Snook - Disturbing Reddit Confessions

Episode Date: December 6, 2025

Hey guys! This is my first confessions video on the main channel, let me know if you enjoy them and if you would like to see more. Thank you guys for watching, let me know if you would like to see more content like this in the future! But they are all amazing, so make sure to watch the whole vid! Thanks for watching, like and subscribe. Subscribe to my 2nd channel!CREDITS -Crazysonthrowoff - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/c93egn/i_stood_by_and_allowed_my_wife_to_almost_kill_our/Thrownaway54332 - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/9omu5y/im_dying_but_havent_told_anyone/[deleted] - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/b0ganm/when_i_was_16_i_took_my_family_pet_to_the_vet/mesc997 - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/bxoc1j/i_am_responsible_for_the_deaths_of_several_people/[deleted] - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/9yklr9/i_caught_my_mom_who_i_thought_was_an_angel_having/62302154065198762349 - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/rdpjxh/were_rich_but_nobody_knows_it/ContributionOk2213 - https://www.reddit.com/r/confessions/comments/l78cru/to_not_flunk_out_of_college_i_changed_my_grades/2nd channel - ‪‪‪‪‪​⁠​⁠ ‪@SnookStories‬ Edited by - https://x.com/ascend_edit?t=rD828Upu3...IF ANY OF THESE STORIES BELONG TO YOU, PLEASE EMAIL ME AT - [e-mail] before filing a copyright takedown or anything. Please, we can get it sorted out through email or some other form of communication, thank you.NEXT SUB GOAL - 500,000 SUBSCRIBERSI love you. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today we're going to be getting into something a little bit different, some Reddit Confessions and more particularly disturbing Reddit confessions. And this is a new series. I think I'm going to start for the channel. If you guys like this video and perceive it well and comment down below that you enjoy this, I'll continue and make it a series and post more videos like this in the future. But these are super, super interesting stories and posts. And this could be a phenomenal series. They're all super interesting, and thank you so much for stopping by. And before we get into this video, please like the video and subscribe to the channel.

It's a channel's goal to be at 500,000 subscribers before the end of the year. And I think we can do it. So please subscribe. And alright, anyways, with that further ado, let's get into some disturbing Reddit confessions. I stood by and allowed my wife to almost kill our son. I was happy she did it. Okay, fair warning. this one is long as hell. Apologies for that, but this is very hard for me, and I've been carrying it for a lot of years.

On the advice of my therapist, I've written it all out to try to work out my feelings on it. He didn't advise me to submit it to Reddit, of course, but I have struggled with this for a long time, and I need to hear other people's opinion on it. I still really have no idea how I feel about it, even after all these years, but I will submit for judgment by the masses. I know I did wrong on some things, probably a lot of things. I tried to do my best eye that I could. My son was very troubled. Very troubled.

If you have seen the movie, we need to talk about Kevin. It will really help to understand what I'm talking about because I swear to God, when I watched that film, I thought I was watching a documentary of my life. I felt like the writer must have had cameras hidden in my damn house. That's how accurate it was. The only difference is that in the movie the boy appears normal to his father and only reveals his true nature to his mother. With my son, he didn't have that mask.

His insane behavior was the same with everyone. From the day he was born, my son just came out wrong. He was bland, my wife and I tried to get pregnant and were ecstatic when he was born. He was wanted and loved. We showered affection on him and really tried to give him a happy childhood. But from the day we brought him home from the hospital, He was miserable. He cried for 13 months straight.

I'm not exaggerating. Thirteen months without a break. He cried until he had no voice left and kept crying. You could see his little face scrunched up and no sound coming out. Totally hoarse. There were times he would literally be crying in his sleep. I've never seen or heard of any other kids able to do that. We brought him to doctors, specialists, tried changing his diet, held him, rocked him,

rocked him, toys, swaddling, music, mobiles, everything we could think of, nothing worked. 13 months of grading, grinding, no sleep, hell. Once he got over the crying stage, we thought we were out of the woods, but it quickly became clear that for some unknown reason, he was just angry at being alive. I never saw that kid have a genuine, joyous smile once in the time I knew him. I saw him grin a vicious, horrible grin many times, taking a perverse pleasure from causing pain or suffering or breaking a rule. But a smile from real pleasure at something nice? No, never, not once.

He had no interest in anything positive. He was fueled by hate, and everything he did was bent toward that. As soon as he could walk, his mission in life was to destroy things. He would break or try to break anything that came in his range, smash it, chew it, throw it in the toilet, whatever he could. After a while, he figured out how to get his diaper off and took great pleasure in shitting and pissing anywhere he could. After a while, he figured out he could hide it and started pissing and shitting in places we wouldn't find right away, grinding it into carpets, making it even more of a problem with the clean and making the house stink. When he got older, ages 9 to 15, he would piss and shit in our bed until we got a lock on our door and he wasn't able to get in anymore. Then he'd just take a dump in the hallway in front of our room. That biological warfare started around a two and a half years old and he never grew out of it. I'll try to speed it up as I could literally go on for days about this stuff.

But as he grew older, he became more and more unmanageable. He would bite, kick, scream, scratch, and spit at anyone trying to do anything with him. He was kicked out of school twice before he was nine, then let him back in and then kicked him out for good. He had to change schools. The next one put him in a special class that kept him away. from the other students. We had to install a door and lock on the kitchen because he would steal knives and use them to gouge the walls slash furniture or chase people with them. When he was 10, he stabbed me pretty good in the hip and ass. I still have the scars. As he grew older, he grew

darker. He moved into setting things on fire and torturing local animals. There was a stray dog that hung around the park near my house. My son blinded it and one eye with a barbecue fork. He would dip cats' tails and gasoline and light them on fire. He became a violent, stinking, vicious beast that lived in our house. We couldn't do anything with him. I will take this opportunity to preempt the tsunami of messages. Yes, we had the kid in fucking therapy. He saw a psychiatrist twice a week and had God knows how many different medications

are prescribed to him over the years. Nothing worked. Therapy didn't work. Meds didn't work. Nothing fucking worked. He was like a poison cloud of hate and fury lashing now at anything in his reach. When my son was 16, my wife got pregnant again. I can't tell you how different our reaction was.

Instead of joy, we felt horror. This pregnancy had not been planned, and we really were at a loss of what to do. My son had been such an unending nightmare for 16 years. We couldn't take the idea of starting again from the beginning. We talked a lot about terminating, but A, access to A, was not as easy. easy in those days as it is now. And B, my wife was very against it. We talked about many options. In the end, we decided that my wife would have the baby. And if it turned out evil, we would put it up for adoption. We knew we just couldn't do it again with another child like our son.

We had a daughter. She was very normal. Suddenly, we saw what our lives should have been like the whole time. How things would have been had our son not been himself. She laughed at things. She breastfed without biting. She didn't have teeth yet anyway. But you could tell she was just trying to eat, not tear her mom's breast off. After four months, she was sleeping through the night. She was happy. She was normal. I can't describe the relief and happiness that we both felt.

I don't have the words for it. This is where I believe I may have started really pulling back from my son. Up until that time, whatever mistakes I made, I had always tried my best to do my best for my son. I'm convinced of that. I tried to help them and love them and care for them. I really tried. but when my daughter was born, my wife and I both instinctively just turned toward her. She became our focus, not from malice, but just because she was so much easier.

She was so happy and sweet. Every moment we were with her was just like magic. I understand this was wrong, but we honestly couldn't help it. I don't have a better explanation than that. My son hadn't given a shit about my wife being pregnant. I honestly don't know if he really understood it. But when we brought our daughter home, he started acting out even more. I didn't think it was possible, but he took it up another notch.

At this time he was 17, we were having blowout screaming matches daily. Usually after we fought, he would storm out of the house and disappear for hours at a time or come back the next morning. It was a relief. I started to actually look forward to our fights because it would get him away from us for a while. After the birth of our daughter, my relationship with my son was almost entirely gone. Our only real interactions were screaming at each other. My wife was even worse with him.

She just had nothing left. By that time, if our son even came into the same room as her, she would just stop whatever she was doing and start screaming, get the fuck away from me, get away, get the fuck out until he left. He started spending more and more time out of the house, which was a blessing for us. I have no idea what he got up to and the world, but we were just happy it wasn't being inflicted on us. As a consequence of our son's behavior,

we had invested heavily in locks around our house. All of the cheap, thin, interior doors in our home had been replaced with thick, dense wood doors that couldn't be kicked through, equipped with keyed locks that my wife and I carried keys to. I know it sounds extreme, but locks and heavy doors were the best way we had found to create safe spaces from them. And again, before I am undated with messages, I was not locking my son in rooms like a prisoner. He had free reign of the house and could come and go as he pleased. My wife and I would lock ourselves in rooms to protect ourselves from them. If anything, we were the prisoners in our own home. On the day in question, I had fought with my son in the morning, and he had left the house

and rage. My wife and I were enjoying some peace and quiet in the kitchen while our daughter napped in our bedroom. And then my daughter began crying. Any parent who has young children can tell you, you get used to your child's cries, and you can tell after a while what they need. They cry differently if they are hungry, or need changing, or are just restless and want to be held. Babies can communicate pretty well before they can speak. The cry was none of those

things. This cry was terror. The second we heard it, my wife and I were both up out of our chairs and running to the room. The door was locked, of course, and it took a few seconds to get the right key to get it open. My son was in the room. We lived in a bungalow and the bastard had climbed in the window to get her. He was standing over the her crib with a stag knife in his hand. I have no idea where he got it. It wasn't one of ours. We controlled. We controlled. our knives very carefully and always kept them in locked drawers. I think he may have stolen it from one of our neighbor's houses. He had broken her skin twice already, once in the belly area, and once on her arm. I could see blood running down. When I entered the room, he was dragging

the back of the knife down her face, not cutting, almost tickling her with it, teasing her while she screamed. He looked up at us and smiled. Before I knew what I was doing, I was already moving, running to put myself between them. I didn't think about it. I just moved instinctively. Even with that, my wife got there faster. It was like a movie on fast forward. She got to her son and bashed his hand away,

knocking the knife across the room and then shoved him with her whole body weight, so hard that he flew away from the crib and bounced off the wall. I picked up my daughter and held her while my wife screamed us. I could see her shaking, almost convulsing.

I can remember the smell of the room, the sound of my daughter's screaming and wailing. The look of my son's face as he stood there, just nothing, blank, dead, there was nothing in his eyes, no emotion. He looked like an alien to me. I watched my wife take a step forward. I could have reached out and stopped her, but I didn't. She stepped forward again, very close to him. I could have stopped her again, but I didn't.

She waited, looking at him for maybe three to five seconds without moving, and then she punched him in the face. Now, until this point, you may have been picturing my wife as a typical woman, small frame, dante, delicate. This is not the case. My wife does have a small frame, but dainty and delicate she is not. Never has she been since I've known her. Since her early teams, my wife has been a boxer. MMA didn't exist back then, but karate and boxing were big in those days, and my wife was a very talented amateur. She was about 130 pounds. She carried a lot of muscle, and she knew how to punch. I had 70 pounds on her back then, and I have no doubt that in a real fight between me and her, she could have and would have pounded me flat.

Neither of us had ever laid a hand on her sudden anger before, but something broke in her that day. And all the years of anger and pain and sorrow and frustration just came pouring out. When she hit him, his head snapped back and blood started pouring out of his nose. He hardly reacted. He just looked at her with this shocked expression like he didn't know how to process what had just happened. She waited another second and then she hit him again. I could have reached out and stopped her.

I could have dragged her out of the room, taken her way, calmed her. I didn't. I just stood there and watched him while she systematically started to pound him to a pulp. Every time he brought his hands to cover one part, she would blast him somewhere else. Body, head, body, head, over and over. He started screaming, crying out, yelling for her to stop. It's the most genuine reaction I'd ever seen him have to anything in his whole life. But she wasn't stopping. I watched her ramping up, hitting harder, faster, working him like a heavy bag. He tried to swing at her, and she slipped him easily. She was on autopilot, sinking down into her training. I stood there watching for a minute. Then I turned my back on them and took my daughter out of the room. I brought my daughter to the kitchen and gave her a bath in the sink. I found that he had cut her a third time on the sole of her foot. All the cuts were superficial.

I cleaned her up and held her until she calmed. I put polysporin and band-aids on her cuts. In our bedroom I could hear my son screaming, calling my wife horrible names, telling her he would cut her head off and eff her corpse. After a while, I didn't hear him saying anything anymore. Didn't even hear him crying out. I assumed that he must have been knocked out, but I could still hear her beating him. That went on for a long time, long enough for my daughter to drift off to sleep in my arms.

I just sat at the kitchen table waiting for her to finish. Finally, she came out and sat down across from me. Her hands were swollen and red. Her face and arms were splattered with blood. Her chest was heaving. We just stared at each other without saying anything. After a while, I asked her, Is he dead?

She looked back at me and answered. I fucking hope so. I nodded. That was all there was to say about that. I understood how she felt perfectly. I felt the same. I didn't know what to do. So we just sat there waiting silently.

Eventually my wife started crying and went to go take a shower. I just stayed where I was holding our daughter. After a long while, I heard her moaning and sobbing coming from her room. It turned out that my son wasn't dead. I went in to see how bad it was and it was pretty bad. I've never seen a more merciless beating laid out onto anyone before or since. He was lying on the floor, rolling around with blood leaking out of his face, lying in a pool of vomit.

His nose was squashed flat out across his face. Both of his eyes were completely swollen shut in starting to blacken already. I could see that a couple of his fingers were bent out at weird angles and he had pissed his pants. I think he must have been missing teeth, but I couldn't see any on the floor. floor and I couldn't see it inside his mouth. His lips were all puffed up and swollen. From talking to my wife about it later, I know now that she had systematically beaten every part of his body, focusing heavily on his legs. She told me she kicked him in the groin repeatedly until her legs got tired and had kept beating his body long after he had passed out. When my wife came out of our

shower, I still didn't know what to do about her son. I didn't know whether to call the police or an ambulance, take him to the hospital myself. I honestly didn't have any idea what to do. After a while, I realized that I simply didn't care what happened to him anymore, and we decided to just let him live or die on his own. There was an in-law suit in the basement that we had never really used, and my wife, my daughter, and I just moved down there. We simply seated the top floor of the house to my son and locked everything down, separated our lives entirely. There was plenty of food in the upstairs cabinets, enough for a couple of weeks or more. He had a lot of the house. He had to be in the top of the He had a washroom and bedrooms to use.

We had a washroom in the basement and a small kitchenette and a separate entrance so we could just stop going upstairs. We just decided we were done with him. I figured we let his food run out and see what happened next. Over the next week, we could hear moving around upstairs sometimes. I think he just spent most of his time lying in bed recovering. I went to work watching on high alert in case he attacked me in the driveway. But he never did.

My wife stayed home with our daughter. She was never out of our sight. One night we heard him going ballistic, smashing things and banging. We didn't respond. He never tried to get downstairs or get near us though. I think he was afraid that if he got near us again, my wife might finish the job on him. After three weeks down in the basement, we hadn't heard anything from up above for a few days, and I ventured upstairs to the main floor of the house.

The place was demolished, and there was no side of my son. He was gone. It took months to repair the damage he had done and get the main floor back to normal again. There was food and shit smeared all over the walls and broken glass on the floor, big holes in the dry wall. He had ripped the place apart. He tore up the limoom in a corner of the kitchen and emptied an entire foam fire extinguisher into the living room. I feel thankful that he didn't burn the house down with us in it. I'm honestly not sure why he didn't.

The kid wasn't shy about lighting things on fire. After that, I lived in fear every day that he would come back, that he would ambush us out of the blue and try to kill us. We moved to house about three years later, and I finally stopped being afraid that he would show up again, as now we had no idea where we were. I finally felt safe from him. All this happened a long time ago. My son was born in the spring of 1971. My daughter was born in 88.

I'm an old man now. I'll be 70 this year, and my wife passed from cancer in 2016. My daughter is 31 now. I moved in with her and her husband after my wife passed. I've got two granddaughters, and they are the joy of my life. I see a therapist a couple times a month to talk about this. I don't know where my son is. The last time I saw him was when he was lying on the floor of a bedroom,

bleeding and smashed. I haven't heard from him since he left. More than 30 years now. I don't want to. I carry a lot of guilt from that time and a lot of conflicted emotions. I didn't beat him myself, but I allowed him to be beaten. And I thought he deserved it. I was happy it happened.

I didn't try to kill him, but I would have been happy if he died. I will say that I do hope he was able to overcome his demons and go live a normal life somewhere. If he wasn't able to do that, if he stayed the way he was, then I truly do hope someone out there killed him. When I knew him, he was a rabbit dog. In whichever way it went, I just hope he isn't still out there hurting anyone else. I'm dying, but haven't told anyone. I was diagnosed with cancer a little over two weeks ago, after a regular checkup. Turns out I have a tumor on my colon that has spread to other areas, liver and lung so far,

and will require extensive chemo and surgery for any chance to live longer than eight months. I'm not having any treatment, and I haven't told my wife because she'll only pressure me to get the treatment, which results in months of pain and suffering for a relatively small chance. Instead, I'm making sure our last few months together are filled with only happy memories. I'm starting to work later and finishing earlier in the day. to make her breakfast in bed and take her on dates in the evenings. My landlord I rent, my workshop from, has agreed to let me run my business rent free for the next six months, which means significantly less financial stress than I can save a lot more.

So she has something to carry her over afterwards. I hope she'll forgive me for taking this path. When I was 16, I took my family pet to the vet, found out he was terminally ill and never told anyone. I'm the eldest of four kids and a family of six, and growing up we had a beautiful albino chinchilla named Dusty. Dusty was an awesome little pet to have as a kid. Very sweet. Never bit anyone.

Love to cuddle and run around digging tunnels in the bed sheets. He had this really big cage in our guest bedroom that was connected to my room, and every time someone would walk past his cage, he would run to the gate hoping to be taken out. If you open the gate, he would just hop right into your hand. Anyway, great pet. So about three days after I got my driver's license as a 16-year-old, I noticed that one of Dusty's eyes were tearing a little bit, which I hadn't seen happen before. Feeling like a brand-new adult with my new driver's license, I decided to take it upon myself to bring him to the vet and see what was up. So I put him into a brown paper grocery bag with his favorite blanket, made some air holes, stapled it shut, and strapped him into the passenger seat of my family's van. Fast forward maybe a half hour and I'm sitting in the vet's office holding dusty, feeling like the most responsible adult ever.

The vet is an exotic animal's vet and takes a look at him that asks to do an x-ray. So she sedates him a little, does the x-ray, hands him back to me and leaves the room. Adult level 9,000 as I sit petting him until he wakes back up. So the vet comes back in and sits next to me on a little bench in the checkup room and starts petting him in my lap. She's telling me how wonderful he is and how lucky I am to have such a great little pet, asking me my favorite memories of him, all this. So we are talking and finally I ask her something. Like, okay, so how much do chinchilla eyedrops cost because I've got to get going and she smiles gently,

saying something like, I wish eyedrops could fix this. She gives me a hug and starts to explain. Dusty was not bred responsibly and had some kind of internal deformity involving the roots of his teeth putting pressure on his eyes and brain. This would eventually cause an early death. I couldn't believe it. I remember starting to cry and putting Dusty back in his grocery bag with his blanket and asking if the vet had a stapler I could use to close it again.

I paid cash at the receptionist for my babysitting money and got into my car crying all the way home. When I got home, I sat in the car for a while in the garage trying to gather myself as Dusty chewed on his bag. Looking back, I'm not really sure why, but in the car I decided not to tell my family the news. The vet said Dusty wasn't in pain despite him tearing eye, and we wouldn't have to put him down. She didn't know how long exactly he had left, but guess maybe a year.

I guess I figured I didn't want my family to be sad every time they played with him or passed by his cage, knowing his time was limited. I wanted the rest of his little life to be normal. Eventually, I brought him back into the house and put him into this cage. I went later that day to Petcoe and bought rodent eyedrops as a cover-up and proudly told my family that, night how I bought Dusty to the vet to check his eye and lied saying the doctor gave me eye drops and told me eye irritation is common in chinchillas. Dusty lived three more years after that, two years longer than the vet had expected. He passed away just shy of his 10th birthday. On the morning he passed, I told my dad what had actually happened at the vet. He told me I was so much more

of an adult than I knew. I'm responsible for the deaths of several people. Around four years, years ago, I was a vendor on the dark net. It was a relatively short-lived thing. I was just doing it because I was too lazy to get a job and at the time didn't want to settle for the 9 to 5 thing. I wanted to start my own business and use the drug money as a startup. I've been using myself for years, along with that, I met lots of people with the dealing scene and eventually started dealing myself. I have a lot of anxiety, though, so I hated meeting up with people in parking lots and I definitely didn't want anyone to know where I lived. That's when I read about the Silk Road. Ross Ulbricht being caught. Got obsessed with the idea of it. Got obsessed with learning O-P-S-E-C.

All with the goal of eventually using my connections to start up my store. Well, after a couple of months I did. I started my store with three drugs, ketamine, meth, and some outdoor weed my buddy was getting for super cheap. All was doing good for a few months. Had a couple thousand got stolen in an exit scam, but I had about $25,000 saved up at that point, so it didn't ruin my life like a few vendors I knew of. Eventually, I met a local connect that came into his town only once a week, but he had fucking anything I wanted. Mesklin, LSD, mushrooms, PCP, even, and fentanyl. At the time, people weren't really cutting heroin with fentanyl. I mean, I'm sure people did plenty, but it was not nearly as commonplace now. People just did fentanyl and still do. I put all my dresses into an Excel

spreadsheet along with their name. zip code order along with the amount. At the time, I was selling some super white powdered mescaline. The fentanyl was also a white powder. Very similar consistency. Long story short, my Excel fucked up, or I fucked up. And about seven people's mescaline orders were filled in as fentanyl orders. They all went out. I didn't notice and kept doing my thing for a few days. After about five days, someone contacted me and told me their friend died from my mescaline. I immediately called bullshit. I went to check my order log and scale up how much I had of my mescaline left. Well, I had about 11 grams or more than I should have.

I still don't know how the fuck it could have happened. I wasn't a user, but I was definitely high off dabs. I went to check my order log on the market to see if anyone had finalized on their purchase and a couple of them were, but none from a specific day. Including the person that messaged me, no one that had purchased mescaline that day had finalized their orders. The market I was on also had a feature to see the user's last activity, and none of them have logged in for at least three days.

Most two days. I immediately deactivated my vendor account. I didn't even need confirmation. I knew what happened. I knew I just killed several people. I sold the rest of my drugs, converted my Bitcoin to cash, and moved the fuck away.

Didn't speak to anyone for weeks. Found a job in a restaurant, living in a city I always wanted to. I haven't touched drugs since that day. I haven't had anything to do with that life since then. I still think about them. every night. I saved their names and Googled them a few days later. I was able to find info on four customers that definitely died. One customer shared it with a friend. They both died. I don't know why I'm

even posting this, mainly because I have no one to tell, and even if I did, I don't think I could. I spend my day sober. Clocking into work, clocking out of work. Coming home, playing video games, I'm a complete recluse. People I used to know have distanced themselves immensely, and I know it's because I'm a shell of my former self. I can't help it. Could I even tell a therapist about this? I don't feel like I deserve to be alive. Am I really living anyway? I don't even know anymore. Maybe this will help me feel better. I caught my mom, who I thought was an angel, having a fair on my dad. Now I can't stand her and see her for the sociopath she is. I grew up loving my mother dearly as most sons do. She was protected.

kind, beautiful, successful, and smart, and was someone I strove to be like when I was young. However, I wasn't seeing the side of her that is at her core, and within the past three years I have come to despise her. She is selfish, manipulative, two-faced in an overall bad human, which is a tough pill to swallow when I adored her for 25 years. It's weird how you don't really know your parents until you become an adult. This will be long and if just one person gets through it, then it was worth riding. I just need to get this off my chest. My parents are in their late 50s.

My dad is very successful, owner of his own business, and is an all-around good guy, great father to my sisters and I, and is a way better husband than my mom deserves. They've been together since they were in high school, when in their sophomore year, my mom literally pulled a girl out of his Jeep and got him because she wanted to be with him, Red Flag.

He is more passive. and my mom is aggressive, obviously. Any honey-do list he got, he did it. Anything my mother wanted, she got. His brother and I even always gave him shit for being so whipped. They went into over $90,000 in debt when I was 13 because my mom wanted a big house, Mercedes and other crap they couldn't afford at the time. We went on expensive vacations that she planned.

We ate at nice restaurants. We couldn't afford. And the only thing my dad ever stood his ground on was that he gets to deer hunt with the guy, three weekends a year, which my mom still bitched about being left out of. She has always had to be the center of whatever he does in his life, no exceptions. But that isn't what made me see her for who she was. Four years ago, my now wife and I were soon to be married. My mom suggested we all take a motorcycle trip one weekend. My dad and I ride together often with her old co-worker. We'll call him James. She explained he was going through a tough time with his ex-wife and needed to get away.

We go and have a good time for a weekend, but it just felt weird. It was my mom, dad, and my now wife, and James. The dynamic and overall vibe of being around my mom's old friend was strange. He was a nice enough guy. He was tall, handsome, rich, and brawny. He had an ex-wife and two kids around my age, and he loved taking pictures of my mom and dad, which creeped me out. Anyways, nothing of importance happened on this trip, but my mom starts acting strange afterwards, and my dad and older sister are the ones who noticed it. At this time, I lived with my fiancé on the other side of the city, but my older sister was living with my parents because she was in grad school and was recently divorced after one year of marriage, found out he was an addict and spent all their money.

One night, a few weeks after our motorcycle trip, my fiance, sister, mom, and I went into an incubus concert. My mom was acting weird, wanting to smoke pot, down in beers, this isn't like her at all, and just being weird in general. It was like she was a whole, whole different person all of a sudden. After being there for 10 minutes, she said, I'm going to go grab a beer and gets up and disappears for an hour. I went looking for her after she had been gone for 45 minutes as I was concerned for her safety, and when I came back with no luck, I asked my sister if she's been able to get a hold of her. She rolls her eyes and goes, I didn't bother calling. She's probably calling James. What the fuck? She then drops a bomb and then tells me she and dad suspect she's having an affair with him.

She goes on to explain how sketchy she has been acting, doing things like changing her phone and an iPad password, stepping out for phone calls and whispering, even putting a fucking jar of rocks on her phone while she slept so she would be woken up if anyone touched it. I'm assuming, I don't know. Fucking weird. My dad managed to look in her phone before she changed her password and quickly skimmed through her text with James and saw some suspicious cryptic dialogue. My mom finally gets back to us at the concert, and at this point I'm pissed and devastated

all at once. I ask her, what took so long? She didn't even have the beer she left to get. And she says, oh, I ran into some old friends from my old job at, Blank. Immediately, sensing bullshit, what are the chances her 50-plus-year-old friends also went to see Incubis? So I ask who? She didn't expect this follow-up question, but Slyly responds with, you don't know them. I then ask, well, what are their names? She's feeling the pressure and stutters before managing to make up some bullshit names. My wife and sister are listening to my interrogation very intently, while Brandon Boyd is killing it in the background singing, pardon me. I get sick of her BS and drop it.

I am livid and crushed in thinking of my dad. My sister had already gotten to the point of disgust I was at, so she didn't say anything, and we all kind of ignored it until the next day. After this concert incident, my sister tells my dad what happened, and he finally approaches my mom about everything. He demanded to see her call history and sees a 45-minute call to James at the time of the concert, along with many others. He demands to know what the fuck is going on, and she says he is just going through a hard time with his ex, who was apparently debilitated from alcoholism, and she was just helping him get through it as a friend.

Anyways, to keep any readers interested, I'm going to skip past this shit that could make this the longest read ever. Basically, the sketchiness goes on for months, and at the time of my wedding, my dad has a tracker, her goddamn car, has requested call logs from the phone company, and is looking at hiring a private investigator. I still remember dancing with her at my wedding. She looked at me adoringly, and I couldn't look back at her. Little did my dad know, me and my love for my kayaking would soon give him everything he needed. A month or so after my wedding, I go to stay with my old college roommate for a weekend of kayaking and fishing. He lived by my grandparents' lake house, my mom's parents, and I was going to pick up my kayak from their house that day. My dad randomly called.

calls me just to say hi and probably tells me about whatever sketchy BS my mom has been up to, though probably not healthy. He is my best friend, and this has been our convos lately. I tell him that I'm headed to the lakehouse and you responds with. I doubt she would be this bold, but your mom said she was at the lakehouse with her girlfriends this weekend, and I want you to be prepared if that isn't the case. If it isn't, let me know. I knew what he meant. I didn't give my mom a heads up that I was coming on purpose, and as I drive by, I'm relieved to see just her car, and another girly looking car in the driveway. I call my dad before going in and telling my initial assessment

is that nothing sketchy is going on from what I can see. Just looks like her and her friends are here. He's as relieved as I am. I walk up, knock on the door, and it's silent. The back patio doors unlock, so I walk in. The first thing I see is a leather motorcycle jacket hanging on one of the bar stools and immediately recognize it as James.

My heart starts pounding and my adrenaline is pumping as my vision gets all weird and my ears start burning. A million questions went through my head in a second. Like, are they here? Do they know I'm here? Should I announce myself? God damn it, mommy, you fucking cheating asshole. I act fast, assuming they aren't there,

but could be pulling up any minute. I take a picture of the jacket. I go to the garage and sure enough, James's motorcycle is there. I take a picture of that and then run back in and see cell phones stacked where they are charging in the kitchen. I grab a phone and don't recognize it didn't have a lock on it,

so I immediately go to the pictures. First one is of two people I don't recognize, as well as my mom and James, and they're kissing each other on the lips. I scroll a little bit more and more of the same shit. My heart is pumping out of my chest at this point, and I take a few quick pictures of my phones in the phone and run out of the house,

not even remembering or carrying what I had originally been there for. Something I should add here. When I was seven, my mom left my dad for a doctor, who just wanted to use her and drop her like a bad habit. and my dad reluctantly took her back after she begged and pleaded. She blamed the doctor at the time, saying he drug-slash-R-worded her some bullshit. My dad later told me that at the time, he told himself he was doing it for the kids and had planned on leaving her after we graduated high school.

But they did so well in between then and our graduations that he eventually forgave her and was happy in their relationship. I remember them being separated, but I didn't know the details until recently. Okay, so anyways, I peel out of the driveway at the lakehouse and drive to a secluded street in the neighborhood as I try to figure out what the fuck to do. I let my heart rate slow a bit so I could think more clearly and then called my little sister, trying to decide if I tell my dad and if so how. Up to this point, everyone just had their suspicions with no solid proof. My little sister, who is the sweetheart of the family, agrees that he needed to call dad and tell him immediately because he deserves to know, despite how bad it will hurt him. I then called my wife and she agreed, but we were both worried what he would do.

I hesitate for a bit, but eventually I called my dad to tell him his wife of 25 years is cheating on him. When he answers, I just blurt it out. James is here. I have proof and mom is cheating on you. I didn't know how to put it delicately, so I just gave him the facts. He was in shock like me. He kept saying the same phrase over and over. No fucking way, God damn it. Insert my mom's name.

God damn it. Wow, such a bitch. God damn it. After the initial shock wears off, he apologizes that I had to be the one to see it and then says he's on his way. It's a three-hour drive and that he'll meet up with me at my roommates. I immediately call my uncle, my dad's identical twin, and my other best friend. And tell him what's going on. I tell him I'm afraid my dad is going to do something stupid.

He said he'll make sure he doesn't. They end up coming down together and meet me at my roommate's house. We talked for a couple hours and come up with the plan. They switched trucks with my roommate to go incognito because he must. see it for himself. My dad promises he won't do anything stupid despite what he may see. He sneaks up there after dark, parks far away and walks a mile through the woods with his brother and a pair of binoculars. He hides behind some trees when he got in a place and sees them on the patio with another couple drinking wine. They're cuddling and kissing like they're an old married couple and like what

they were doing is not beyond fucked up. It took every ounce of self-control for my dad not to run over there and go insane on them. Instead, he did the smart thing. Thank you. and just took pictures of them and left. The next morning he cleared out their bank account, sent her the pictures he and I took along with the text that said, I know everything. I'm leaving you. I can only imagine what their reaction was like. I rest assured that the rest of their little getaway was quite stressful.

The next year was a nightmare for everyone, and my mom's reaction to the solidified my disdain for her. She dragged everyone into her bullshit and made our lives a living hell. My dad and I caught her red-handed. He just wanted her to go to James and let him live in peace. But instead, she dropped James and begged my dad to take her back. My dad agreed to pay her alimony if she granted him a divorce without lawyers that would have drained them both financially.

She reluctantly agreed. After the divorce, my mom cried every day for a year. She moved in with my little sister in an apartment she couldn't afford. She got on antidepressants and went into a downward spiral that, because we loved her no matter what, took us all with her. All the lies she had told for a year began to surface more and more. Thinking back on that motorcycle trip where I spent a weekend with this prick made my stomach turn. I even bought the rich asshole a whiskey and Coke.

Though I despised who she was and what she had done, I was still very concerned from my mom and will listen to her sob on the phone and in front of me. She cried to my wife a lot, which I hated. This was my wife's first year in the family, and my mom was calling her bawling about how cruel my dad was being to her. My mom blamed my dad's twin brother for almost everything, saying he had stolen him away from her on all our guy hunting trips, and he was the reason their marriage fell apart. She was truly manic. My mom's parents and brother were disgusted with her because they loved my dad so much,

and they refused to talk to her about it. So my wife, sisters, dad and I were the ones who got the brunt of it. She tried manipulating everyone to make us think she was the victim here. It made me sick. She tried to make it seem like she was the battered wife, and my dad had to be able to treated her badly. We all knew the truth, and I found myself despising her more and more as a person. My dad, on the other hand, went full-blown frat boy with his newly found freedom. He's a handsome guy with money, and though my mom's reaction was taking a toll on him in every way, he distracted

himself by getting on Bumble and banging a bunch of 30-to-40-something-year-old women, hunted every weekend, and went on Harley rides during the week to escape it all. My mom still doesn't know about the women and honestly, after being with the same woman for 30 years, being cheated on twice and having every aspect of his life being controlled, he deserved it. He needed to get it out of the system. Anyways, getting us more towards the present. My wife and I became pregnant with her first child, and the joy of it was completely overshadowed by my mom's constant meltdowns. I couldn't even get them in the same room to tell all my family that they were going to have a new niece-slash-granddaughter. For 10 months, she relentlessly berated my dad for not being able to forgive her,

and used my unborn child, their first grandchild, as a pawn to get him back. She told him that it would be his fault if their grandchild grew up with divorced grandparents. It made my blood boil. After a while, and against me and my sister's encouragement for my dad to stay strong, my dad caved and slowly started to get back with her. They sold their house and now lived together in a townhome. My daughter is 17 months old now, and my parents have fallen back into the relationship of my mom dominating his life.

Despite him trying to set strong ground rules this time, it's been like when a villain gets their power back after losing them. She went from weak and broken to manipulating everyone to her will like she has always done. My wife is shy, caring, and always worried to offend my family in any way, and my mom uses this to try and emboss her around when it comes to our daughter until I step in. She'll constantly play the guilt card about how my wife's parents see our daughter more when they live four hours away. Yeah, you fucking psycho. They're good people. When I talk to my mom now, there's never love in my voice. I don't want to hate her, but her flaws are so apparent. She's a sociopath who has to be in control everyone. We all love her despite this, but I am the only one who calls her out on her bullshit. My older sister barely speaks to her. My daughter is obsessed with her, and it makes me happy and furious at the same time. She doesn't deserve my dad, and she doesn't deserve our forgiveness, especially since this is twice now that we know about, that she cheated on my dad. Not sure how to end this. Just wish my mom wasn't such a sit bag. I guess I'm thankful these events and my realization didn't happen sooner.

Otherwise, I wouldn't know that there would good women out there. And instead, I'd probably have a hard time trusting them. If you guys made it this far, thanks for reading. Edit, just want to thank you guys. I read through most of the comments and messages that range from, this is fake to your mom as an asshole to something sincere and relatable. I tried to write it in a way that wouldn't bore people to death. I know everyone says this, but I wrote this expecting no more than a handful of people to read it at most. Sorry, it was so long. I did not expect it to be on the front page. Thanks for letting me vent and for responding with your own stories and thoughts on it. Felt good to get it off my chest. Y'all are awesome. We're rich, but nobody knows it. Sold our business this year,

mid-50s, net worth now over $10 million USD. Our kids have no idea. Teenagers, our siblings have no idea. Our parents are deceased. Nobody else knows except our banker. We live a low-income life, still shopping at Walmart and Target. At some point, we may buy a big, look at me home on a lake or river, like $2 to $3 million, because why not? But for now we're happy just being retired, not flaunting our wealth, and living at

quiet life driving an old Honda and Toyota. We are minimalist, by the way, and love decluttering our home of material goods. Good to just type this out for many internet strangers to see. Can't and won't tell anyone else. Cheers. To not flunk out of college, I changed my grades and thousands of others as well. When I was a student at a major university in the late 80s, I was failing several classes miserably. I had completely screwed up in two of my six classes, and I needed to make a plan of how not to flunk out. For one class, I decided to dedicate all my spare time in correcting where I went wrong and fixed it by acing the final exam. The other class, which was much more technical, required that I come up with a plan. Keep in mind that I was a totally goody-to-shoes kid who felt like they were in a desperate situation.

Failing out of college was not something I could allow to happen. Desperate times, desperate measures. The class that I needed to pass was a science-slash-engineering class that I had not bothered to go to. So I went to the very last Thursday class to figure out my plan. One thing the professor did say was that if you had a 93 or higher average in the class, you could opt out of the final exam that was happening in one week. I had a 64 average, so I had to take the exam. How was it going to ace this exam?

My grades were too low to get pulled up enough. the only way to fix this was to get my grades changed. So I came up with a Hail Mary plan, one that involved a few rules to be broken, and by rules, I mean laws. The science building where the class was given would close for the weekend. This meant that the professor's offices were locked, and most of the labs were locked as well.

You could still get into the main parts of the building, but you had to talk to a security person if it was after hours. There wasn't digital badges and shit like that back then. So, here was my plan. On Friday afternoon, after most classes were over, I scoped out the whole building. It was a U-shaped building that was three stories tall. I had to find a way in. Luckily, I found one of the first floor labs on the inside of the U.

Had large horizontal windows that could be unlocked and would allow for someone to crawl through. Even better. One of the labs windows were obscured by small fenced in area to house some of the electrical and HVAC units. Large bushes lined the fence as well, so, while I was there, I went into the lab and unlocked a window to allow myself a place to enter the building. The door of the lab was propped open, and I unpropped it and let it close. It locked. Good to know. It also reduced the chances of someone relocking the window. I also scoped out the professor's office. It was open, but he was not in there.

It was very small and with no windows. Just enough room for a desk, his chair, and a couple of other chairs. His office door was all-metal door, painted beige, except for a small center window in the middle. The window had a wire screen built into the glass, held in place by a simple screwed-on frame. There were lots of manila envelopes and schedules, etc. on the door as well. This would be a challenge, but I'd form my plan. At around 3.30 in the morning, I arrived back at the building with my backpack and a plan to break into the building. I had a hammer, pliers, a roll of tape, and some screwdrivers that I had scrounged and I was nervous. as hell. I made my way through the bushes and climbed over the fence. I checked the window and it was

still unlocked. I pulled myself up through the window and into the dark lab. Remembering that the lab doors would lock behind you, I slowly opened the lab door and placed some tape on the lock to stop it from locking. I was expecting a quiet building but instead was greeted by the loud sound of machinery running. Another lab was conducting an all-night test or something and at least three upper-level students were there overseeing the project. In a way, that was good because my my presence wouldn't necessarily be noticeable by others. I'd find out later that it would also cover any noises I made. I made my way to the professor's office door,

which was a lot more out of the way part of the building. The office was located right by one of the stairwells, so I could hear anyone coming down the stairs, and also, if someone happened to start coming from the other way, I could use the stairs for a quick exit. I pulled out the screwdriver to start unscrewing the frame around the glass window in his door and soon realized that the screws were covered in decades of paint. not good. What I thought was going to be a two-minute job turned into a 45-minute job. I went into what I would call fuck-it mode and just went to town on this window frame. I had a few starts and stops, but no one came by. I got the frame off and tried to pry the glass out of the frame. It was sealed with paint. Getting the glass out took a monumental amount of slow prying and steady effort. After 30 minutes of scraping and gentle pressure, I had the glass paint out. I slowly reached in and turned the lockdown and locked the door.

I grabbed a large manila folder on the outside of the door and repositioned it over the window. A perfect cover for the now mauled up window. I slid into the office and looked for something to cover the window that would block light. The desk calendar worked well and a few pieces of tape held it up well. Then I turned the lights on to survey the scene. I was now presented with a desk, a chair, and small slim table behind the desk. Of all the ways my plan could go wrong, my biggest fear was that the professor may have taken all of his grades, home with him. A quick look into the large flat file on his desk and I had full handwritten

grade register in my hands and the pen he used for recording grades was checked right inside. He taught six classes that semester and I only needed to change one grade, my grade. However, now that I had seen how banged up the paint was on the glass window frame, I knew I had to alter the plan. I searched the grade book and found all of my grades and I saw I had several in the 70s and some lower 60th grades. I had done some work in the class. I thought it over for a few seconds and started executing plan B. I went through every single class he had and began randomly changing anything in the 60s to read as if in the 80s. Then I went through the change all the 70s and found to read as 90s. I realized that the changed grades wouldn't stand up under close scrutiny,

so I had to create a herd immunity of changed grades. I noticed a few bad students in some of the classes and made some extra efforts at changing their grades. A zero, now in 88. This was taken a while. With six classes and 50 students or so in each class, in about 10 grades per student, there was about 3,000 grades in this register. I changed at least 1,500 of those grades. Of course, my grades were changed as well. Lots of numbers in the 90s. I closed the gradebook and placed it back in the drawer exactly as I had found it. But I heard a little plink sound. I pulled on the drawer and realized it was now locked, but wasn't before. Okay, so maybe he'll think he locked it.

No big deal. My mind began to wonder of what the aftermath of this might be. Would this work? Would I be able to get away with not taking the exam by creating this academic chaos? About this time was when I noticed the IBM PC on a spec table. Hmm. Did he record his grades on a handwritten register and his PC? If he had backup of the grades, all of this would be for nothing.

Also, I couldn't reference all the change. Grades at the drawer was now locked, I booted up as IBM PCXT and saw that it had two 3.5 disk drives. There's five discs by the commuter. What to do? I load each disc in the drive and type DEL and nuke them all. I hadn't planned on this, but then fuck it mode, so let's review the plan. Change so many grades that he would have to take an impossible amount of time to deconstruct the chaos and simply give out good grades or at least better grades is needed.

no one particular student would be identifiable as a culprit because there were plenty who had a motivation to change the grades. This was as good of an idea as I could come up with. After having distributed all the good grades to all the good boys and girls, I gathered my tools and planned my exit strategy. The back of his door had a few items tapes to it as well, so I replaced the glass in frame and covered it with another manila folder. I wrote a poorly written, not on a post-it that said, sorry, mop, handle, cracked the glass. replaced glass, maintenance. I then split, got past the grade student running the machine, slipped out the window, and never went back. Didn't show up with the final exam, either because you know, higher than a edited 90 or 93 average, and all. Waited 45 long days that summer

to get my grades, got a 90 in the class. Yeah. Okay, no complaints. There had to be some other people who got their grades and were happier as well. Never suffered any consequence on this either, but it was the most stressful night of my life. I haven't done shit like this ever again. Okay, here's some follow-up to the messages and comments. So I'm 50 years old now, and I wrote this on a slow last hour of work on a Thursday because I've been reminded of it while reading a different Reddit post. I wrote the post in about 15 to 20 minutes.

A few have asked about the grading discrepancy of 90 versus 93. Now that this memory has taken a little bit more of my brain space the last 24 hours, what I recall was that the requirement to not have to take the exam was having an 8 average. We were on a 7-point scale, then so that would have been 93 and up. I had changed my grades in the grade book first to meet this requirement, again the whole time in adrenaline freak-out mode, but once I had written over my numbers, it was obvious that I was the only one of the adjusted grades. I had hoped I could make the numbers look more convincing.

I also realized the self-incriminating factor of just my grades being changed and for self-preservation started changing them all. It took forever. When I left the building and the sky was starting to get light for the sunrise, I stated that I arrived at 3.30 a.m. That was a guess. I wasn't concerned with what time it was, just wanted to get it in and get out as soon as I had resolved my grade problem. The thing I failed to convey in the post was that fact I didn't take the exam, but when I received my grades, I got a 90, which is a B on the seven-point scale. This didn't match up to not take any exam because you should need an A to not take it. So technically, I should have complained and said, hey, where's my A?

Since I did not take the exam. So I thought this might have been a drag net where all students got a maximum B grade, and then this would allow them to find legit A students who would complain and possibly flush out an illegitimate C or D students who might ask about they're better than expected grade. That's why I wrote no complaints. state of mind. Not an excuse in any way, but I had a parent pass away my first year at college. There wasn't a lot of counseling back then, just a hand on the shoulder and condolences. I don't remember even hearing the word depression uttered except in psychology class.

Mental health was not freely discussed unless someone had big problems. I was probably on the cusp of what was then called a nervous breakdown. I had come from a small town and had expected to escape my one horse town and breezed through college, one of the smart kids, you know, but I had to let my only dream die. I had lost my dad, my academic career, my escape, and my identity at 19. I know plenty had it worse, but it felt really bad. I had to eat a lot of humble pie, and at first it sucked, but not long after, I felt free of the burden of being in the wrong place, pursuing the wrong thing, and I started smiling again. Aftermath. I changed schools that summer and also changed my field of study. Something about

experiencing the absolute guilt of failure of the first school really made me driven at my new school. It was also a very much smaller school and had less distractions. I thrived, made straight A's, and loved learning the new subject matter. I'll describe my field as design, as that's nice and vague. I've been doing that since graduation successfully and I have my own company and employees. I'm not world famous or anything, but I would bet most of you have an interaction with something I have designed. This school has been my favorite college sports team my whole childhood and was my single plan as a college student. I died because of this.

I had not set foot on that large campus since that day I left many years ago until this past summer when my son went to go tour. I had to hide the awful feeling as we walked by the building where this happened. Just this low sense of ancient dread from a past life staring at me as I walked by. My son unaware and instead excited to be there. The professor in this story works for the same university. He had done other things and came back. He's got patents and a PhD and is an expert in the field.

Here's a potentially crummy part. He got his PhD within a year of this incident, so I really hope I didn't destroy any of his research when deleting the computer disks. I've thought about anonymously sending him this Reddit link or even Star 67 calling him to see what the true aftermath was, but this seems like a bad idea and would likely just bump me out. Doubtors.

My post had several people who doubt the veracity of, of my post and I get it. It is the internet. But the story is true and if there's any untruth is in the specific number of details, did I wait exactly 45 days from my grades that semester? Fuck if I know. I know I did count them back then because I was waiting for grades that would make or break me, but 40, 45, 65, I don't remember. Did I change that many grades? I swear, I changed as many as I could. 79, now 99. 66, now 86. That's what happened. I distinctly remember feeling the need to do more and more because every time I stopped, I would see one more I could change, and that meant I was safer from being discovered. There's another. Change it. And another.

And more was better because each one was another step at covering my tracks. Response. This post got a lot of positive responses, good karma, etc. It's misplaced. I didn't do this out of a spirit of goodness. I gave others good grades to mass my fraudulent attempt at battering my academic standing. I went home after this and passed out sleeping for most of the day. I still had to study for the exam I was trying to ace legitimately, and then after that, for weeks afterward, I was always wondering, I wonder what happened, and waited on my grades who arrive. Several professors have expressed their disdain at this, and yeah, I can see why, obviously. It was a long time ago. I've pondered a way to make things right and correct this

wrong I created, but I'm open to suggestions. Something about being 50 makes you want to correct mistakes that can be corrected. Bottom line. I'm glad if you thought this story from my youth was entertaining. I'm not proud of this. I've never told another soul this story. Who would? The lesson here might be. If it feels like work, dread, like you don't belong, be honest with yourself. There is likely a direction that you will thrive in, and this may not be it. I got one of my biggest screw-ups out of the way at age 19. Some people have theirs much later. I'm a happy person now. Life is good. It's all worth it. And all right, guys. That wraps up. reading red at confessions and I enjoyed making this video it was kind of an offshoot of my regular

videos it's similar in vibe but let me know it on the comments below would you like to see more of these would you like to see more of these would you like my opinion on these um would you like to see just any changes down below let me know I appreciate you all of you watching especially all the way through the video thank you so much for watching and uh this was snuck thank you for watching and until next time see ya