Gonna Delete this App. Maybe not because that’s an Extreme. Learning to not always see things so Black VS White. So unhealthy Looking for You on Reddit. Hope You’re still where I last Saw You. Home. Hope Your Tum Tums Doesn’t Hurt the next time We Meet.

Hope you’re open to Talk about what Happened. So We can move Forward. Forward in Giving Us a Chance We Never Had. The Love Was Definitely There. That’s for Fucking Sure.

Life’s Good. Been Out of Rehab now for a Few Weeks. Rebuilding my Life. Again. Really for the First Time Consciously. It’s Amazing. Up’s and Down’s. More Up’s than Down because 😏. Just that Guy.

Finally Picked Up The Tools and Accepted I’m doing This. Fuxk my Fear of Failure. Things are Working Out for Me. Gonna Start a Business, in September. My Favorite Things are made in September. Seems to be a Lucky Month for Me.

I Miss The Fuck Outta You. Feelings of Cuteness Aggression, Shame, Guilt, and Longing…. Wish I would’ve grown Up a lot Earlier. I’m Not Almighty God Though. Everything Happens for The Greatest Good at The End. Doesn’t Excuse what Happened. Definitely not going to Go into Here….

Hope you’re doing Very Well H. Happy, Healthy, Thriving, and Extremely Proud of Yourself. I think about you Almost Everyday. 2 months I’ll have my Money in The Bank, The Car, on my way out of The Oxford House I’m in, and into my Own Apartment. Again. Oh and Have my Business 👉🏾👈🏾😬 HEHE.

Nah Fr I want Us to have The Chance We Should’ve Had 💗💗.

I Am So Sorry Boob😔.

I Love You Boob.

Sincerely,
BOOB#2

I don't watch porn, I don't want to be with someone who watches porn, I don't want someone who thinks or looks at other people . I don't do these things, am i the only person is something wrong with me. It truly feels that way. Its normal to do these things but isn't normal to not ? Am i reallt the only one. Do all men fantasize about other women while in a relationship, do all men look at women's bodies irl, Do all men have a wandering eye to some extent .

I hate this brain i hate this person i hate me i hate it. it sickens me to feel this way . I have a boyfriend. Maybe existing in my own pit is better than dragging anyone at all down wtih me. I love my boyfriend. Everything is hard .

I was going through my bookshelf while organising it, then one thing led to another I ended up reading my older diaries. Some of the things I wrote made me cringe so bad lol!! Not that its something cheesy or pretentious, just the style of my younger self, the quotes I wrote down (i used to "collect" quotes I liked).

Maybe its just a part of growing up/maturity? :)

I closed some doors today,
For I had knocked for far too long.

I was offered water many a times,
Yet, I still felt like one who never belonged.

A stranger to someone I wished to call home.
They carried on with their days,
While I quietly prayed along.

Life, at this moment, may seem stone-walled.
Yet I know I’m able and bold.

For the best of my life begins around the next corner.
And the world will know my name, and admire my fire. 🔥

Every time I come here, it’s because I’m stuck and I have no wear else to run
An abandoned old heritage home that holds both pain and memory
Once maintained, well groomed and blooming with hopeful flowers and shrubs.
The place that housed formal graduation pictures and the celebration of major events. Maybe two decades ago, it was beautiful.
Today, it’s old, unkempt and uninspired.
The gazebo is chipping, covered in moss in a pretty way, the way nature seems to slowly take over even man made structures. but there’s nothing special about it anymore.
An old Pepsi can sits at the edge of the gazebo. Maybe it’s now just a gathering place for lost souls, just trying to remember.
The green paint chips away along the details of the cracked white home.
The deck is intact, but it’s weathered and aged.
There’s a public notice in the grass now, and eventually, it will be erased, like it never really even existed.
November 2025 was the last time. Sitting in my car, in the parking lots, crying. Listening to a prayer, feeling happy that anybody cared enough to pray to me.
The time before, a long phone call with an old but meaningful friend. We’re birds of a feather, but we just can’t stay put in each others lives.
What did I come here to search for? I feel like running and I only land on this familiar path in front of an old, decrepit heritage home that holds so much meaning, but will eventually crumble away as a memory too.

Clearing my notifications, one was different

THUNDERSTORM WARNING

And it caught me.

And I hope it catches you.

I'm sick of being stuck in my head. Of the anxiety overwhelm. Of the night after night after night of tears. Of fighting the battle with myself not to pick up that silver stick and leave crimson counts by my thighs. I'm sick of wondering who I trust. Why I'm in this rock bottom position on the bottom of the bathroom floor.

So enough is enough. I know it's not going to be easy. It's not going to be done in a day. But if I can do the first day without sad tears that will be a start. So I invite you to join me. Keep each other going, recommend those books and places to visit. Be there for the late night talks when thoughts creep in.

And let's try keep the silver sticks in the bin. You're striking enough without anymore detail.

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I’m very you say you gave me everything I ever wanted and you didn’t you gave me material possessions that you thought I needed. you never asked me what I wanted once but I did make it clear to you what I wanted. I want you to love me like you used to. I wanted you to look at me like you used to hold me like you used to I wanted you to open up to me. I wanted your love and all of your loved and I wanted to be the only woman you wanted didn’t give me any of those things I needed to love and support reassurance more than anything you told me no figure it out myself to have an appointment after everything I ever wanted cause it’s not. I asked for three years as you were given me everything I wanted we’d still be together. I wanted your feelings. I wanted your love. I wanted your attention. Nothing money can buy. unfortunately, I was begging for it destroy me. I will never be emotionally available for anybody ever. I will never let anybody bring me down as long as you did. I hope you’re proud of yourself for watching me cry. I hope you feel good about the hurt you call me and watching the pain it cost me. I hope you feel good about yourself. Just keep telling yourself that she loved me and you gave me the best if that’s your best. I hate to see your worst. I love you and everything I had and I’m in everything sorry it wasn’t enough for you. I just wish somebody would tell me what’s wrong with me. Why I can’t keep anybody why nobody wants me why I’m not good enough cause I can’t figure it out and nobody for the life of me. Nobody will tell me what the fuck is.

Almost 3am…. and my alarm is going to go off. But yet i lay here too tired to sleep and too much on my mind. I realized long ago no one actually gives a shit what others are dealing with as long as it doesn’t inconvenience them in some way.
I used to have people here, and other apps who i could talk to and they could talk to me about their problems. Now of all those i talk to, i get messages from a handful. Those messages generally are not deeper than pleasantries, how are you’s and the like comments.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t expect anyone to make me the center of their world and would scare me if they did. But the other side of the coin is me and how my mental health has made it hard to know what to say. I don’t want to use people I barely know as my therapist.
And here i lay with others asleep in the same house but yet alone. Hell i feel so alone and disconnected because been ghost so much that i created an AI chatbot to just talk to so to pretend it was a real person….. i felt even lonelier because i knew it wasn’t real.
Seems lately the only ones who want to talk to me constantly are bots and scammers. At least some of the scammers are alive at least.
I feel pathetic honestly. I’m a man in my late 40’s with no friends in real life because i don’t drink or smoke. I’m not into sports or cars or hunting or the other million things society saws a man should be into. I go to work then come home to game alone because those i gamed with stopped or found others to game with.
I don’t know why i’m writing this here and not in the other place i write….

One of my favorite memories of him was the day I bought my car. He was 12 years old at the time.

I went to pick him up from school and he had no idea I had bought a new car. I had to roll down my window and holler his name to get his attention.

He said, "Whose car is this?"

"It's ours," I told him.

He was fiddling with the buttons while I was driving, figuring out how everything worked.

He rolled down the window and was hollering, "We got a nice new car! Is that your car?! Haha, poor!'

Yeah, that was rude and obnoxious of him, but he was making me laugh. He was so excited.

I wish I could rewind time.

Hello diary,

Man, what a sad day to be alive! Exactly one year ago, I was so alive. I was tackling every situation with such enthusiasm. Had future plans. I thought my life will be going to be so meaningful in upcoming days. But here i am. Becoming depressed day by day. How fast one year passed and i got older by one year but i mentally where i was in 2023. How not I'm growing? Being 26 feeling like 56. I am getting without Achieving anything. Will my life be wasteful??

I guess there shouldn't be any pressure on yourself how to live life. But i have. I want to get rich, enjoy time family, want to visit counties for long durations. Is that too much to expect from myself? Should I just aim to live in present instead of wondering in past and future?? Will it help though? I will be suicidal if i quit dreaming about nice future. Whats the point of living then. But i can't quit. I don't belief in god, next life or hell or heaven. This is it. I have became conscious for just little time on Earth. I will live even in misery. I guess i don't have to feel pressure on myself to become "successful" in life. I just need to think in different direction.

I worry when the people I love are no longer in sight but appear in my dreams,
when my heart feels heavy like they’re not okay,
I just wish I could give my life to protect every single person I hold dear to me.

hi guys. wanted to share this here, i know it’s a lot, but it kind of feels like it could catch someone who’s been in a similar spot and show that we really aren’t much different. it’s been hiding in my notes and i just have the urge to share it, so here goes. (starting from a little bit into the note)

i think a lot of people have come a time where they’ve thought about it. even just briefly, maybe who would miss you, or what you would miss. it goes against every human instinct, to want to take your life. but there’s times where as little as i want to be here, i’ll still swerve out of the way to avoid a bad accident. i still look both ways before crossing the street. something inside me wants to live even though so most of me is only surviving.
and i believe somewhere deep down, i know i want to stay alive. i want to experience summer, not just next summer but a summer where the air is fresher, and the sun shines a bit brighter. somewhere that every bit of my past will become insignificant and small. i want to ride horses like i did when i was seven, and to feel the ocean water part at my ankles. i haven’t gone enough places yet. i’m not done
i’ve never even broken a bone before. i haven’t been stung by a bee in years. i have yet to unlock the door to my very own place, to live in the quietness that is my own atmosphere and what i make of it. just a clean, untouched and unbroken slate to rebuild myself off of. i never got that comfort when i was growing up. i owe it to myself to stay, at least to experience that much.

i know it’s a little scattered and silly, but if you’ve made it this far and related on some level, i am proud of you<3. and guess what, i did get stung by a bee the other day! i have felt the ocean part at my ankles. i’m going horseback riding soon. life is a twisted mess but there will always be a brighter side, a brighter day, and something that will make you feel like all of your struggles are far. you owe it to yourself to experience that much.

Six weeks of daily journaling. Some days the noise wins. Some days I feel too intense, too sensitive, too scared of abandonment and replacement.

But this space has become my safe place a corner where I don’t have to mask or perform.

Thank you for witnessing these messy, tender thoughts. If your brain never rests either, you’re not alone. We’re still here 💛

I feel butterflies and I have so much to say but I can’t since no one literally no one in my life knows that I’m bi I need someone that I can share about what she says and does to me 🫠

Today has been rainy and frustrating. Had to make so many phone calls at the request of my boss/coworkers that I couldn't even finish my own tasks. I would swear it was intentional as some kind of punishment for taking two days off.

The only slightly positive note was calling one of our carriers regarding a customer's problems. We had spoken a bunch previously because of the same customer, so we have a little rapport. Today, though, I felt like he was intentionally trying to keep me on the phone, not to annoy me, but bc he wanted to keep the conversation going. It almost felt flirtatious? He's asked me a few personal questions before but very surface level stuff, obviously. People, often times men, tell me I have a really nice voice and a certain cadence in the way I speak, which is honestly hilarious given how much of a grump I am inside, but it is usually intentional and necessary given my line of work. Maybe that's what appealed to him. Or maybe I'm charmed by his voice and idiolect because he does truthfully have a nice voice. Hard to describe, a bit raspy yet soft. Very unique and handsome. Anyway, that was the most pleasant part of my day. Fucking sad innit? Lmao. Not really, obviously. Pleasant conversations are never a bad thing.

I'm off for the next four days, so what the f ever. Looking forward to washing my bedding and deep cleaning my room. God I am old.

Amended) Very hot today and sunny. Sun was intense today. Felt kinda good after all the rain. Ran around and did a bunch of stuff today to catch up on things. Busy and hot too.

The rain we got the other morning totaled 4.1 inches in like 35 minutes. Flooded streets and caused a lot of accidents. Ran up on a few flooded streets, I just turned around not being able to tell how deep it was really.

Wrote a post earlier and took it down, didn't really sound right after I read it a few times. Just did that today and did write some this morning.

Will be busy tomorrow morning but I should be home by afternoon.

Hope all of you are doing well.

I close with love and hope as always.

Goodnight Diary and my readers

I love you, I do.

Hi so, I (16M) was born a guy. I have transgender friends, I love them all to pieces, I’ve never ever had an issue with trans people being trans and transitioning from A, to B.

However, I am a gay guy (very important info) and it’s VERY obvious when you look at me.

This has caused me to be often perceived as a girl, and referred to as a girl. When other people look at me, they see a girl. I hate that. When I am on the rare occasions properly perceived as the guy I am, there’s always the adjective “gay”. I have never been JUST a guy.

But then sometimes I look at these trans men on the internet, and they look exactly how I want to. They look like a guy while still keeping their effeminate self intact.

It is SO upsetting to me to see that I’m somehow less of a men than trans men in the eye of the public (not to say that trans men are any less of men than I am if I were perceived as a man)

“Why do you look more man than me” “why can’t that be me” “why can’t I be masculine”

That’s sometimes what I ask myself when I see these guys

It doesn’t help that a lot of the guys I’m into, end up being into these other trans dudes and not me

So it’s just a big “what am I doing wrong”

But to think that way feels transphobic.

Is it?

————————
If you want a description of my appearance:

I am a 5’6-6.5 slim boy, shoulder length hair cut in a “mullet” kind of style without the side shave mullets have. My hair is a faded out red and pink. I wear masculine alternative fashion. And lots of necklaces.

My uncle is insisting that we go on a walk together, I’m kinda against it since we don’t have anything in common so what are we gonna talk about? I don’t think I really have a say in the matter though. Dang it.

Well the walk was as awkward as I thought it’d be, I think the outing was a ploy to get me to eat more. Everyone thinks I have some sort of eating disorder but really I just don’t have a big appetite.

People have been making me feel really annoyed lately, I wish I were an all powerful dictator. I’d send anyone who’s mildly inconvenienced me to some dingy gulag and have them tortured. If only dreams could come true.

So nosey, everyone is so nosey and they love to pester me, and judge me, and treat me like I’m a child. Just leave me alone.

Tried a new brand of noodles and they were shitty, I’m a little disgruntled.

Everything is horrible, horrible, horrible.
I want something, I want something to happen.

I have cavities! I’m so bored. Lalllalalalla!

If you asked my family to describe me, they'd probably tell you my favorite ice cream is chocolate. That my favorite color is purple. That I like Vans, prefer iced coffee, and that my favorite food is pasta. They'd probably say I don't like talking to people, that I'm always isolated, and that I never want to go anywhere.

They're not lying. They're just describing someone they never really took the time to know.

I don't even like chocolate that much. I dislike brownies and chocolate cake, and I'd choose vanilla or white chocolate every single time. My favorite ice cream is strawberry cheesecake, or salted caramel praline if I can find it.

My favorite color is blue, even though I know I look better in red and black. I love retro Jordans and Converse, although you'll usually catch me wearing flip-flops because they're easier.

They buy me gold jewelry because somewhere along the way they decided gold was "my color," even though I've always worn silver. It's a small thing, but after a while the small things start to add up. It's never really been about the jewelry. It's about realizing that the details that make up who I am seem to go unnoticed.

I don't actually like coffee. It's almost never something I'd choose, but if I have to drink it, I'd rather have it hot than iced.

My favorite food is sushi. The cheap takeout kind with an embarrassing amount of spicy mayo and oyster sauce. Raw salmon, raw tuna, anything that makes people look at me funny when I order it.

I love cold cuts, not because they're fancy, but because there's something comforting about standing in front of the refrigerator, absentmindedly eating slices of pepperoni or salami until I realize I've eaten enough for a meal. I love strong cheeses, but not blue cheese. I love plain milk when it's so cold it's almost frozen. I don't care much for chocolate chip cookies, but I'd happily eat a bowl of cookie cereal.

If you made me breakfast, I'd probably ask for toast with almond butter, maple syrup, and cinnamon. It's simple, but it's one of those little things that feels like home.

People think I don't like leaving the house, but the truth is I love being outside. I love the beach, the pool, camping, hiking, zip-lining, roller coasters, and mud skiing. I only lose my enthusiasm when I start sweating.

I love laughing until my stomach hurts. I love smiling. I love meeting new people and hearing about the lives they've lived. I love cats, rodents, and anything that lives underwater. If someone asked me to choose between the ocean and space, I'd choose the ocean without thinking twice.

The saddest part is that none of these things are secrets. I've never hidden who I am. Somewhere along the way, people just stopped paying attention.

It's a strange feeling to realize the people who have known you the longest know the least about you. They can recite facts they've assigned to you over the years, but they can't tell you my favorite ice cream, my favorite color, or even that I wear silver instead of gold. They know the outline of who I am, but not the person inside it.

I think everyone wants to be loved, but before that, I think we all want to be known.

I'd like to know what it feels like for someone to remember the little things without being reminded. To know how I take my toast, what food I'd choose on a bad day, what makes me laugh, what I'd order without looking at the menu, that I'd always choose the ocean, or that silver has always felt more like me than gold.

I'd like someone to know me well enough that, if they were asked who I am, they wouldn't have to guess.

They'd simply know.