Secrets
Ways To Deepen Trust And Feel More Connected
The emotional stability of any relationship is trust. It is established on trust, trustworthiness and the fact that one knows that the other makes care of their well-being. Trust helps in making the communication process easier and resolving of conflicts more compassionately. By knowing trust, one should know that it is built over time, with experience and positive conduct. It helps partners to be emotionally secure, as they are sure that they can express themselves and they will not be judged. Developing a platform of deeper emotional bonding, couples develop trust and foster a friendly foundation to develop deeper emotional bonding.
By Olivia Smith11 months ago in Confessions
Word of the Day: 転ぶ
I don't know why my phone isn't let me log into my class but, it isn't in plane mode. It finally let me enter my class. I have so many homework things that need to be done. I don't know. I am still thinking about Eric's offer but I am kind of not wanting to do anything out of obsession or desperation. I want to be in my right mind so I don't have regret anything.
By Kayla McIntosh11 months ago in Confessions
Absolutely nothing
And I sat there by the shore, looking at the sea. It was really cold, and the gloves were barely keeping my hands warm. Most of the time, it was calm and rhythmic, but on that day, something had changed. The color of the water was a deep blue, almost black, and it flowed clumsily and wildly, as if it carried the furious guilt of the world and could no longer bear it. I was staring at the angry, rolling waves as they crashed against the naked cliffs and greedily embraced the shore. On that day, the sea was so indecisive, and yet, despite her hesitation, she remained exactly what she was: a natural, sacred force that made you feel terrified even at the thought of confronting her. It had been a while since the last time I was here. Everything seemed so different now. The season, the time, the weather. Even myself. I recognized the place completely, and I definitely remembered that I had been here before. I had only forgotten the equivalence in my memory. When something is worth forgetting, it usually involves some kind of feeling. And I am certain you deserved my relentless oblivion. I remember you and me looking at the sea, but I don’t remember how it made me feel. And I have that bitter sense that all the pathways connecting the images of us with those feelings have been erased over time on my own map. — Had they been erased, or did you deliberately choose to delete them?
By Penelope Plati11 months ago in Confessions
115 Miles Back to You
The summer of 2021 wasn't anything spectacular on paper. There was no big trips, no dramatic life changes, but it was the first summer that made something inside of me shift. That was the summer I met him. For the sake of privacy, i'll call him Kevin, but nothing what I felt for him was pretend.
By Jasmine Platson11 months ago in Confessions
The Quiet Side of Elder Abuse: What I Witnessed Working in a Lab
Elder abuse doesn’t just happen in nursing homes. It happens in cars, waiting rooms, doctor offices, and in public — right in front of people who have no power to stop it. I learned that the hard way when I was a Site Lead at Labcorp.
By Tarsheta (Tee) Jackson11 months ago in Confessions
Author's Manifesto
Everything I write is true. Not always literally. Not always entirely. But truth runs through every line like blood through a living body. Some of what you read happened to me. Some of it happened to someone I love, someone who confessed in the dark, someone who whispered their wounds into my hands and trusted me not to drop them. Some details are rearranged. Some names are buried. Some circumstances are altered to protect the broken, the guilty, or the dead. But the emotional core never lies. There will always be readers who ask, “Did this really happen?” “Is this character you?” “Which parts are real?” You’re welcome to guess. You’re invited to dissect, suspect, interpret, and wonder. You may try connecting my fiction to my life like red thread on a crime board, trying to spot which scars belong to me and which belong to someone else. But here is the truth you must sit with: Nothing I write is fiction and everything is. The only lie is what you think I made up. I write from memory, survival, and witness. I write from places I’ve lived, loved, hated, and barely crawled out of. I write from nights where doors were slammed, from days where people disappeared, from moments where love tasted like honey and poison in the same mouthful. I write because silence is a grave. And I have no intention of dying quietly. My stories are stitched from lived experience sometimes mine, sometimes another woman's, sometimes a stranger’s confessional that fell into my lap like fate. If you think a chapter feels too real to be fiction… maybe it is. If you think a plot feels unreal, impossible, unbelievable… maybe it happened exactly that way. Humans are unbelievable creatures. Pain is cinematic. Love is irrational. Life is stranger than anything I could invent so I don’t invent much. I build worlds from cigarette ash memories, from years Kansas City rained on my shoulders, from men who loved me wrong, from women who fought like demons and prayed like saints. I write Black women as the center of the storm, not the victims of it. I write us loud, complex, angry, sacred, evolving. I write us as the plot, not the side character in somebody else’s story. My pen does not apologize for its tone. It does not soften its voice to make anyone comfortable. I do not water myself down to be digestible. If my writing burns let it burn. If you find yourself uncomfortable ask why. If you recognize yourself sit with that. You may wonder which characters are based on real people. You may think you recognize your reflection in the pages. If it bothers you, remember: Art imitates life not the other way around. If you see yourself in my ink, it’s because you walked through my life noisy enough to leave footprints. Readers will debate. Some will swear they know which scenes are factual. Others will think they spot the lies. Some will doubt everything. Some will believe every word. The game is yours to solve I don’t plan to confirm or deny. Because my writing is not here to be decoded. It is here to be felt. It is here for the woman who keeps her pain quiet. For the man who thinks he’s the only one haunted. For the survivor who smiles in public and shatters in private. For the Black girl who was told she’s “too much.” For the ones who lost their voice and want it back. I write for us. I write like a house on fire fast, bright, destructive, holy. I write truth disguised as story. I write wounds disguised as entertainment. I write confession disguised as fiction. I write healing disguised as hurt. Everything I write is true. And the only lie is what you think I made up. If you’re brave enough to read me, be brave enough to question yourself. If you want to know which parts actually happened you’ll have to go find them. My stories live on the page, in my past, in my people, in the rumors, in the trauma, in the laughter, in the smoke. They breathe. They ache. They testify. They warn. They rebirth. They haunt. They heal. They stand as proof that I lived and I paid attention. This is my manifesto. My declaration. My invitation. Enter my world at your own risk and your own wonder. Because once you start reading, you’ll never know what’s real. And I won’t tell you.
By Dakota Denise 11 months ago in Confessions
When Survival Mode Wasn’t Enough Anymore
This personal story explores what happens when you stop performing strength and choose honesty instead. It wasn’t a single dramatic moment that changed me. No breakdown in a grocery store aisle, no epiphany sparked by a self-help book, and no perfectly timed sunrise that whispered the truth into my ear.
By Tee G.11 months ago in Confessions
