[TW CSA mention] Feeling lost. Tried to see too far. So let's try this again.
Posted: Sun Oct 25, 2026 9:32 pm
Hi. My name is Jaime.
I'm in my thirties with a bachelor's degree but still live like a kid. My uncle and I take care of each other. I do a lot of tasks for him, though probably not as much as I should, and in return I live under his roof without chipping in on rent. Which, I would if I could, but I can't, because I'm unemployed. I've never been employed. I'm on disability and use it to provide for all my needs other than shelter, but I don't think the legal basis of my disability is the real reason I can't work.
I think the real reason is mental health problems. If it were just what the courts decided it is--autism and a congenital hip defect--then there would probably be something out there I could do. But it's not just that. It's self-loathing. It's hating my body. It's hating my mind. It's fear of going outside. It's not being able to consistently get myself out of bed every day. It's being afraid of other people and hiding from them when they try to interact with me. It's not always being able to bring myself to answer the phone. It's responding to every minor criticism or disapproval like it's the end of the world and I'm not going to make it. It's being unable to tolerate a small amount of stress without having a panic attack, and being unable to tolerate a prolonged panic attack without doing something I don't think I'm allowed to mention. It's being unable to connect with anyone, or stay connected with anyone, ever, no matter what, and having no meaningful in-person human connection aside from my uncle, and not being sure I even deserve it, and not being sure where I'd even start. And it's voices in my head telling me how worthless I am. And it's constantly feeling like life isn't real and I'm just watching myself go through the motions every day. And it's feeling like everything I think and everything I feel is all just an act all the time and there's no one really in there. And it's not knowing who I am or what I want or why I'm still here or what I'm supposed to do.
I tried too hard to understand myself and went down kind of a stupid rabbithole. The nonsense I thought I dug up, I'm not sure I believe in it anymore. It doesn't feel authentic anymore. Though I'm not sure if that's because it really isn't, or because I was scared off of it by my psychiatrist telling me the dreaded words, "maybe you just made it up." Feels like lately, every time anyone tells me that, I have a hissy fit. In any case... Let's start over from square one.
I think maybe when I was four years old my father molested me. I don't know what specifically he did (though even if I did, I recognize and respect that I wouldn't be allowed to say). I don't know if he did it once, twice, how many times. I don't know if there was anyone else involved, though I now have a slight reason to maybe suspect it. I have no waking memory of the incident. The only concrete, absolutely certain thing, that I know for sure, and remember for sure, is this: the morning after whatever did or didn't happen, I reported it to my mother.
That's all I have to go on. That I reported something happening. Not what it was. Not whether it even really happened. Just my report. I won't say what I told her, but I don't think a four-year-old could have made it up. But that's the thing, I distinctly remember the words I told her came out of my mouth without my control. How can I know I wasn't lying if I didn't even say it on purpose?
CPS said there was insufficient evidence to prosecute. Child therapists said there was clearly something wrong but they couldn't get any good info out of me. Best we got was a restraining order and child support. I couldn't see him anymore except via supervised visitation and phone calls. In his absence, my mother became the only person in my life. It was taxing for her, being a single mother. She yelled at me a lot. I don't blame her at all, and I don't even really think it was bad enough to make any sense that it affected me the way it did, but it did, it affected me. Then, whatever my dad did or didn't do, I had recurring nightmares about it for years, though the events in them were obscured by shadow, could've been anything really. And I was terrified of doors. When I was alone in a room, I'd just stare at them. A closed door was scary. An open door was scarier. Couldn't tell you why. Could've been anything. Sometimes I hallucinated a shadowy figure at the foot of my bed, but that could've been anything. I had poor hygiene because I didn't think I had a right to touch my own body, but who knows why that could be. I drew gross pictures of monsters eating people, and I was ashamed of them and hid them, and I sometimes acted out in ways I shouldn't have known how to. No idea why.
Weirdly it felt like there was this other thing in my brain besides just me. This dark place I couldn't see into. I never told anyone about it. But to myself, in my own thoughts, I called it the "big black tangly ball of things I'm not allowed to think about." I think the voices in my head live down there. Though I don't think they want to.
I just don't know what to do now. Whatever he did or didn't do ruled my life. He drove us out of home after home because he kept finding out where we lived, out of school after school and clinic after clinic because he kept finding and harassing my therapists and teachers. I like to think of myself as a fairly creative person, but ultimately, every creative work, everything I ever even try to make, always somehow traces back to symbolism for whatever he did or didn't do. Sometimes without noticing. It's like it's not even in my control. I can't have friends or partners because I don't want to end up saddling them with the burden of dealing with all the sick disgusting inner thoughts I struggle with because of what he did or didn't do, I can't be at a normal weight because my overeating is driven by weird weight-focused revenge fantasies against whatever he did or didn't do, it's corrupted my entire way of life, my entire self-image, everything. I can't imagine healing because I don't even know what I'd be without it. I'd be nothing. And no one can help me because no one believes me. They all stop believing me eventually, one way or another.
I don't even believe myself. That was the thing, for awhile there, I believed myself too much, and I bought into some absolute nonsense. So what am I supposed to do now, after flying too close to the sun? Just go back into denial? Just go back to how it was for all those years when I refused to listen to them and kept them shoved down in the ball? Does it even matter? No one's going to believe me either way, right?
I just feel really lost. I don't know where to take my life from here, because in every direction there's just a wall closing in. I think I just screwed it up. I think I just failed, and that's it, that's the end, now it doesn't matter what I choose because there aren't any real choices left.
I'm in my thirties with a bachelor's degree but still live like a kid. My uncle and I take care of each other. I do a lot of tasks for him, though probably not as much as I should, and in return I live under his roof without chipping in on rent. Which, I would if I could, but I can't, because I'm unemployed. I've never been employed. I'm on disability and use it to provide for all my needs other than shelter, but I don't think the legal basis of my disability is the real reason I can't work.
I think the real reason is mental health problems. If it were just what the courts decided it is--autism and a congenital hip defect--then there would probably be something out there I could do. But it's not just that. It's self-loathing. It's hating my body. It's hating my mind. It's fear of going outside. It's not being able to consistently get myself out of bed every day. It's being afraid of other people and hiding from them when they try to interact with me. It's not always being able to bring myself to answer the phone. It's responding to every minor criticism or disapproval like it's the end of the world and I'm not going to make it. It's being unable to tolerate a small amount of stress without having a panic attack, and being unable to tolerate a prolonged panic attack without doing something I don't think I'm allowed to mention. It's being unable to connect with anyone, or stay connected with anyone, ever, no matter what, and having no meaningful in-person human connection aside from my uncle, and not being sure I even deserve it, and not being sure where I'd even start. And it's voices in my head telling me how worthless I am. And it's constantly feeling like life isn't real and I'm just watching myself go through the motions every day. And it's feeling like everything I think and everything I feel is all just an act all the time and there's no one really in there. And it's not knowing who I am or what I want or why I'm still here or what I'm supposed to do.
I tried too hard to understand myself and went down kind of a stupid rabbithole. The nonsense I thought I dug up, I'm not sure I believe in it anymore. It doesn't feel authentic anymore. Though I'm not sure if that's because it really isn't, or because I was scared off of it by my psychiatrist telling me the dreaded words, "maybe you just made it up." Feels like lately, every time anyone tells me that, I have a hissy fit. In any case... Let's start over from square one.
I think maybe when I was four years old my father molested me. I don't know what specifically he did (though even if I did, I recognize and respect that I wouldn't be allowed to say). I don't know if he did it once, twice, how many times. I don't know if there was anyone else involved, though I now have a slight reason to maybe suspect it. I have no waking memory of the incident. The only concrete, absolutely certain thing, that I know for sure, and remember for sure, is this: the morning after whatever did or didn't happen, I reported it to my mother.
That's all I have to go on. That I reported something happening. Not what it was. Not whether it even really happened. Just my report. I won't say what I told her, but I don't think a four-year-old could have made it up. But that's the thing, I distinctly remember the words I told her came out of my mouth without my control. How can I know I wasn't lying if I didn't even say it on purpose?
CPS said there was insufficient evidence to prosecute. Child therapists said there was clearly something wrong but they couldn't get any good info out of me. Best we got was a restraining order and child support. I couldn't see him anymore except via supervised visitation and phone calls. In his absence, my mother became the only person in my life. It was taxing for her, being a single mother. She yelled at me a lot. I don't blame her at all, and I don't even really think it was bad enough to make any sense that it affected me the way it did, but it did, it affected me. Then, whatever my dad did or didn't do, I had recurring nightmares about it for years, though the events in them were obscured by shadow, could've been anything really. And I was terrified of doors. When I was alone in a room, I'd just stare at them. A closed door was scary. An open door was scarier. Couldn't tell you why. Could've been anything. Sometimes I hallucinated a shadowy figure at the foot of my bed, but that could've been anything. I had poor hygiene because I didn't think I had a right to touch my own body, but who knows why that could be. I drew gross pictures of monsters eating people, and I was ashamed of them and hid them, and I sometimes acted out in ways I shouldn't have known how to. No idea why.
Weirdly it felt like there was this other thing in my brain besides just me. This dark place I couldn't see into. I never told anyone about it. But to myself, in my own thoughts, I called it the "big black tangly ball of things I'm not allowed to think about." I think the voices in my head live down there. Though I don't think they want to.
I just don't know what to do now. Whatever he did or didn't do ruled my life. He drove us out of home after home because he kept finding out where we lived, out of school after school and clinic after clinic because he kept finding and harassing my therapists and teachers. I like to think of myself as a fairly creative person, but ultimately, every creative work, everything I ever even try to make, always somehow traces back to symbolism for whatever he did or didn't do. Sometimes without noticing. It's like it's not even in my control. I can't have friends or partners because I don't want to end up saddling them with the burden of dealing with all the sick disgusting inner thoughts I struggle with because of what he did or didn't do, I can't be at a normal weight because my overeating is driven by weird weight-focused revenge fantasies against whatever he did or didn't do, it's corrupted my entire way of life, my entire self-image, everything. I can't imagine healing because I don't even know what I'd be without it. I'd be nothing. And no one can help me because no one believes me. They all stop believing me eventually, one way or another.
I don't even believe myself. That was the thing, for awhile there, I believed myself too much, and I bought into some absolute nonsense. So what am I supposed to do now, after flying too close to the sun? Just go back into denial? Just go back to how it was for all those years when I refused to listen to them and kept them shoved down in the ball? Does it even matter? No one's going to believe me either way, right?
I just feel really lost. I don't know where to take my life from here, because in every direction there's just a wall closing in. I think I just screwed it up. I think I just failed, and that's it, that's the end, now it doesn't matter what I choose because there aren't any real choices left.