# blog_posts

title: I sent my boy to school happy. He came home in an urn.
author: Mammoth_County2922
created_at: 2025-09-15 13:05:08
content:
My boy is gone. The words feel like shards of glass in my throat, but I need to speak them, to let them out into the world. He was emotional, sensitive, but those are not crimes. Yet, here I am, suffocating under the weight of sadness that never seems to lift, especially in the quiet of night when the world sleeps, or during festivals when joy surrounds me but despair gnaws at my heart.

Our family was once whole, happy. Now, it’s shattered. His siblings lost a dear brother, and their tears flowed for months, a river of grief that seemed endless.

It was the 29th of July, 2024, when I said my last goodbye to my boy. He left for school, unaware that it would be his final journey. There was some disciplinary process—a 'fact-finding' mission, they called it. He was accused of hiding a friend's belonging in the garden. Why, I’ll never know. His own things had been taken and hidden before. He’d been pushed down stairs, came home bleeding, bruised. Yet, he was singled out, taken to a conference room, questioned by teachers, searched, asked to write a statement. No parents, no counselor. He cried three times that day.

He didn’t pull through emotionally. After school, just 13 minutes after dismissal, he took his life, falling 16 stories down. Covered in blood, organs ruptured, 14 fractures. He cried in pain, then lay silent in the arms of a pastor who turned him over. An hour later, at the hospital, he was declared dead.

I had cooked lunch for him. He was late. The hospital called. The school called. I rushed down, but he was already gone.

Discipline is important, but tears are important too. He was only 11 years old. He deserved to live, to be understood more deeply. Emotional distress consumed him, too young to cope. His teachers said he seemed okay after his crying episodes stopped. Cameras captured him crossing a traffic junction, his face etched with sadness.

How I wish we had been told earlier when he was singled out from class. How I wish we had been informed when he cried. How I wish he had seen a counselor. How I wish we had been called to fetch him home safely. We could have supported him better.

When we post suggestions for better emotional care in schools to teacher communities, we are blamed, my dead child blamed, judged in death. They say it was his problem, or ours. I’m not seeking blame, just hoping to advocate for the sensitive ones, so my boy’s life isn’t lost in vain. Teachers are overloaded, we understand, but emotional care is crucial.

How I wish this were all a dream, that I would wake up and find him happy and smiling. We had so many years together, unspent. We were supposed to go pet shopping after school. Instead, I went to the morgue and cremation. So many nights I dream of him alive, only to wake up to the sinking realization that it’s all a dream.

Why can’t the world be kinder, more compassionate, have more empathy for sensitive kids like him? He had good conduct, excelled in science and math, helped his friends, cared for his siblings, was well-loved by classmates. Introverted, sensitive, yes, but he wasn’t a bad egg.

And yet, all that remains of our child now are his ashes in his bedroom, his soft toys on his bed, and his memorial blog.

It’s unfair. So unfair.

The world continues. I can only stand still and cry. Nothing can bring him back.

I blame myself. I should have raised a more hard-hearted child, instead of the softie he was. He was normally so chill. No one saw it coming.

I write this post to relieve the pain, even if just a little, for a little while. At least he is heard in death. Thank you all for helping through this difficult journey, even though we are thousands of miles apart.

But really, there is no point in blame. My kid is gone. Flaming, doxxing, pointless. I can only pray that parents, schools, society can improve and do better for the next child.

Disclaimer: This post reflects our family’s personal understanding of the events surrounding our son’s death. We do not claim to present an official account, and we acknowledge that other perspectives may exist. Our intention is not to assign blame or make any legal claims, but to share our experience in the hope of encouraging positive change and greater empathy for children’s emotional well-being.

tags:
["grief", "emotional distress", "school discipline", "family loss", "advocacy", "sensitivity", "empathy", "childhood", "tragedy", "hope for change"]


title: I didn’t go to my sister’s funeral. She took her life when I started a new one.
author: Altruistic_Fault_893
created_at: 2025-09-15 13:07:46
content:
I've been carrying a lot of mixed emotions lately, and I needed to get this off my chest.

In 2022, at the age of twenty-three, I booked a one-way flight to Ireland. After years of working and saving, I found a job abroad and thought it would be a way to break away from my family and hometown after enduring years of abandonment and abuse since childhood. I had gone no-contact with my family and was ready to start over. I knew staying in that environment any longer would destroy me.

The day I landed, I got the call: my older sister, Emily, had taken her own life.

Emily had attempted it before, first in high school after running away from home and again in her early twenties. Her pain was chronic and visible, but no one really saw her. I had been warning my family for years that this might happen. I begged them to stop mistreating her, to stop ignoring the emotional distress we were both drowning in. They never listened.

We weren’t close, not because I didn’t care, but because our family dynamics didn’t allow space for closeness. We were both just trying to survive. The dysfunction made everything tense, distant, and fragile. Still, she was my sister. And she didn’t deserve what she went through.

I didn’t go to her funeral. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t sit among the same people who made our lives hell, now acting heartbroken. I couldn’t watch them cry over her death after showing her so little compassion in our lives. I knew I’d fall apart if I did.

People judged me, said I should’ve gone. I tried to speak up. I just couldn’t save her. And I couldn’t go back and pretend for the sake of appearances.

Now I’m grieving in silence, with guilt, rage, and heartbreak tangled together. I got out. She didn’t. That truth haunts me more than anything.

Two years later, I’m still trying to figure it out.

tags:
["Ireland", "abandonment", "abuse", "sister", "suicide", "grief", "family dynamics", "funeral", "guilt", "survival"]


title: My brother lost his job as a doctor and he is angry that I will not let him move in with me
author: anonymoussister149
created_at: 2025-09-15 13:19:11
content:
I never imagined I'd find myself in this position, standing firm against my own brother, but here I am. His name is Daniel, and once upon a time, he was a respected doctor. Now, he's a man whose career has crumbled, leaving him desperate and angry. I had to tell him he couldn't move into my home, and the fallout has been nothing short of a storm.

Daniel's troubles began with a medication called Semaglutide, which is strictly regulated in our country. It's meant for diabetes treatment, and the healthcare system covers its cost only for that purpose. If someone wants it for any other reason, they must pay out of pocket. Daniel, in his desperation to help—or perhaps to profit—found a way around this.

He conducted a test for diabetes, the name of which escapes me, but I remember the process. Patients were supposed to fast before the test, then drink a special liquid, and get tested again. Daniel, however, instructed his patients to eat before both tests, skewing the results to falsely indicate diabetes. This allowed them to get Semaglutide covered by the healthcare system.

I don't know how Daniel's scheme was uncovered. Perhaps it was the patients who ended up in the hospital, or maybe someone tipped off the authorities. What I do know is that Daniel has been stripped of his medical license and is under investigation for fraud.

Now, he wants to move in with me, expecting me to support him indefinitely. "You're the only one who can help me," he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation. But I live in a cramped studio apartment, barely enough space for myself, let alone another person. My income as an electrician, supplemented occasionally by auto mechanic work, is just enough to keep me afloat.

Our parents, living in a retirement community, and our grandfather in assisted living, are in no position to help. Their fixed pensions barely cover their own needs. "I used all my money for legal fees," Daniel argued, frustration boiling over. "You have to help me."

"I can't, Daniel," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don't have the space or the money."

His response was swift and cutting. "You're a bad sister," he accused, anger flashing in his eyes. "You could do more mechanic work. You could make it work."

But I refuse to shoulder the burden of his mistakes. "It's not my responsibility," I said, my own anger rising. "I won't let you blame me for your problems."

The conversation ended with him storming out, leaving me to grapple with the guilt and frustration of our fractured relationship. I wish things were different, but sometimes, standing firm is the only choice we have.

Thank you for listening to my story.

tags:
["brother", "doctor", "fraud", "Semaglutide", "healthcare system", "investigation", "studio apartment", "electrician", "auto mechanic", "family support"]


title: My mothers death was covered up.
author: winryal
created_at: 2025-09-15 13:21:06
content:
I miss my mom more than words can express. It's a longing that gnaws at me, a silent scream that echoes in the chambers of my heart. I wish I could talk about her openly, share her story, and reveal the truth about her death—a truth that her family has tried so desperately to bury.

They were supposed to be my family too, but they never treated me as such. One day, out of the blue, they texted my dad, informing him that my mom had passed away in her sleep a month prior. They had already held her funeral without me, without even a whisper of her passing reaching my ears until it was too late. For eight long months, I lived with the gnawing suspicion that they were lying.

Then, another text shattered my world. It revealed the grim truth: my mom was killed by her boyfriend at a hotel I pass every day on my way to work. The very thought of it sends shivers down my spine, a cruel reminder of the injustice that has become my reality.

December will mark two years since her death, yet the trial drags on, a never-ending saga of delays and legal maneuvering. He pleaded not guilty, and now, because he's held in another state, there's talk that there might not even be a trial. How could the justice system fail so spectacularly?

This man, this monster, was released on parole just days before he took her life, despite having already hurt her. The system let him walk free, and now my mom is gone.

I don't know why I'm sharing this, but it feels like my soul is crying out for the truth to be told. Her family has tried to cover it up, to erase the reality of her death and the fact that she had two daughters, not just one. I was her daughter too, and she wanted us all to be together more than anything.

No matter what she went through, no matter how long it had been since she texted or called, her love never faltered. It was a love I could never question, a love that motivated me to keep going. My mother lost everything and still smiled, still fought, and still dreamed.

I wonder if people ever see my mother's obituary and think, "She had two daughters, not just one." I wonder if they see the news and question why her obituary claims she died in her sleep of a respiratory disease.

How can an entire family be okay with this deception?

I've felt so worthless, so small. Sometimes, I just want to be where she is. I don't even have a place to grieve her, because they spread her ashes without me.

What would you do? Would you keep it a secret?

As the two-year anniversary of her death approaches, I feel like I can't keep silent anymore. My mother deserves justice. She deserves to be remembered for how hard she fought, not forgotten.

tags:
["mother", "death", "justice", "family", "truth", "trial", "boyfriend", "grief", "deception", "love"]


title: I’m having surgery on an almost inoperable tumor in 12 hours and I might/probably will die
author: Perfect_Fox5337
created_at: 2025-09-15 13:22:13
content:
I feel like I'm trapped in a medical drama, and the tension is driving me to the brink of madness. My name is Emily, and at 34, I find myself facing a terrifying reality. A malignant pituitary adenoma has taken root in my brain, growing rapidly and threatening to steal my sight by pressing against my optic nerve. The urgency of the situation is palpable, and the fear of blindness looms over me like a dark cloud.

The journey to find a surgeon willing to tackle this monstrous tumor has been fraught with rejection and despair. Two neurosurgeons have already turned me away, deeming the operation too risky. Their refusal left me with no choice but to fly across the country, seeking the expertise of a specialist who might offer a glimmer of hope.

Now, I sit alone in a sterile hotel room, the ticking clock reminding me that in just twelve hours, I will be under the knife. The possibilities of the surgery's outcome swirl in my mind, each one more terrifying than the last. I could die on the operating table, or perhaps wake up completely fine. But the specter of waking up with severe neurological deficits or blindness haunts me, a nightmare I can't shake.

The solitude of this room is suffocating, and the thought that these might be my last hours alive sends me spiraling into despair. If the surgeon misses even the tiniest fragment of the tumor, I've been warned it will return, a relentless enemy.

I've met Dr. Harper, the only surgeon brave enough to take on this challenge. Her confidence is reassuring, yet the fear of a mistake lingers. What if she errs, and I am left to live as a shell of my former self? The doubts gnaw at me, fueled by the rejection of those other doctors. Is Dr. Harper truly capable, or is her willingness to operate a sign of arrogance?

My sister, Sarah, will arrive in two days to be by my side during my recovery. Her presence is a beacon of comfort, but until then, I am alone with my thoughts. The uncertainty of my fate is overwhelming, and the prospect of never knowing the outcome because I might not survive is a chilling thought.

As I write this, I can't help but wonder if these words will be my final farewell. If I don't make it through, I want to say that I loved living, and goodbye.

tags:
["Emily", "pituitary adenoma", "surgery", "blindness", "neurosurgeon", "Dr. Harper", "hotel room", "fear", "sister Sarah", "medical drama"]


title: I Have Been Keeping A Secret From My Parents For Years!
author: Ok_Ad1285
created_at: 2025-09-19 09:18:41
content:
Hey everyone! I'm sharing this story from an alternate account because my parents follow my main one, and I want to keep this little secret just between us.

This all began about ten years ago. I was 26 at the time, and I stumbled upon an app on the Playstore that promised cash rewards for watching ads. To my surprise, it actually worked! I started accumulating points, and soon I was winning big by gambling those points. Before I knew it, I had amassed a staggering 14 million points. These points could be exchanged for gift cards, and I began redeeming them for $25 Starbucks cards. It was like hitting the jackpot.

The app, unfortunately, doesn't exist in the same format anymore. All good things must come to an end, right? But back then, those 14 million points translated to about $700 worth of gift cards. The catch was that the cards were restocked only three times a day, and it was first come, first serve. It took me about two years of watching ads daily to earn that kind of reward, but the payoff was sweet. I claimed many $25 Starbucks cards, and yes, they were valid. It was awesome while it lasted.

Now, here's the secret. I used those gift cards to treat my parents, Linda and Tom, to Starbucks. I told them about the app and how I had an insane amount of cash on there, allowing us to enjoy Starbucks once a week for many years. All it took was about an hour of ads every day. It felt good to give my parents something special. We were never a wealthy family, and they had always taken care of me.

But, as I mentioned, the app eventually stopped being so generous. The restocks became infrequent and then ceased altogether. Despite this, I cherished the joy it brought my parents, how their faces lit up when I handed them their favorite orders. The time we spent together, sharing a little lunch, is precious to me. So, even though I was no longer getting gift cards, I decided not to tell them that the app had shut down. I knew that if they found out I was paying for it, they'd refuse because they knew I was barely scraping by. They only allowed me to treat them so often because they believed it was free.

Linda and Tom continue to brag about how I get the gift cards. Every time, they laugh and smile, thrilled by the idea of free Starbucks. When we talk, they always ask if I've watched my ads for the day. I always assure them I have. My dad loves to hear about my point total, which is zero now because I uninstalled the app, but he doesn't need to know that!

They thank me all the time, and it's a little slice of joy once a month, sometimes once a week. I have no plans to stop. I still buy them Starbucks every time I see them or when we're out running errands. This secret will go to the grave with me. I just wanted to share it with someone without it getting back to them.

Today, I surprised them with lunch because they're going through a tough time, so it's fresh in my mind, and I felt compelled to make this post. It always brings a smile to my face. I'm the type who never lies if I can help it, so I get that OCD itch that I'm lying, but giving them Starbucks makes us so happy. It's adorable how excited they get, and I always want it to be that way.

Thanks for reading my little secret. Don't tell anyone! ;P

tags:
["Starbucks", "gift cards", "secret", "parents", "app", "ads", "points", "surprise", "joy", "family"]


author: ThrowRA_Over_Volume
created_at: 2025-09-19 10:55:07
tags: []
title:
I put a grenade in my relationship with my wife, I lost everything, and have nobody to blame but myself. I just need to get this out.

content:
I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m not justifying anything. I fucked up and its my fault. I just need to get this out because there’s no one I can talk to.

My wife and I were having issues. Just the usual issues the struggle and strain of life, raising a family etc. We were struggling and nothing was getting better and I felt like I wasn’t good enough. That I never would be.

And then I met ‘Carly’ online. She was much younger than me so we just talked but then she started flirting with me and it made me feel good. I didn’t tell her I was married, didn’t want her to stop flirting.

I told myself it wouldn’t go anywhere. I was just enjoying the attention. And we were just talking. She lived the other side of the world there was no chance of us meeting. And then we had cybersex. I felt better than I had in ages. Cybersex then became video and phone sex anytime my wife was out. We sent photos and videos every day.

The more I spent time with Carly, the more I couldn’t stand being with my wife so I broke up with her.

I didn’t tell my wife about the affair, I gave other excuses but my wife knew something was up and found out about the affair.

It broke her. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, she cried all the time. I justified it by telling myself my wife is a strong woman she’ll get over it. I hate myself for thinking that way. But I did.

My wife went to therapy. Stopped crying. Started eating and sleeping again. Started smiling again. Stopped begging me not to leave. And I thought great. See I was right. I stopped feeling guilty. I felt relieved.

My wife and I had to live together for a while until I found a place but I barely saw her and she barely spoke to me. At first it was great but then I started to feel off, like I had come home to an empty house, even though it wasn’t.

At that point I should have seen sense, should have stopped. Instead I started to resent my wife. Somehow in my mind she was trying to sabotage my happiness. It made me angry. I snapped. Made passive aggressive comments – I hate myself for every word, every nasty text. Every accusation.

I moved out.

Living with my wife had been awkward but the new place was…. I don’t know. Even though I’d rarely see her, every room contained her presence even when she wasn’t there. But staying in the new place made me feel more alone than I ever had. I had free run to talk to Carly any time I wanted, to do anything I wanted but it felt so pointless. The new place felt so fucking awful. Like a prison.

I started to dread going home. I’d stay out for hours. Hang around supermarkets. Wander the streets. Sit on a park bench. Anything but go home. Even if it meant not talking to Carly.

And then one time I passed a perfume shop and smelled my wife’s perfume and I don’t know why but I broke down. In that moment I didn’t want to talk to Carly. I wanted my wife.

Carly and I broke up. I thought I’d miss her. I didn’t. I missed things my wife did. Small things. Big things. I didn’t miss a single thing Carly did.

During handover of our daughter one day I blurted out that Carly and I broke up. I don’t know why, I didn’t even mean to, it just came out. My wife nodded and said I’m sorry to hear that. And I don’t know why but that stung. She didn’t say it spitefully, she was calm and pleasant, like we were just talking about the weather or something. I almost wish she did say it with some spite or glee or something. But she didn’t.

Any time I try to talk about us or what happened, my wife shuts the conversation down.

She’s civil but she looks at me like I’m a stranger. The other day, I put my hand on her back just out of habit and she looked so…. so disgusted. I’ve never seen her make that face and certainly not at me.

I feel so fucking broken. And I know its all my fault. I know I did this. I deserve all of this.

I sabotaged everything good in my life. For nothing. For a lie. Carly didn’t know I was married and nobody knew I was even seeing anyone else even months after the separation. What was I doing???

I got served divorce papers this morning.

I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t deserve it. I know I’m a selfish stupid prick. I know its all my fault.

I wish I could go back but I can’t. And the worst part is I don’t even know why I did it. Yeah we had problems but I can think of a thousand ways to fix them now, why didn’t I think of them then?

I’m sitting here staring at the divorce papers. And I don’t know what to do. My first instinct was to fight them. But I can’t. I shouldn’t. I want to fight it so bad hurts but I can’t. Not after what I did.

I ended up calling in sick and I’ve been sitting at the kitchen counter, crying, thinking about everything I did, everything I said, wishing I could take it all back.

There’s no one I can talk to about this. The person I’d normally talk to is my wife, but I fucked that up.

Everyone hates me. My friends. My family. Its deserved hate. I deserve all of this. I did it to myself, to everyone. I just wanted to get it off my chest, because I don’t know what else to do or where else to turn. Guess internet strangers are my only option.


author: Throwra1793743873
created_at: 2025-09-20 06:56:19
tags: ["friendship", "suicide attempt", "guilt", "kindness", "support", "Emily", "college friends group"]
title:
My friend attempted suicide and we have all realized we didn’t treat her as good as she treated us. Even the night of the attempt she thought about us and baked us all treats to leave :(

content:
I’m 27 years old, and I have this tight-knit group of friends from college. We’re a mix of guys and girls, all in our mid-to-late twenties. Among us is Emily, a girl I’ve always considered one of my closest friends. She’s the kind of person who lights up a room with her smile and warmth, always ready to lend a hand or offer a kind word.

Last week, Emily attempted suicide. The news hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me reeling with guilt and confusion. It was a wake-up call for all of us in the group. We realized, painfully, that we had never reciprocated the kindness she so freely gave.

That night, Emily showed up at my doorstep with a batch of her famous cookies. She knows how much I love them, and I’ve always told her so. She hugged me tightly, a hug that lingered just a moment too long, and then she left. Something felt off, but I ignored it, brushing aside the nagging feeling that I should have invited her in, asked her to stay.

Later, I learned that Emily had visited each of us that night, delivering our favorite treats. It was her way, always doing nice things for everyone. If you needed a favor, a ride, anything at all, Emily was the one to call. If you were down, she’d show up with dinner, ready to listen and comfort. But we never did the same for her.

I remember when her mother passed away. We offered our condolences, but none of us went out of our way to support her. After a few weeks, we stopped checking in, assuming she was okay. Looking back, I realize how blind we were to her struggles.

The worst part? Just a week before her attempt, Emily had texted all of us, asking if we wanted to go out for dinner. We were all busy, caught up in our own lives, and we brushed her off. It wasn’t until we gathered at my house the other night that we pieced it together. She had reached out, and we had failed her.

I don’t understand why she felt so alone. Emily is the sweetest, most caring person I’ve ever met. She was always smiling, always kind. None of us saw this coming.

Thankfully, she survived. When I see her again, I’m determined to change things. I want to be there for her, to show her the love and support she’s always given us. It’s time we all do better, for Emily and for each other.


