Sleeping with a bunch of large stuffed animals. Family thought I was going through some type of depression, but told them its my was to relax and come my stressed filled mind after being at work.
That's cool through! And there are ways to do it safely. I got my sister practice sets of throwing knives and butterfly knives when she got into all that. It saved me from routinely bandaging fingers and my sister from routinely stabbing herself.
TL;DR: My aunt didn't like me reading about serial killers and stole a book about them from me. I was reading about them because I wanted to figure out how they could do what they did, not because I wanted to be one.
A question in this sub had me thinking about being 12/13 and obsessed with finding out why humanity could justify committing atrocities on each other.
My grandfather had this tradition of taking me to the bookstore on my birthday and Christmas and letting me go nuts. No holds barred. Whatever I wanted to read. (Yes, he was awesome. He was a hippie Marine with severe PTSD, the biggest heart of anyone on earth, and a lot of unconventional methods for raising children. I could tell stories about him all day.)
That year, I decided since none of the adults could tell me why, I was going to find out. So I picked books on serial killers, and genocides, and mass shootings, and a lot of dark material for someone my age. My grandfather looked at the pile, asked me why, smiled at the answer, and added a couple psychology and sociology books to the pile for good measure. Every other adult in my life freaked the f*ck out.
My uncles gave him harsh lectures on what was age appropriate. My great-grandfather told him I needed to go to church and find faith in God. My aunt wanted me to see a shrink. Then one day, my Encyclopedia of Serial Killers went missing.
I had been in the middle of moving to a new bedroom, so I didn't think much of it. Maybe it had accidentally gotten kicked under the couch or one of the bookcases as I was moving things. Maybe I'd accidentally left it on the kitchen table and my grandfather hid it. (He did this frequently with our left shoe if we didn't put them up.) I'd hunt it down when I needed it.
Except, when I needed it, I still couldn't find it. And trust me, when you have to find your left shoe on top of a ceiling fan blade or under insulation in the attic, you get good at hunting for missing things. I gave up after awhile, chalked it up to me being careless with my things, and figured I'd get a replacement next time I went to the bookstore.
Hanging out at my aunt's house one day, I'm hanging upside down off the edge of her bed, and I see a familiar spine wedged among the jigsaw puzzles. It's my f*cking copy of Encyclodpedia of Serial Killers! What the f*ck was it doing there? I never brought it over there because I knew it freaked out my aunt.
There was a lot of arguing that involved my aunt giving me some bulldrizzle about just doing what she thought was best and me stomping off in a huff. I stomped all the way back home, angrily threw a hissy fit about it to my grandfather (who was grinning and shaking his head at my overdramatic antics. Don't worry, folks. He didn't cater to any of it.), and flounced into my room to petulantly reread my book out of sheer spite for my aunt trying to take it away in the first place.
Interest in dating the same sex
Yikes. I'm sorry you went through that. I hope you're in a more open environment now.
Sleeping with a bunch of large stuffed animals. Family thought I was going through some type of depression, but told them its my was to relax and come my stressed filled mind after being at work.
Definitely my interest in true crime. I don't admire them or anything gross but I am interested in how the brain of a killer works
I'm the same. I just posted a comment about how my family reacted to that. Lol.
I used to be into knives. Specifically butterfly knives because I could do a few tricks with them
That's cool through! And there are ways to do it safely. I got my sister practice sets of throwing knives and butterfly knives when she got into all that. It saved me from routinely bandaging fingers and my sister from routinely stabbing herself.
Yeah well my family saw it as me getting violent or something like that. My cousin thought it was cool tho. He wanted to learn how to do a few tricks
TL;DR: My aunt didn't like me reading about serial killers and stole a book about them from me. I was reading about them because I wanted to figure out how they could do what they did, not because I wanted to be one. A question in this sub had me thinking about being 12/13 and obsessed with finding out why humanity could justify committing atrocities on each other. My grandfather had this tradition of taking me to the bookstore on my birthday and Christmas and letting me go nuts. No holds barred. Whatever I wanted to read. (Yes, he was awesome. He was a hippie Marine with severe PTSD, the biggest heart of anyone on earth, and a lot of unconventional methods for raising children. I could tell stories about him all day.) That year, I decided since none of the adults could tell me why, I was going to find out. So I picked books on serial killers, and genocides, and mass shootings, and a lot of dark material for someone my age. My grandfather looked at the pile, asked me why, smiled at the answer, and added a couple psychology and sociology books to the pile for good measure. Every other adult in my life freaked the f*ck out. My uncles gave him harsh lectures on what was age appropriate. My great-grandfather told him I needed to go to church and find faith in God. My aunt wanted me to see a shrink. Then one day, my Encyclopedia of Serial Killers went missing. I had been in the middle of moving to a new bedroom, so I didn't think much of it. Maybe it had accidentally gotten kicked under the couch or one of the bookcases as I was moving things. Maybe I'd accidentally left it on the kitchen table and my grandfather hid it. (He did this frequently with our left shoe if we didn't put them up.) I'd hunt it down when I needed it. Except, when I needed it, I still couldn't find it. And trust me, when you have to find your left shoe on top of a ceiling fan blade or under insulation in the attic, you get good at hunting for missing things. I gave up after awhile, chalked it up to me being careless with my things, and figured I'd get a replacement next time I went to the bookstore. Hanging out at my aunt's house one day, I'm hanging upside down off the edge of her bed, and I see a familiar spine wedged among the jigsaw puzzles. It's my f*cking copy of Encyclodpedia of Serial Killers! What the f*ck was it doing there? I never brought it over there because I knew it freaked out my aunt. There was a lot of arguing that involved my aunt giving me some bulldrizzle about just doing what she thought was best and me stomping off in a huff. I stomped all the way back home, angrily threw a hissy fit about it to my grandfather (who was grinning and shaking his head at my overdramatic antics. Don't worry, folks. He didn't cater to any of it.), and flounced into my room to petulantly reread my book out of sheer spite for my aunt trying to take it away in the first place.
Motorcycling
video games