Not allowed to talk about it not allowed to talk about it not allowed to talk about it. I’m a bad dog bad dog bad dog. Bad bad bad. Kill me dead dead dead. Please don’t make me beg beg beg.
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It took me too long to realize that not all the world is my enemy
[ID: A comic done mostly in black and white. A hound with a broken chain around its neck flees a cage and runs into two reaching hands. The hound bites one hand, drawing blood. Narration says, "When I fled my cage / I bit the hands that took me in / Because the only hand I'd ever known / was a bad one."
The hands, now with fresh bite marks, still reach out gently to the hound. ""We're not him." they said / and I knew what they meant / but I didn't understand."
Floating in white space: "Now I understand / but the damage is done."
A person enters a door, rolling a suitcase, saying "Hi" to two people on a couch, who look up from their newspapers and phones to say "Hey" and "Hi" back. The shadow of the person who entered the room stretches out before them-- a hound's, not a person's. Narration: "I'm so sorry / I couldn't help it / I couldn't help myself."
We see the hands of the people on the couch. Both have faded bite marks on them. "I was so blind, I forgot / that not all hands are made of iron." End ID]
(ID by @princess-of-purple-prose)
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I have a distinct memory of laying in my bed as a kid and wishing with all my heart that I would get hurt. That I would get into a bad car crash or I'd disappear. So my parents would cry and realize they didn't cherish me enough.
I find it sad that younger me thought she had to get hurt to feel loved.
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Parents really do traumatize you and then force you to reparent yourself instead of being a capable human being who can contribute to society like a normal person. Sorry I can't get a well paying job right now I'm trying to learn coping mechanisms.
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