"When she sees a kid, she wants to shave their head" – The toughest secrets from everyday people

I worked in a nursing home, and one of my favorites was a half-Russian lady who was always warm and cheerful. She often shared stories about her life in a small village in Russia with her husband, who had passed away decades ago. One day, I asked how she lost him, and with complete calmness, she said, “Oh dear, you know, he drank and was violent, so one night when he was causing trouble, I pushed him down the stairs, and thankfully, he was gone right away.”

During prenatal yoga, I became friends with a woman who seemed perfectly normal—until over coffee, she shared that she couldn’t wait to give birth again so she could eat her placenta, just like with her first child. She said it’s the only legal way she can satisfy her cannibalistic urges.

One of the quiet, reserved guys in our friend group confessed during a game of "truth or dare" that as a teen, he robbed a store. He was on a bike trip, popped into a small village shop for a soda, but had a knife in his pocket. On impulse, he threatened the cashier and demanded the cash register. We listened in shock, while he laughed and said, “It was a blast, just like in the movies.” When we told him it was disgusting and probably traumatized the lady for life, he brushed us off, saying we were making a big deal out of nothing.

My sister’s ex seemed super likable at first, until one Sunday lunch when he casually said he hates animals. He said he likes going to zoos because the animals are caged, and “the smaller the cage, the better.” Luckily, the relationship didn’t last long. Since then, he’s been in prison for shooting dogs from his balcony with an air rifle—and even hit a passerby by accident.

My aunt has lived in America since she was young and has been through three husbands. When she visited last Christmas, I asked about Uncle Frank, who I really liked. She told me that once, drunk, Frank confessed he picked up a hitchhiker in his youth, got into an argument, killed him, and buried him in the desert. At first, my aunt thought it was drunken rambling—until the remains were recently found in the desert, and Frankie was arrested.

A friend of mine works as a bartender and had been quieter and more withdrawn lately. When I asked, he only opened up after a few shots one night. Months earlier, a man drinking alone at the bar was crying over his divorcing wife. My friend wasn’t in a sympathetic mood and told him to forget her—she was probably with someone else laughing at him. The man said nothing, paid, then walked straight into traffic outside. The first car hit him; he flew about 20 meters and died instantly. My friend feels responsible for his death.

I’m a teacher for younger kids, and one of my kindest female colleagues once confessed she fantasizes about shaving someone’s head. She said whenever she sees a child with thick, beautiful hair, her first thought is how great it would be to shave it all off.

When I started a new job, there was a girl who welcomed me more warmly than anyone else and always helped me with any problem. So I was shocked when during a coffee break, she told me that as a teen, she got back at her stepfather—who wouldn’t let her go to a party—by poisoning his dog with antifreeze. (The dog died.)

My uncle served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan but never talks about his experiences. One Christmas, after drinking more than usual, I overheard my dad ask how many people he’d killed as a soldier. He said, “Who’s counting? They wanted to kill me too, so I didn’t care. I only feel sorry for the women and kids who got in the way—they didn’t deserve to die.”

I’m a lawyer, and at the company Christmas party, one of my colleagues—a driven, tough lawyer lady—broke down crying in the women’s restroom, telling me how much she misses her dad, who lives homeless in the countryside.