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turquoiseSailboat3469
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PathStep 1 Compassion hearts14 Forum posts4 Forum upvotes5 Current upvotes5 Age GroupAdult Last activeApril, 2026 Member sinceApril 10, 2026
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Who am I ?
Trauma Support / by turquoiseSailboat3469
Last post
 April 14th
...See more Hello, My name is Yahya. I am writing this while knowing deep down that I might be just another voice in the void, and that perhaps no one will even read this or offer a hand. I am not writing for sympathy; I am just trying to release the suffocating pressure inside me by speaking the truth about my life. I am 20 years old, and I am struggling with a deep addiction to masturbation. I want to tell my story—it’s long and might not seem important to the world—but I need real help. Not the empty, useless words people usually give, but something that can actually change my reality. Before the story, I should tell you who I am. I believe God made me with a heart that is perhaps too kind and too merciful. I’ve always felt that my purpose in life is to help the poor and sacrifice myself for the innocent. I am very sensitive, but I have learned to control my messy emotions. I live with two sides: one is mysterious, sharp, and quiet—a shield I use because our world is full of 'human demons' who exploit kind hearts. The other side, my true self, is gentle, noble, and pure. I love extreme cleanliness, I love reading, and I love real science like psychology. I stay alone for months, and people call me 'autistic' or 'mentally ill' because I don’t fit in, but maybe they are the ones who are lost. I hate triviality; I hate smoking and the waste of time on social media. I just want peace. As for friends, I have none. I’ve searched for years, but I realized there is no such thing as a true friend who would sacrifice for you or check on you sincerely. Most people are just there for their own interests or money. My only escape is nature. I live in a desert, and I dream of seeing the green mountains and rivers of America or Switzerland. It hurts to see people who have these blessings but don't appreciate them, while I live in a place where you are either rich or poor. I was born poor, and I accept God’s will. Poverty is a hard teacher, but it makes you a man. My struggle began at 15. I thought life was like cartoons—happy and kind. I had dreams, but to start, I just needed a pair of running shoes. My family wouldn't help, so I went to work. I found a job delivering water—pulling a cart with 15 bottles, weighing 75kg, all day from 6 AM to 9 PM. I was just a kid, earning $1 a day. I used to cry from the pain in my body while carrying those bottles, but I told myself 'don't give up.' Then a 23-year-old guy named Bahaa started working with me. One day, over a tiny disagreement, he beat me so brutally I could hear my bones cracking. He had no mercy. He threatened to cut off my fingers. I hid my blood and my tears in my bed every night just so I wouldn't lose my job. Later, I found out he was a drug dealer. One day, he destroyed my ribs, stole the little money I had saved, and burned my things for no reason. I went home crying, knowing if my parents found out, they would just beat me more. I became obsessed with the image of his face, wanting revenge but being too weak. That trauma changed me; it made me isolated and sharp. Two years later, I found work in a vegetable market 10km away. I worked from 8 AM until midnight and walked home every night among criminals and addicts because there was no transport. I did all that for $11 a day. But the environment—the drugs, the wars, the filth—crushed me. I fell into a deep depression that only God knows. Everyone around me, even my family, is the opposite of how I think. At 17, I tried to find peace in sports. I went to the local field to make friends, even trying to connect with people with special needs, but no one wanted to know me. Every time I got home late from the field, my father would beat me until my face bled, while my mother encouraged him, saying, 'Don't stop until he bleeds so he learns.' One night, I couldn't take it and ran away. I spent the night among stray dogs and criminals. When I tried to get home, a man in a luxury car offered me a ride, only to kidnap and assault me. I’ve never told anyone this before. When I finally got home, my father beat me again. I thought about suicide that night, but I was too afraid. My family calls me 'autistic' to mock me. They don't know what happened to me. They only enter my room to scream, hit me, or throw food at me as an insult. Once, I even tried to run to the airport to hide in a suitcase and fly to America, but the sight of armed guards broke my spirit. I sat on the ground crying as the last bus was leaving, watching happy families and realizing I have never known what a mother’s love or a father’s care feels like. In all this pain and violence, I met a bad person who showed me pornography. That’s how my addiction started. It’s been four years now. When the urge hits, it’s like a fog covers my brain and my eyes. I lose my consciousness and only wake up after I’ve done it, feeling disgusted and suicidal. I do it 3 to 5 times a day. It is slowly killing my dreams and my strength. I am 20 years old now. I am sharing my story not because it’s a movie, but because I am drowning. I need help. I need a reason to hope. I’ve told you everything so you can see why I am the way I am. I hope I find someone who understands. Goodbye.
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