressed, put me down to sleep, or fed me. I don't even think I have ever held my father's hand.
The hoarding got worse over time, and as I ventured through elementary school with clear signs on my body and what I said that something was wrong at home, I began meeting with child protective workers at school. I didn't understand it then, but looking back on it, I must have spoke with at least twelve different men and women. The conversations did not go very far, as my mother had anticipated I would inevitably be caught up with these workers, and so she specifically told me to keep my mouth shut. Did I mention my mother's excellent manipulation tactics? That's what happens when you're born from the womb of a narcissist, bipolar, depressed, and utterly unstable woman who no matter how hard you try to reason with, it just doesn't make its way past the tips of her ears.
Although I did say some alarming things to these protection workers out of pure innocence, the visits they eventually carried out at our home were not too successful. Occasionally, they would discover the truth of our living conditions, and the three of us kids would be sent away to see our aunt or other set of grandparents. However, my mother was an excellent master of disguise, and she typically heard that someone would be coming to investigate the day prior and tidied things up. She learned what the system found acceptable. Not right, but just the minimum to pass inspection and keep her kids… or rather, her only source of income via government-aid child funds.
These kinds of inspections became routine, and every single time, my mother passed inspection by a pinch. I'll never forget the day that by some miracle she forgot to cover up mounts of feces in the basement and left two rooms a complete mess, and we got to leave her care for two weeks. I cried that day. Out of pure, undeniable happiness. But this kind of happiness was short lived, and when I was sent back to my 'home', I had no desirable way of cope besides $h. Things started out small, just a few messy cuts on the sides of my thighs or a small line on my wrist. It wasn't bad yet.
This kind of cycle became the norm, and at this point I'd say we are ending the season of middle school, and are about to transition to the emotional, soulless chapter that is high school. My desire to $h would continue to grow, and by my first year of highschool I had my first really bad episode. Out of curiosity, I downloaded Twitter and stumbled upon some communities centred around $h. I was so desperate to join. To connect. These people did something that I had been struggling with for years, yet theirs was ten times more bloody and ratchet, and as sickening as it was I wanted mine to look like that too. Maybe as a call for attention, or that I truly was succumbing to a dip in my mental stability. Regardless, I made an account on Twitter and went wild. I started out doing the typical teenage quote/vent bs, making little posts about how sad and depressed I was, but these kinds of posts didn't gain much traction. The posts that got big were the ones where, of course, someone showed video or image of them engaging in $h (cutting). I wanted to be big and gain more mutuals for some sort of self-fulfilling ego-prophecy of mine, and posted images to start. Images of small cuts turned to deeper wounds on video, and eventually I had scars lining my left arm and both my thighs, with video evidence to share the story of every single line.
I went to school with bandaids held down by tape, make-shift stitches, and the longest sleeves I could find for someone with a sense of fashion that revolved around t-shirts. I was only pulled out of this terrible $h moment of mine by a friend I'd made at school, as well as the fact that the principal got involved and the last thing I wanted was for my mother to find out. I stopped cutting and deleting Twitter to avoid that. I thought things were getting better, too, being that I stopped cutting for a few months and I even met a nice guy… I thought. But of course, he cheated, and I fell deep into my spiral of chaos just as I had before, but maybe it was worse this time.
As the months passed, I found myself in one of the lowest places I'd been, even though, on the surface, everything looked fine. My grades stayed above a 90, and I kept up appearances just enough to seem like everyone else…tired, but okay, or at least "getting by" which was expected of kids our age. It wasn't until my senior year, when I finally took Biology, that I finally met a guy who genuinely seemed kind. We started talking in class, then in other classes, and eventually on Instagram. He wasn't exactly the brightest, but he was geniune. I was his first girlfriend and he cherished me with great enthusiasm. That was last year.
I'm still with this guy, and do not get me wrong, I love him with my whole heart. He helped me through the worst of times, and even when I managed to move out of the torture chamber of my mother and her godforsaken parenting. But, part of me can't silence the voices that tell me it isn't going to work. That I would be better off without him, so I could isolate and meet my end. I don't know if this makes sense, since most people like to argue that if you have someone to write a letter to before you pass, that's your reason to live. I would have a few people to pass notes onto, but even so, I just don't see how I can live on for these people? My mother still tries to reach out to me, practically stalking me. University is going to be absolute hell this upcoming semester because I started saving way too late and my only financial support comes from a part-time job and my aunt (who took over as my guardian last year, though I'm now officially an adult…. so I guess that wasn't really necessary). I still struggle with depression, and every single medication my doctor has prescribed hasn't seized the pain. I've tried therapy, talking to someone, and it just isn't for me…but no one cares. I keep being pestered to go back to counseling, to try harder… I just can't. I don't have any deep-connected friends in my life and I am the epitome of someone lazy and insecure. I get afraid when my boyfriend goes out with family incase he will see a prettier girl and realize he doesn't need the dead weight that is me anymore. I'm beyond messed up and I just can't handle it all. I told myself it would get better over the months, but that's turned to years now, and all I want is to find a way to go that isn't too… well… gruesome, I guess? Preferably not traumatic to my family or boyfriend? I don't know. I have read through some methods on this site and it's something to think about. I have gone a bit off topic now, but I want to thank you if you actually read through this jumbled mess. I'm still figuring out how to use the spoilers and what not, so I apologize for this wacky formatting.
May you all have a day of peace.
I'm pretty new to this site, having only found it a week or two ago. At first, I was a little hesitant to make an account, not really sure how things worked or how I'd fit in. But I think, deep down, I knew I wanted a space where I could connect with people like me. I've never really had the chance to talk about my own life beyond what I'm expected to become or achieve, and it eats me up trying to imagine a predisposed life of victories and bliss, that quite honestly… I know is not ahead of me.
For a bit of background on who I am and why I feel this way: I feel as though I am an incredibly ordinary person, though due to a rather traumatic childhood I have had to endure up until recently, I guess I have my 'quirky' traits.
âš Please just keep in mind of a few trigger warnings for what will be mentioned: physical and emotional abuse/violence, intergenerational trauma, substance abuse of all sorts, and $h.
My parents conceived my older sister at a very young age, far before either had landed stable jobs, a home, and more importantly, an education. They lacked guidance or direction on how to raise my sister as they were both well wrapped in the scene of drugs, alcohol, poverty, and committing petty theft and miscellaneous crimes. I was born into this not much later. For the first few years of my life, I feel comfortable saying that things weren't so bad, but that is only because I was living with my grandmother as an infant. My parents had lost custody over me and my sister for the first two to three years of my life. It was due to a severe drug incident that involved baby me getting my hands on something I definitely should not have been. I can't say I recall anything from those times, but I know those were the days things were just… okay.
As the years went by, my parents tried to sober up to get their children back. My grandmother and aunt were against the idea, but the law (mainly child protection) can only do so much with the information available. My grandmother soon passed due to a sort of cancer, but I am not too sure of any details beyond this. Ultimately, I ended up returning to my parents care at the beginning of my school life. My aunt did her best to watch over my siblings while we stayed at home, but again… what can you really do?
My early elementary school days are nothing noteworthy, though a few things to mention here. My family moved around the city a lot due to evictions (indisputable damage to the property -> hoarding was a big issue which I will cover later, failed rent payments, going against landlord's wishes). Even though we moved from home to apartment to motel, my sister and I remained enrolled in the same elementary school. It wasn't long before my mother had given birth yet again, this time to my little brother.
Something I have failed to mention yet is just how terrible my parents parenting and living habits were, and how this deeply affected my siblings and I. My mother was nothing short of a hoarder, and I mean the worst of the worst. I wish I was exaggerating when I say these things, but I cannot. The walls were covered in black gunk, garbage, debris, and feces (human and animal) littered every room of the house, adequate food and proper hygiene supplies was scarce, and all kinds of insects and rodents roamed around us. My mother was the leading source for all of the junk in our house, but my father wasn't exactly innocent either. He lounged every single day on a mattress in our living room playing video games or watching cartoons. My father never helped me get dressed, put me down to sleep, or fed me. I don't even think I have ever held my father's hand.
The hoarding got worse over time, and as I ventured through elementary school with clear signs on my body and what I said that something was wrong at home, I began meeting with child protective workers at school. I didn't understand it then, but looking back on it, I must have spoke with at least twelve different men and women. The conversations did not go very far, as my mother had anticipated I would inevitably be caught up with these workers, and so she specifically told me to keep my mouth shut. Did I mention my mother's excellent manipulation tactics? That's what happens when you're born from the womb of a narcissist, bipolar, depressed, and utterly unstable woman who no matter how hard you try to reason with, it just doesn't make its way past the tips of her ears.
Although I did say some alarming things to these protection workers out of pure innocence, the visits they eventually carried out at our home were not too successful. Occasionally, they would discover the truth of our living conditions, and the three of us kids would be sent away to see our aunt or other set of grandparents. However, my mother was an excellent master of disguise, and she typically heard that someone would be coming to investigate the day prior and tidied things up. She learned what the system found acceptable. Not right, but just the minimum to pass inspection and keep her kids… or rather, her only source of income via government-aid child funds.
These kinds of inspections became routine, and every single time, my mother passed inspection by a pinch. I'll never forget the day that by some miracle she forgot to cover up mounts of feces in the basement and left two rooms a complete mess, and we got to leave her care for two weeks. I cried that day. Out of pure, undeniable happiness. But this kind of happiness was short lived, and when I was sent back to my 'home', I had no desirable way of cope besides $h. Things started out small, just a few messy cuts on the sides of my thighs or a small line on my wrist. It wasn't bad yet.
This kind of cycle became the norm, and at this point I'd say we are ending the season of middle school, and are about to transition to the emotional, soulless chapter that is high school. My desire to $h would continue to grow, and by my first year of highschool I had my first really bad episode. Out of curiosity, I downloaded Twitter and stumbled upon some communities centred around $h. I was so desperate to join. To connect. These people did something that I had been struggling with for years, yet theirs was ten times more bloody and ratchet, and as sickening as it was I wanted mine to look like that too. Maybe as a call for attention, or that I truly was succumbing to a dip in my mental stability. Regardless, I made an account on Twitter and went wild. I started out doing the typical teenage quote/vent bs, making little posts about how sad and depressed I was, but these kinds of posts didn't gain much traction. The posts that got big were the ones where, of course, someone showed video or image of them engaging in $h (cutting). I wanted to be big and gain more mutuals for some sort of self-fulfilling ego-prophecy of mine, and posted images to start. Images of small cuts turned to deeper wounds on video, and eventually I had scars lining my left arm and both my thighs, with video evidence to share the story of every single line.
I went to school with bandaids held down by tape, make-shift stitches, and the longest sleeves I could find for someone with a sense of fashion that revolved around t-shirts. I was only pulled out of this terrible $h moment of mine by a friend I'd made at school, as well as the fact that the principal got involved and the last thing I wanted was for my mother to find out. I stopped cutting and deleting Twitter to avoid that. I thought things were getting better, too, being that I stopped cutting for a few months and I even met a nice guy… I thought. But of course, he cheated, and I fell deep into my spiral of chaos just as I had before, but maybe it was worse this time.
As the months passed, I found myself in one of the lowest places I'd been, even though, on the surface, everything looked fine. My grades stayed above a 90, and I kept up appearances just enough to seem like everyone else…tired, but okay, or at least "getting by" which was expected of kids our age. It wasn't until my senior year, when I finally took Biology, that I finally met a guy who genuinely seemed kind. We started talking in class, then in other classes, and eventually on Instagram. He wasn't exactly the brightest, but he was geniune. I was his first girlfriend and he cherished me with great enthusiasm. That was last year.
I'm still with this guy, and do not get me wrong, I love him with my whole heart. He helped me through the worst of times, and even when I managed to move out of the torture chamber of my mother and her godforsaken parenting. But, part of me can't silence the voices that tell me it isn't going to work. That I would be better off without him, so I could isolate and meet my end. I don't know if this makes sense, since most people like to argue that if you have someone to write a letter to before you pass, that's your reason to live. I would have a few people to pass notes onto, but even so, I just don't see how I can live on for these people? My mother still tries to reach out to me, practically stalking me. University is going to be absolute hell this upcoming semester because I started saving way too late and my only financial support comes from a part-time job and my aunt (who took over as my guardian last year, though I'm now officially an adult…. so I guess that wasn't really necessary). I still struggle with depression, and every single medication my doctor has prescribed hasn't seized the pain. I've tried therapy, talking to someone, and it just isn't for me…but no one cares. I keep being pestered to go back to counseling, to try harder… I just can't. I don't have any deep-connected friends in my life and I am the epitome of someone lazy and insecure. I get afraid when my boyfriend goes out with family incase he will see a prettier girl and realize he doesn't need the dead weight that is me anymore. I'm beyond messed up and I just can't handle it all. I told myself it would get better over the months, but that's turned to years now, and all I want is to find a way to go that isn't too… well… gruesome, I guess? Preferably not traumatic to my family or boyfriend? I don't know. I have read through some methods on this site and it's something to think about. I have gone a bit off topic now, but I want to thank you if you actually read through this jumbled mess. I'm still figuring out how to use the spoilers and what not, so I apologize for this wacky formatting.
May you all have a day of peace.
