u/Creative-Major-4796

I’m a very present momma. My kid watches nothing without me, I read to her all the time, and remember what I read her. I know what songs she listened to, I never leave her alone with anyone but my husband, mom, sister, and her other grandma and grandpa
( both of which are very disbelieving of ghosts)

And yet, only to my husband, her father, my 3yr old had said, “daddy, the spirit are waiting!” He asks, “what spirits, baby girl?” And she always replies with, “Oh daddy, you know which spirits!”

Last night, when she had said it yet again, to my husband, I asked her” spirits? Is it a boy or girl?” She tells me it’s a boy. I asked her, “ is he young or older?” She says they are young. I ask her, “are they nice? Do you feel okay with them?” And she tells me she feels happy and laugh, with a sweet giggle. And she was being so sincere, I know her face and mannerisms when she’s being silly, or pretending, and she was being so genuine.

To say the least, I will be saging my home tomorrow😬 has anyone else dealt with this? Should I be as concerned and spooked as much as I am?

I am not suicidal, by any means. But sometimes I just feel like I really just don’t matter, outside of what I can offer others. I can bleed myself dry to my closest family, give and give and give, and when I’m at my wits end, and finally ask for company, or just the smallest bit of help, everyone basically says “I’m busy, sry.” My family has gone through a lot. And being that I’m part of that family, so I have too. Yet. I’m always the one supporting them, but no one thinks to actually support me. My free time, money, resources, mental and spiritual energy.

When I need people the most, and I not only ask, I beg or plead, and they just don’t have the time, and I do my best to not get confrontational, I try and repress and compartmentalize and just deal.

And when that cesspool of repressed emotions boils over and explodes, over something singular that represents everything, I’m crazy, I’m the villain, I’m always wrong. Always. And I try to explain, it’s not this current issue, it’s everything, they either say I’m drama, or blowing things out of proportions, I just need to “get out”. Which is my favorite response, because when I do realize I need to change my input, everyone is busy, and if I plan in advance, I get cancelled on an hour before.

It just feels like my sole point of existence only has value to serve everyone else. That I, myself, just really don’t matter. To family, to friends. That no one really actually cares. That has literally become a mantra in my head, when I’m at my lowest. “No one cares. You.Do.Not.Matter.” Atleast to anyone but my own self. I do value myself, I do think I’m enough, I do love myself, truly, but I feel, a lot of the time, that I am the only one. So maybe I’m wrong, maybe I am the worst, and I am the bad guy, and I am just delusional in thinking I’m an okay person. If everyone around me treats me like this, then I have to be in the wrong, right? There has to be something actually wrong with me.

Does anyone else ever feel this way?

My father died in 2018, I was 25. It was a tragic, terrible, sudden death, and while I love him and want to keep his memory alive, it’s been hard. My daughter was born in April of 2023. My sister in law gave me a present for that following Christmas, with my dad superimposed over the image of my husband, with me, my daughter, my mom, and my sister around him. If you have a deceased parent, who never met your baby, you can imagine the ugly tears I wept after unwrapping it.

I’ve always played white noise for my daughter to go to sleep to, she sleeps in her own room in her crib. And I swear, and my husband does too, that I’ve heard my dad’s voice over the monitor. Nothing crazy, but a “hello” here and and “all my heart” there. My dad always made sure to tell me, “sweet dreams baby girl, I love you with all my heart,” every night before bed.

My husband asked me, before our girl was born, what I’d want to call my dad for her, and I said “papa”, because that’s what I called my favorite grandparent, and that’s what I imagine my dad would want.

When my baby was about 8 months old, I showed her the photo my SIL had made. She immediately smiled the very biggest smile, pointed, and said “Papa! That’s my papa!!” “Papa” It’s possible the “that’s my” part is my adult brain connecting dots with her speech, but “papa” was said clear as day.I intended to show her photos of him, but it was very hard that year, being that I had had my first baby, and that I would never see them together, coupled with post partum hormones, and life changes. It was hard for me to see or think of him, so I had never showed her photos, but as soon as she saw him, she absolutely knew who he was♥️

She is 3yrs old now, we were drawing one day, she requested I drew our family, and I asked her who exactly to draw. She told me “ my papa! He has blue eyes, just the same as mine!!” And they do have the exact same shade of blue eyes. I had shown her photos of him at this point, but they were all pictures of him from a distant, and you cannot discern his eye color.

I believe children see more than us adults do, because of their brand new mind, no mental blocks, and just purity. And going by those beliefs, it makes me really happy to think that her and my dad do have a relationship, that at least they know each other at this time. It makes my heart so full, it could burst♥️

Edit: no, my 8 month-ish old baby did not eloquently say, “papa! That’s my papa!” . If I were to be able to type it exactly, it would’ve been closer to sounding like, “papa! Hehss muh Papa!” And sure I could’ve possibly been hearing words she didn’t actually say, other than the fact the she most definitely smiled crazy big, pointed, and said “Papa!” That part was absolutely clear as day, indisputably clear.

This is a bit of an add on to the post I made the other day, about demonic activity and how it could be linked to cursing/oppressing you.

My brother always had issues. As children, we were close, but after he turned about 11, he made all the wrong choices. He’s one of those that thinks he’s “so scary” because he is mentally imbalanced, due to his drug addictions.

If you haven’t read my last post, my childhood home was terrifying, specifically my bedroom, which was his originally, no surprise, he wanted to switch rooms with me. I was excited, because it was bigger and had a better view, I didn’t understand how scary things were in there, because he didn’t warn me. About the disembodied growling/shh’s!/whistling, or footsteps. Or window tapping/wall knocking. Or the random, once in a while sulfur odor. Or the items that would be flung off shelves.

But, I digress. My brother loved drugs from a young age, and while I’ve never done any of that, me and my siblings had all experienced some pretty dark spirit activity. He claimed to have been attacked mentally by them many times, it could’ve been the meth, or real, or that his addiction made him more vulnerable. He would also steal, and lie, he choked, slapped, and threw me into walls too many times to count. I’d tell my parents, but they were never present when it happened, and somehow added it up to “sibling issues”… I told them so many times he was going to do something unforgivable one day, that he needed more professional help, something where he had to stay in a hospital kind of help.

Long story short, or shortened, my dad and mom had a bad relationship, my brother had issues with my dad because he was strict where my mom was not, and did his best to demonize my dad. My parents didn’t want to divorce, but instead lived separate lives. We had a legit barn on the back half of the property, and my dad had already remodeled one stall into an office, so when things got really tense with him and my mom, he decided to make it into his own studio like apartment, and slept there.

One night, after I had moved out with my now husband, my brother was drunk, and who knows what else. He wrote a letter explaining his would be actions, grabbed a few knives from the kitchen, walked to my dad’s room in the barn, and stabbed him, the coroner said 28 times. He then woke up my sister and asked her to “give him five minutes before you call 911”, because he thought my sister would let him run away while he was covered in blood. She and her boyfriend ran out to my dad’s room, but it was already

Beyond the heartbreak, and rage, it’s baffling, because we were all raised the same exact way, all with love, care, and respect, my parents and my other sibling all tried so hard to help him with sobriety. It just never stuck. And sometimes I wonder if growing up with such malevolent energy around us, coupled with his substance abuse, paved his path to do something so monstrous.

To be clear, I do not think he is blameless, or that “the spirits made him do it”, I just wonder if it was more than just drugs that made his heart so warped.

For context, my grandparents had a house transported from a rural area,to what would be my family’s land. It had partially burned down, but there were no reported injuries. My dad did have it remodeled into a log cabin, and added on to it a few years after he inherited it. When I was very little, a lot of what I experienced could’ve been explained as an active imagination, as I grew up, that wasn’t the case.

I won’t go into crazy detail with every experience here, but I am willing to elaborate to those who wish it.

Both my parents loved antiques, we had an hanging old food scale that would randomly shake back and forth, cups would fall off counters, the cupboard doors in our kitchen would shudder back and forth. Sometimes I’d walk into the kitchen and every single one would be totally open, while I was alone at home.

And then there were the footsteps you could hear in our bedrooms, and up and down the main hallway. Sometimes I’d be walking down that same hallway, and I’d hear a “Shh!” next to my ear. Furniture would violently rattle randomly.

I was lucky enough to have the bedroom where the creepiest things happened . I’d hear footsteps at night, and then I could feel and hear something sit on my bed. Objects would fly across the room from my shelving, I’d hear knocking on the walls. I’d hear growls, smell sulfur, I’d glimpse shadows moving out of my peripherals. Lights would randomly turn off and on.

The creepiest times were when I’d hear one specific tune being whistled from outside my window every night, almost always at 3:02am, accompanied by tapping, which happened for years and years, to the point it eventually became predictable, and more annoying than scary. When my boyfriend first started staying the night with me, he didn’t believe in ghosts, but then the whistling would wake him up,he started believing real quick. My first best friend eventually refused to stay at my house because it scared her so much. And no, I didn’t tell them about these things before hand, I didn’t want to seem like a loon, or freak them out.

Since I moved out, I’ll still sense and hear things, but it’s never felt bad, just like I’m not alone. Which is chill, I’d rather that than feel like something wants to hurt me.

On top of all this, my family and I have had some dramatically tragic things happen, like the sort of stuff only written in books or for tv. When I’ve listed it all out, very few believe me. And I wonder, for those that have experienced similar encounters, has your life seemed a bit cursed as well? I’m curious if there’s a link between the two, or if I am just a special little snowflake😅