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My Dreams Have Continuing Storylines

It’s fascinating, really, how the mind weaves dreams into either utter chaos, uncertainty, and randomness, or complex overarching tales that are revisited and progressed forward days, months, even years after they started. I can’t make sense of this phenomenon, and I’m not sure who can, but I’ve noticed it many times in my life, now having three instances where my dreams have continued a story. It’s like when I fall asleep in this reality, I wake up in a new one, going about my days normally.

However, my tasks in that other reality are anything but normal. I will explain the very first instance of continuing dreams. This storyline has been going since my childhood. When I was a kid, I wanted very badly to fly. This was my urge to escape the confines of her violent hands. I did not understand that humans could not fly, but when I fell asleep, that no longer mattered.

I began to learn to fly. Sometimes I had help, a teacher to tell me what I should and should not do. Other times, I had to practice by myself. It took many years to learn to fly in my dreams, but I eventually got the hang of it as a young adult. Sometimes I still struggle, but otherwise, I can fly freely. These dreams have shown me my own struggle with learning how to do this, and I have many times mentioned to dream people, “I am only learning how to fly right now.” In dreams after I learned, I have periodically said, “it took me years to learn how to fly.” It’s as if I was taking a journey in my mind while asleep, getting closer to my goal over the span of uncountable years.

The second storyline is one that started after I graduated high school. Now, everyone has school dreams, and they don’t stop after you finally are able to leave. However, in my school dreams, I am not my teenage self, but my present self. I have voluntarily gone back to high school for another four years to graduate for a second time.

I’ve had the normal struggles: finding my classes, accidentally losing my schedule, not remembering the code for my locker, trying to remember which periods I had breaks between, trying not to be late for school, and trying to remember which bus I had to take to get home. Not only that, but all of the students eventually get familiar with the fact that this twenty-something year old woman is working on her second high school graduation, as do the teachers.

I can leave at any time. I don’t have to be there, I’m not required to do any of the work, and I can miss as many days that I want… this just means I’d be giving up my goal of graduating a second time. Naturally, school is just as annoying as it always was, so there are days where I consider giving up and just not going anymore. However, something tells me to wake up to my cell’s alarm each weekday morning, do my makeup, and take the morning bus to school.

I hang out with friends, though my real self doesn’t know their names. I often have problems socializing with anyone I’m not close to, which, again, is normal. It’s difficult to find certain classes when the layout of the school changes every couple of dreams, or I look at my schedule and that classroom doesn’t exist. But I managed it, I graduated a second time to add to my GPA, getting a seven point something. Because, ya know, you can totally do that.

I thought I was done with it, wondering what I was going to do now with two high school diplomas. Well, apparently I decided that seven point something wasn’t high enough, so I am currently attending school for another four years. I don’t know why I decided to go back, I mean, it’s not like I miss it. Sure, there are a couple things I miss, but otherwise, school was hell. It’s a little easier this time around for some reason.

But then… just recently… this third storyline began. You know how I just said school had been hell? Well, now I have a job… in actual Hell. Yup. I am not sure if I died or not, but I first went to Hell a few months ago. I was confused, not remembering dying, and I was asking everyone else where I was. Apparently, all of these other people worked for the devil, who preferred to be called Mephistopheles. Because that name is so long, I’ll just call him Satan in this blog.

Now, I have to make this clear: I AM NOT SATANIC. I don’t believe in the devil. I’m non-religious, which means I don’t believe in even having a religion. But apparently God and Satan both exist in this second realm I live in. Maybe I did die. Heh, I was surprised by my death, not by where I ended up.

We all congregate at this huge mansion. It’s practically never ending. It’s always extremely dark outside, almost to the point where you can’t see unless you have a flashlight. Inside the mansion, it’s dimly lit by mostly neon bulbs, which is pretty cool. We all have to take turns with maintaining the house, having a white board that shows who does what chore for the day. Aside from that, we also have the actual jobs which we get paid for. I’m not sure what this currency is we use, but it’s just a bunch of dull yellow coins.

On like my second day there, a girl told me Satan wished to speak with me personally. Apparently this was rare, and it either meant something really good, or… torture. You can’t die again, but you can definitely feel pain. She didn’t know which it was, so I was terrified, and also excited. I mean, this was my boss, as well as the most important being in Hell. You don’t get fired if you lose your job, you get eternal damnation!

So I slowly made my way toward his office, having trouble walking like I always do in dreams, and ended up floating there instead. Floating is a bit harder to control than flying, and sometimes I go in directions I didn’t mean to go, but I got there. His office is large, cluttered, and… checkered. Seriously, the floor and the walls are black and white checkers. I sat in front of his desk, but he was turned away from me. As soon as I sat, he spun around, and my heart jumped into my throat, partly because of him being my very scary and evil boss, but also because he was extraordinarily attractive; I had never seen him prior to this meeting.

To my surprise, he was smiling kindly at me. He told me how he picks his employees, and that’s by reaching into people’s minds and finding their inner evil. He only chooses the most demented and ruthless people to work directly under him. (As a side note, I’m super badass in the dream realm, and I don’t hold back my urges. I worked for the Yakuza, but got fired because I was too ruthless, and other than that, I’ve killed a lot of people just from anger.) Everyone already knows how he chooses them, and they take great pride in it, but I told him I was confused as to why he was telling me this personally.

“Because I’m looking for a protégé,” he told me. “Someone who is nearly as evil as I am, you know, to train, to have someone to take over in emergencies.” He explained that he was very impressed with my lack of empathy, as well as my willingness to torture and kill. He said I was the most unmerciful person he’s seen in Hell since… well, he said some serial killer’s name, but I can’t remember who exactly it was. He was choosing me to be his protégé.

I was scared. “What if I’m not very good?” I asked him. “What if I fail you?” He told me I wouldn’t… how he was so sure, I had no idea, but this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up for something as trivial as fear. I’m in Hell, I wouldn’t last five minutes if I didn’t let go of my fears. Besides… he was sexy. Can’t argue with a man that has a face and body like that. He’s no goat-man, trust me.

I mainly fly everywhere because walking is tedious, but sometimes I’m reduced to walking when in the mansion. I’m not gonna lie, I always refuse to do the chores by saying, “oh, I forgot to look at the schedule,” so someone else has to do them. There are two girls I don’t get along with, one really skinny and pretty Latina, and a very large and muscular girl whose ethnicity I can’t quite figure out. They always push me around, and they’ve sent Satan complaints about me not doing my chores. He’s never spoken to me about this, so I assume he doesn’t give a shit. He treats me kind of special.

The work we have to do involves going to the “real world.” So, it’s the dream realm’s version of this realm. It’s more like this realm, but you can tell things are sort of different. There are never any stars out at night, civilization is more progressed, and daylight isn’t excruciating. Sometimes we have to go up, invisible to the living eye, and manipulate the environment. We have to cause minor to major accidents, whisper in people’s ears to get them to do something, or tweak the weather. I remember one day I was working with two guys that I was on good terms with, and we were at a skate park. One guy was causing the skaters to fall off of their boards, while me and the other guy were making up fake news reports on the radio they had. It was hilarious.

Satan is able to communicate with us telepathically, and we all have been given different powers to aid us. For example, we can teleport and move very quickly. Teleportation took me some time to get used to, but I get more one-on-one time with Satan than everyone else does. After getting used to the basics of the job, he gave me a special assignment that is usually for the higher-ups. I had to crash a high speed train that travelled on tracks above a city instead of on the ground. It was at night, so it was hard to see, and I had to track the train down myself. There was a lot of teleporting involved, but I finally managed to catch up with it, short circuit the wires that powered it, and caused it to fall off of the tracks.

I noticed a lot of jealousy after returning to the mansion and collecting my payment at the career kiosk. Some asked me why I, a rookie, was allowed to derail a train. I told them, “that’s what Satan asked me to do, so I did it.” I was supported by very few, for I don’t have many friends there, but Satan praised me immensely. I’m rather disliked because of all of the time I get to spend with him, like he considers me a friend instead of just a student.

Other jobs to be done are to kill living people when it’s their time to die, and drag them to Hell if they’re not sucked up into the sky by God. I had to visit Heaven once to speak with God, and all of the angels glared at me. It’s not like I wanted to be there. Sempai had been permitted to visit me in Hell, but she accidentally stayed too long, so God locked her away in his prison. Satan told me to go up and plead with him, tell him it wasn’t her fault, so I did. I wasn’t supposed to fly around him because it was rude in Heaven, so I had to awkwardly walk into his chamber, nearly slipping on the tile. Long story short, God agreed to free my best friend. Why she was dead, I will never know.

Sometimes I do feel like more than a student, and not just because of my special privileges. Satan has me keep him company for most days, telling me funny stories, making fun of his other employees, and just hanging out. He’s really chill when he’s in a good mood. Now, this is what’s going to sound weird, but it’s just how things are done in this business. There’s a select few with whom he’s formed romantic relationships with, and I was shocked when I was no longer an exception. Yeah, it’s normal, and considered an extreme honor. Basically, if you’re sleeping with the devil, you’re the shit. I didn’t really have a choice, but I didn’t try to refuse either. Dream Mike (who is also dead) said it was okay, and he actually said, “you better get in the big guy’s pants!” This version of dream Mike is different than the bad dream Mike, who is very much alive, but I’m trying to kill. If I kill him, I’m hoping he won’t show up in my dreams anymore. He’s the meanest, most selfish, and abusive douchebag you can imagine.

Anyway, I’m considered very important, and Satan remains my only true friend because everyone thinks it’s unfair that he plays favorites with me. It doesn’t bother me much. As long as I stay on Satan’s good side, no one can touch me. However, last night I made him really mad, and he almost dropped me completely.

So, I’ve become pretty selfish with him, and I don’t want to share him in any sense of the word. But besides me, he’s got like two other girls and one guy, and I always get really jealous when they’re around. Still, I seem to be the favorite, even though the two chicks are way hotter than me. I guess Satan prefers the mind more than the body. I started to get possessive, and even began beating the shit out of the guy, as well as insulting the girls. Well, this annoyed Satan, and there is no in between content and angry, it’s either one or the other.

First, he starts giving me the silent treatment, throwing me into an empty dimension so I couldn’t find him. He wouldn’t talk to me, and it was upsetting. This dimension looked like an every day suburban house, complete with bedrooms that belonged to children. However, no one lived there. I started to try and plead with him, telling him I was sorry for being a leech, and that it wouldn’t happen again. I thought he had forgiven me when he made a hamster appear in the house for me to play with and love.

I spent a few hours with the hamster, but I don’t remember the name I gave him, and Satan eventually showed up in the house. I went to hug him, but he pushed me back so violently, I fell onto the floor. Then, in front of my eyes, he ate the hamster I had bonded with. I cried, apologizing over and over again, pleading for forgiveness. He knelt down next to me and pet my head.

“I do this because I care about you,” he said. “What you did hurt me, and you needed to be taught a lesson. If this happens again, you’ll never see me again, and the rest of your days will be nothing but agony and misery. Do you understand?” All of this was said so gently and kindly, but it still scared me. I told him I’d never do it again, so he brought me back. I guess he wanted to test my loyalty after all of that, so he made me engage in a sort of orgy with him and the other three. Just to make him happy, I didn’t put all of my focus on him, and started making out with one of the girls.

For my act of… uh… participation, I guess? He rewarded me by bringing Rem and Ezio back to life. I cried again, but from happiness, and I hugged him. I don’t think he really wants to hurt me, but he’s the law, so he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. He really is much more caring toward me on a regular basis. Hopefully I can avoid pissing him off again. It may sound crazy, but I like being his student/friend/mistress (?). I guess. Whatever I am to him. He gives me attention that I like, that’s it.

And it’s not like these storylines are all separate, no. I’ve learned to fly, and go to school, and work as Satan’s protégé in Hell. And of course, on the side are my other dreams, the ones that seem to have no rhyme or reason. I always know, though, I always know about the things I do, and even talk about them. In fact, half the time, I’m actually lucid. When I had that meeting with God, I told him, “sorry, sir, I have trouble walking in my dreams because my real body is laying down.” Night before last, I had a nightmare where I was screaming, “Michael! Wake me up! Hurry, wake me up!” but it didn’t reach my vocal chords, so I didn’t scream out loud like I usually do.

Sometimes I can call on Satan for help in nightmares, and he takes me back to the mansion to escape. It’s rare, and I’m not sure why he can’t save me every time. It’s kind of frustrating when he doesn’t respond to my calls. Part of me assumes he’s busy, and then the lucid part says, “fuck, maybe he doesn’t exist in this dream.” I wish I had more control.

When I tried to kill bad dream Mike a couple nights ago, the pistol I tried to use had no bullets, and the only weapons I could find were ice picks, pins, and small screw drivers. He seems to be much fatter than real Mike, so when I stabbed him in the belly, it just sank into the fat. He sneered, “you can’t kill me.” I tried to find a knife, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. I’m afraid he might be controlling the environment in the dreams he appears in, making it so I can’t kill him. Maybe this truly means that, if I kill him, he won’t bother me anymore. He really causes me stress, but it’s nice to wake up to the real Mike and remember how he truly is. I need to find a way to arm myself before falling asleep. Problem is… I can’t control my lucidity.

Are dreams just dreams, or are they something more? Are we really going to a different realm and living a second, immensely different life? How is it that my mind has given me this second life that’s just as dynamic as living a real one, just… unrealistic? Well, one thing I know for sure is…

I’m REALLY badass in the dream realm. XD

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Insensitive Assholes at their Finest

WARNING: It’s rant time!

Everyone has had to deal with someone that seems to have absolutely no heart at all, whether directly, or indirectly. The jerks who laugh at things that are far from funny, things people can’t control, things that hinder every day life. You’ve either seen it, or you’ve had it happen to you. These bastards don’t understand how detrimental it is on us to be made fun of for our ailments, almost like they want to make it worse. Whether you’ve been a victim, or a witness to a victim, I’m sure most of you reading this will understand where I’m coming from, and that my frustration is justified. Here are my own personal experiences dealing with the literal shit of human society.

If you’ve been keeping up with me at all, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental illness known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a depression disorder that greatly affects our moods, but it’s not just “mood swings.” You have your manic episodes, or “happy” episodes, and your depressed episodes. Manic episodes might not sound so bad. Large bursts of energy fill us with optimism, makes us determined and motivated, and life is full of puppies, flowers, rainbows, and candy.

It’s not all that fun. At all. In fact, it’s just as much of a road block as the depression episodes. While experiencing mania or hypermania, we may seem like the happiest person in the whole wide world, but our minds are both going a mile a minute, and remaining completely blank at the same time. Now, everyone is different, so symptoms may differ from person to person, but these are the things that I experience. I basically turn into a hyperactive child, bouncing around, not properly listening to people who are talking to me, I get easily distracted, and if someone is trying to be serious, it’s nothing but a joke to me. Obnoxious, loud, spontaneous… and reckless.

Having a manic episode is still dangerous. I have indeed participated in self mutilation while seemingly completely happy. The problem is, I’m not really aware that I’m doing it. It just… happens. The X on my hip was caused by one of these instances. During the episode, I don’t really seem to care, but other people definitely do. They ask, “why did you do this to yourself?” Do you know what I say? Something completely off topic, because I avoid the question. For me, my manic episodes last significantly shorter than my depression ones do, though they used to last longer when I was younger. When I was nineteen, I had one that lasted about three months. I had some long ones in my senior year of high school too.

Oh, it gets better. How does one come out of these episodes? Oh, well, IF ANY TINY LITTLE THING GOES WRONG, I’m brought spiraling down into an extremely deep depression. Doesn’t that sound fun? Oh yeah, it’s a fucking blast.

My depression episodes last a very long time, months on end. My brain takes anything bad, even the smallest thing, and reacts like it’s the end of the fucking world. I have no motivation, no determination, no appetite, and no energy. When I say no motivation, I mean not even enough motivation to watch a movie or play a video game. I lay in bed, staring at my wall, and listening to my thoughts. Oh, this is the greatest part; MY THOUGHTS. They run wild, literally nothing can silence them. I don’t hear voices, but I might as well, I can’t control what they say, I can’t stop them, and I can’t tell them they’re wrong. They say things like, “I’m worthless,” “I’m hopeless,” “no one cares about me,” “mommy didn’t love me,” “my life has no meaning,” and “I want to kill myself.” These are things I do not think while in my right state of mind. And you know what? I believe them.

You’d be lucky to get me to talk while in a “mild” depression episode, or even move for that matter. If I start to talk, you’ll know that things are gradually going downhill. If I start crying, I’m starting to have an attack. Oh, the attacks are the most fun, but I’ve only heard about them, because I don’t remember them. A few people have seen these attacks, but Sempai and Michael have seen them more than anyone, and they’ve provided me with the details that utterly horrified me. In fact, both have said, “you become a different person.”

Even when mildly depressed, I, again, turn into a child. If someone tries to gently grab me, I’ll yank away with a whiny grunt. I will pout, I will dead weight so no one can move me, I’ll refuse to look at anyone, and also refuse the much needed help. When the attacks happen, according to what my loved ones have told me, I’m like a child throwing a tantrum, except I’m dangerous. I have come very close to killing myself multiple times, but have succeeded in collecting a large amount of self inflicted scars on my body during my life. Also remember that I was not medicated until I was twenty, so when I was a teenager, my hormones made my depression even more unbearable.

I’m not just a danger to myself, though. I get violent both toward me, and the people around me. I’ve never tried to kill anyone, but I’ve left huge scratch marks on people that took quite some time to fade, and even bit Michael a few times. Luckily, he is much stronger than me, so he is able to hold me down. This doesn’t stop the screaming, however. Like I said, I am throwing a tantrum. I scream as if I were being murdered, my sobbing doesn’t stop, I fight every single fucking step of the way, and if I get a hold of something sharp, it needs to be taken away immediately.

After the violent part of the attack ends, it’s just hysterical crying. I am no longer a danger to anyone, and Michael and Sempai know to hold me tight like a fucking baby. They have to comfort me, saying “shhh,” and “it’s alright…” I’ve been told I’ve said things like, “why didn’t mommy love me?” “Where’s mommy?” and “I want my mommy.” Since most of my trauma stems from Erin’s abuse, that’s usually what my brain likes to focus on. An attack like this can last from one to three hours non-stop, and I’m not exaggerating. Once I go quiet again, it’s unlikely I will have an attack for another few days.

When in the mild stages of my depression, I will cry for literally no reason. You know when you get upset and you have a good cry for about ten, maybe twenty minutes? Yeah, mine last for a few hours, the waterworks turning on for long periods of time, shutting off shortly, and then turning on again. No fucking reason. And unlike a manic episode, it’s much harder to come out of the depression. Sometimes it’ll change out of nowhere for absolutely no reason at all, but simply trying to “cheer me up” does nothing. Doesn’t that sound fun?

You can imagine the hell this has put me through. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was twelve or thirteen, but I was showing symptoms much earlier, around six or seven. Naturally, no one paid attention to the quiet little blonde girl, not even her family. Erin herself would joke, “she’ll start crying for no reason, lock herself in her room, and come out an hour later completely happy.” Oh yes, you stupid bitch, so funny. Why did it take you until I was in middle school to get me checked out? A six year old should not be talking about wanting to die, or wanting to kill people. When I was diagnosed, they put me on medication that made it worse, so I refused to take it. When I was twenty, I decided on my own to get properly treated.

I had to endure this disorder on top of abuse and neglect from Erin, and constant bullying at school. This wasn’t “neener neener neener” bullying either, kids have tried to kill me. Not only that, but my entire life, I’ve had social phobia, which I didn’t know until recently is the same thing as Social Anxiety Disorder. Now, I’ve exhibited text book symptoms of this disorder to the T, but I have not been professionally diagnosed yet. I’m going to get psychoanalyzed in a few weeks. I’m preparing for the introduction of a second Other…

Oh yeah, Others. For those of you who don’t know, they are fictional creatures that represent real mental disorders. I created Annatier as a form of self therapy, because regular therapy doesn’t work on me. She has helped me understand my Manic Depression much better, to the point where I have found ways to cope, and have accepted the things I can’t control. Doing this has inspired many of my fans to create Others based on their disorders as well, and it has helped them cope too. I’m thrilled to hear this, because I feel that my purpose in life is to help others find ways to arm themselves against the unkindness life brings. I’ve endured a lot of pain, and I want to keep others from feeling it so severely, I want to help them find the strength to meet these issues head on. I have been told by countless people that my advice is impeccable, and I’ve saved tons of people from suicide, including my own brother.

Anyway, thanks to medical science, I can keep my moods stable so I can lead as normal a life as I can. What does this mean? I have to take medication for the rest of my life. Every. Single. Day. It’s not fun, I don’t like it, I wish I didn’t have to, but it’s the only thing that keeps me emotionally normal and shuts my brain up. On top of depression, I’ve also had to struggle with insomnia since I was nine. “Oh, how annoying can it possibly be to take a couple pills every day?” A couple? Not including my vitamin B and vitamin D pills, I have to take nine pills each day. In the morning: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. In the evening, around 5:30 or so: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. At night, before bed: three Trazodone pills. Those are to get me to sleep. I have to take pills just to fucking sleep. What keeps me awake? Well, the earlier meds have worn off, sooooo…. my thoughts.

That means, each day, I’m taking three anti-depressants and one anti-psychotic. FUN, RIGHT? FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. It’s so COOL to have this disorder, and I’m so FUCKING HARDCORE. And god forbid, if I forget to take my medication, I may not have an attack, but I will certainly fall. I don’t have many manic episodes anymore, they seem to be rare as you get older. Speaking of, Manic Depressive Disorder gets worse as you age. I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a long way to go, and a hell that will never leave. THERE IS NO CURE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS.

I also suffer from two disorders that affect my appearance negatively, which doesn’t help make me feel better. I am very self conscious about my appearance, so dealing with these two things are a nightmare. People that have one usually have the other as well, and there is no cure. These things are…

Dermatillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one’s own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused.”

Trichotillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the compulsive urge to pull out one’s hair, leading to hair loss and balding, distress, and social or functional impairment.”

These two disorders are NOT, I repeat, NOT a joke. Since I was nine or ten, I’ve pulled out my eyebrows and eyelashes, and obsessively picked at my skin. In fifth grade, both arms were covered in scabs. When I was sixteen, I started pulling hair from my head. Since I hit puberty, I’ve picked at every single goddamn imperfection on my face, to the point where I have embarrassing scabs and scars. Here is a recent picture:

this_is_why_i_m_not_pretty_by_reitanna_seishin-d9ny7aq

It took a lot of courage to even post this on DA, let alone here. Of course, you can’t see the bald spots on my scalp, but you can see my eyelashes, eyebrows, and skin. Oh, by the way? My eyebrows will never properly grow back. The only hair that grows is vellus hair, and maybe a few terminal hairs here and there, but not enough to form a shape. I have to draw them on. Every. Day.

As for my face? These were not huge pimples. These were things that other people could not see unless they looked as close as I did. And do you know what I do? I pick off the scab to reveal little white bulbs that I try to pull out with tweezers. What are these white bulbs? MY HAIR FOLICLES. I cannot control this, no matter how hard I try. Hell, you should see my back and shoulders! And don’t even get me started on my pubic area. ISN’T. THIS. FUN??? I’ve tried many things to get myself to stop, but it NEVER FUCKING WORKS.

Why have I brought all of this shit up? To make you pity me? To try and get sympathy? To show how horrible my life has been? No. To make people understand. In fact, I think pity is one of the most disgusting things a person can give to the disabled. But chances are, many of you do understand! A lot of you may struggle with the same obstacles! Hell, I bet some of you have it worse than me! I’m just one out of seven billion people on the planet, of course there are people like me, or have worse situations! The point is…

I have been ridiculed for these things. These disorders I can’t control, these painful and degrading things that I didn’t choose to have. Some of you can relate to what I’m about to say. I’ve been accused of, get this…. I’ve been accused of CRYING OUT FOR ATTENTION. Because I’m honest about what goes on in my head? Because I’m a human being who is done hiding like I’ve done for nearly two decades? Because I want to help people understand what could possibly being going on in their heads?

Oh! OH! It gets better! I’ve been called “emo” because I have depression. I HAVE A SERIOUS MEDICAL DISORDER THAT I CANNOT CONTROL IN ANY WAY, and I’m apparently “emo.” Um, I am twenty-five years old, there is no such thing as stupid little teenage fashion cliques! Hell, “emo” isn’t even a thing! People use it to describe EVERYTHING!!! I FUCKING HATE IT!! Oh! And then there’s this one… “edgy.” I’m “edgy” because I HAVE A FUCKING MENTAL DISORDER. It’s so COOL and HARDCORE to have to take NINE PILLS EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR THE REST OF MY FUCKING LIFE!! Do you understand how much I HATE this? I would give both of my legs to be cured of this. I’d never be able to walk again, but that’s way better than dealing with my illness!

Same with the DTM and TTM. I posted that picture on Deviant Art, not to get fucking sympathy or pity, but to make people understand why I don’t think I’m pretty. I’m SICK and TIRED of hearing, “oh, you’re pretty no matter what!” NO! FUCKING NO! DO YOU SEE THAT? THAT IS UGLY AS FUCKING SIN!! I wanted people to tell me how bad it was, to basically punch me in the face to possibly get my mind to understand that it needs to STOP. It was basically a voluntary intervention. You know what? I got a lot of people who didn’t read the description telling me what I didn’t want to hear: That I’m pretty on the inside! That the outside doesn’t matter! IT MATTERS TO ME! The other people told me exactly what I needed to hear, they were honest, and though the words may look unkind, I needed to hear them from somebody other than myself. The truth isn’t always pleasant, but it is always necessary.

Oho, but there was one user who was butt hurt that I blocked him for being a douchebag, who claimed I posted it to get attention. Are you fucking serious? That’s the reason I want to STOP! Because these scars and bald spots bring me unwanted attention! People stare at me like I’m some fucking druggie! I’m already afraid of people, so WHY the FUCK would I WANT them staring at me you STUPID asshole?!? I hate sympathy, I hate pity, and the only attention I want is the kind I’m rewarded with when I work hard at what I do. When I create something, draw, write, make a video, whatever, that’s what I like. I don’t require it, except, of course, on YouTube because that’s my job, and I am certainly not going to try and get attention through dishonest ways, or by exploiting my flaws! I need people to understand why I say the things I say, why I do the things I do, and so I can help others, as well as receive help for myself! Asking for help is not the same as crying out for attention! I’M FUCKING SUICIDAL, so I must be “emo” and “edgy,” right? FUCK OFF.

I don’t even understand why some people go through such lengths to get attention, the people who seem to “need” it. I don’t understand that. I’m an adult, adults aren’t “edgy” (whatever the fuck that means, because edgy only has three definitions, and these stupid freaks are using it in a way that doesn’t fit any of them), adults are not “emo” (that’s just something stupid teenagers came up with so that they could take multiple fashions, throw them together, and call it a new thing), and adults don’t “cry out for attention.” God… I hope not… then again, there was that lady that lied about being a 9/11 survivor… okay, some sad excuses for human beings do that, but responsible adults with common sense like me DO NOT. I rarely even leave the house, and that’s so people don’t see me, and I don’t see them! Making videos is the only time I feel comfortable being myself somewhat publicly because I’m not face to face with a real person!

I’m not the only fucking person with Manic Depression, I’m not the only fucking person with DTM and TTM, and I’m not the only fucking person who is comfortable enough to talk to people about it. So many people don’t understand mental illness, and I used to be afraid of admitting that my brain wasn’t wired right. But it’s shameful to feel ashamed, and I’m sick of hiding like a sniveling coward. I have completely accepted what I have. I don’t like it. I never will. I hate it. But I’m not hiding. I am a human being, so I will act like a human being. YOU, who attack people like me, are SNIVELING FUCKING COWARDS.

I wish… oho, do I wish… that I could give these bastards a mental illness. Let’s see how “edgy” they think it is. Remember that “point-of-view” gun from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Yeah, I want that, but super powered. Let’s see how they like crying for no reason, let’s see how they like wanting to die, let’s see how they like taking medication, pulling out their hair until they’re bald, and digging holes into their faces! ISN’T IT SO SUPER DUPER COOL?? OH MY GOD, I’M SO FUCKING EDGY!!

You bastards think you’re all big, bad wolves hiding behind a computer, but you’re nothing but sheep. I guarantee that, if you met me face to face, you wouldn’t be able to show those big balls you pretend to have. No, you’d cower. There’s a reason people have told me I’m scary, there’s a reason people have learned not to mess with me. I can’t do SHIT through the internet, but let me tell you, when I’m face to face with someone who has enraged me, my social anxiety is GONE. You’re sheep. Cowardly, pathetic sheep being led by a shepherd, not knowing that your shepherd is taking you to a slaughter house. I’m not afraid like you are, and that’s why I’m honest about what I feel, and how I live. That’s why I don’t keep secrets. What’s the point? I have nothing to gain by hiding, but everything to gain by showing my true self.

Even though I only get one out of every hundred people who decide it’s funny to make fun of the disabled, it still infuriates me to no end. I mean, what if I didn’t have medication and killed myself? Would they say, “oops?” Would they feel ashamed? HA! No, that’s not how it works, apparently. They’d laugh and feel PROUD at what they accomplished. I hate these people who get joy out of seeing other people suffer for no reason. I did not choose to have these disorders, I don’t want them, and I sure as hell don’t need them. Please! Take them away if me talking about them bugs you so much! I would shake your hand and kiss your ass for the rest of my life if you took them away! Why would anyone lie about having an illness? Why does anyone lie in the first place? Lying gets you nowhere! Just deeper into the hole you’ve dug yourself! THAT’S WHY I DON’T DO IT! My code of honor, once again, is honesty, and I cherish it like it’s my own beating heart. I choose not to lie to anyone. Why? Because the consequences for lying are way worse than the consequences for telling the truth. I am literally the most honest person you will ever speak to.

If these fucking shit holes are over the age of twenty, I would be disturbed beyond measure. These are things that snotty nosed preteens and teenagers do to each other. Where the fuck are the parents? Hope you’re proud of your fucking kid! But if they are an adult, I laugh at how ludicrous their behavior is! I mean, you’ve got to be pretty insecure to act like a dull witted teenage bully when you’re a fucking adult that is supposed to be paying bills and taxes! Maybe they have a small dick, I don’t know. Maybe the girls are uglier than I am, I don’t know! But even if this enrages me to no end, at least I know that their warped perception of me is not true.

And what they don’t know is, I am the kindest and most loyal person to people who also show kindness, and I am a wonderful friend. I can love just as much as I can hate, and I can hate like fire can burn. If these trash talking lowlifes had just been kind, and spoken to me as a fellow human, we probably could’ve been great friends! No, they have to make themselves feel better by making other people feel bad. Whatever issues they have to deal with in their life, I could’ve given them the advice to cope. You know what, shit heads? You chose to be miserable, and you chose to be just another zit on the face of society just waiting to be popped. I’d love to take my disorders and shove them into your head, that way, I’d be free of them, and you’d get a taste of hell. Ha! Maybe someone would call you “emo!”

To the people who are kind, to the people who have witnessed behavior like this, and to the people who have experienced this, speak up. None of us should be hiding. The pecking order is fucked up, and we need to do the pecking here. If you have a mental illness, don’t hide from it, fight for it. You know what? Many people have been able to find ways to make their illnesses help them in life. Admittedly, a lot of my best creations have come from my fucked up mind, but I’d still rather be rid of it. All the same, we need to learn to stand up, because we are way stronger than these hip-gangster wannabes. Why? Because we have to deal with literal hell, and yet, we’re still here! They wouldn’t last a week in our shoes! I don’t have the power to start a movement, that’s a very unrealistic fantasy, but maybe my words could reach someone who does. People like this need to be put in their place.

Just stop the silence.

Quarter of a Century

Well, in less than a month, I turn twenty-five. I didn’t think it would stress me out this much, but it is. Even though I’m on my medication, I feel really down lately, and I just want November eighth to pass.

You’d think I’d be excited for my birthday, but I’m not. Well, in all honesty, my birthdays stopped being fun after I turned eighteen. But this… I didn’t think I’d make it this far. No, I didn’t want to make it this far. Just because my medication helps keep my brain in check, doesn’t mean I’m not still suicidal. The difference is, I’m not going to go kill myself in a fit of depression. I’m stable, so I can think clearly and make rational decisions.

Still, I don’t want to be twenty-five, I don’t want to be another year older, and I don’t want to be reminded that I’ve spent a quarter of a century in this stupid world. And then there’s the getting older part. I’ve already lost my cuteness that I had as a teenager, but as I get closer to thirty, the wrinkles will start showing up. That means the bags under my eyes are going to be even more alarming. And all that aging cream and wrinkle reducing cream and all that? Expensive face moisturizers. That expensive stuff that claims to reduce signs of aging is the same thing as your everyday moisturizer. Moisture helps reduce the appearance of wrinkles, but as you get older, it can only do so much. So the fact of the matter is, I’M GOING TO GET EVEN UGLIER THAN I ALREADY AM. I’ll probably get fatter, too, even though I’ve been losing weight. NOT ENOUGH.

I’m not worried about grey hair. I’m blonde, have TTM, and like to wear wigs. Big whoop. No, I’m going to get uglier, and I have to spend more time with people around me. I HATE PEOPLE. The only two people I even care about is Michael and Sempai. Sempai was so excited about turning twenty-five, and I honestly couldn’t see why… then again, she actually likes people. She doesn’t have the same thought process I do.

Mike and I are going to Missouri on November ninth, the day after my birthday. I’m hoping the change in scenery will make me feel a little better, plus there are less people in one area, unlike here where all the houses are so close together, we can all hear each other. Can’t even go out at night without passing someone, and each time we do, it freaks me out. While in Missouri, we’re going to check the price of houses. If things look good over there, then in one to two years, we’ll move across the country. Being in a house and not being so surrounded will do me some good. Some people are afraid of change, but god, I need it so badly.

Why do we even celebrate the day we were born?

I Dreamt a Documentary

This post might be a little disturbing, so just as a warning, you may not want to read this one if you’re sensitive to certain subjects. It’s also very long.

My doctor just recently switched my sleeping medication because Ambien stopped working for me, and I took it last night. It worked well, but I’m not sure if this crazy dream was a result of the medication, or if it was just my sick mind fucking around with me again. I have a lot of disturbing dreams, but often the only nightmares that affect me when I wake up are the ones involving emotional distress, usually caused by reliving my childhood, coming face to face with Erin, or being unable to take my medication. They say your greatest enemy is yourself, and that couldn’t be more true. My greatest nightmares make me experience the side of me that I’m afraid of. Anything else, no matter how disturbing, doesn’t usually get to me.

Now, I’m not sure if this certain dream is actually bothering me, or if I just want to document it because it was so… dynamic and detailed. It was pretty damn crazy, I’ll give it that! Even though the memory of the dream isn’t really upsetting me while awake, it upset my dream self, and I need to write it down. Dreams fascinate me, so I like to reflect back on the really complex ones to try and understand what dreaming actually is. I’m no expert, so I’m still just as stumped as anyone else, but even so, it’s still somewhat helpful.

I watch a lot of documentaries on different types of murderers; serial killers, mass murderers, spree killers, impulse killers, et cetera. I do this for multiple reasons that range from research to just entertainment. It also makes me feel better to say, “well, at least I’m not as crazy as that person.” Certain common elements bug me when they go over the killer’s past, and that is history of being sexually abused, and torturing and/or killing animals as a child. We hear these things all of the time, and it’s the only part that ever disturbs me. I mention this because it plays a big part in this dream.

Enough beating around the bush, let’s get down to business. Remember, everything I say is fictional (except when I go over certain elements of my own past) and only occurred in the dream. Any relevance to actual people or occurrences are purely coincidental. The dream starts out with me checking my YouTube comments, and I received one from the director of a recently released online documentary. I think the director was a Freelancer, so he posted his work on his own channel instead of it being produced and distributed as a film. Seeing the comment didn’t surprise me, and I recognized the username. The comment read, “it’s done, here it is,” and then there was a link to a video. Clicking the link brought me to a video called, “A Broken Mind: The [name I can’t remember] Story (Part 1).” In the “related” section of the page were parts two and three. The description read, “the upsetting story of [name I can’t remember], one of the most disturbed murderers of America in the last decade. Special thanks go to…” Then there was a list of names of people on the crew, people who were interviewed, people involved in the case, and so on. “Reitanna Seishin” was listed in these credits, and next to it was a link to my YouTube channel.

None of this surprised me, and I remembered being asked to be a part of the documentary. At the time, my dream self did not provide my conscious self with the information as to why I was in the film, or what role I played, so I clicked “play” on the video and began to watch. The view of the dream changed to where, instead of watching the video on a computer screen, it was like my eyes were the camera lens. It was pretty surreal, honestly. The issue I had in this dream was that the names kept changing, specifically the murderer that the documentary was about. I can’t remember all of the names it changed to, so I’ll settle on the one that stuck out; Carl Dawson. I will have to make up names for everyone else, so bear with me.

I don’t remember the exact date this happened, but it was within the last ten years, and apparently it happened in Alpine. I lived in Alpine from ages twelve to fourteen, so I’m going to guess that the time frame had to be between 2002 and 2004 at least. Carl Dawson was a couple years older than me, so he was in high school when I was in middle school. The film went over Carl’s past, and it was this that upset my dream self.

Carl’s real parents were killed in a car accident when he was a baby, and later was adopted by a couple with the last name “Dawson,” so he inherited that name as well. We’ll call the woman Anne Dawson, and the man Will Dawson. At the time they adopted Carl, they already had a three year old biological son, and we’ll call him Kyle. Pictures were shown of the family and the house, and these pictures included birthday photos that were mostly of Carl and Kyle. Carl had medium-long, wavy blonde hair, and Kyle had short brunette hair. Anne honestly looked like a meth addict. She had badly bleached blonde hair with dark brunette roots showing, alarming bags under her eyes, yellow teeth, and just looked pretty trashy. Will was a little on the chubby side, but he was tall, looked strong, had greying hair, and was very intimidating. The house was also messy and poorly taken care of; you could tell the family didn’t make a lot of money. They also had a grey cat.

The parents had a history of drug abuse, alcoholism, and could never hold steady jobs. On the upside, Anne cared very dearly for her sons, even if one of them wasn’t her own flesh and blood. However, her relationship with Will wasn’t a healthy one, and Will would beat the shit out of her when he was drunk. He didn’t hit the children, but I consider what he did much, much worse. This is the part that upset me, and it’s also the reason why Anne and Will fought so much.

Will had a habit of molesting Kyle, and poor Carl fell victim to it as well. Unfortunately, Anne didn’t even know about it until Carl was two, and his behavior toward Will started to change. He became afraid of him, less talkative, and didn’t like to be touched by anyone. Kyle had always had behavioral problems, being hyper active, somewhat violent, and Anne had to keep him from hurting the cat. She assumed he was just that way, but Carl had shown noticeable changes that made her worried. She tried asking Carl if daddy ever hit him, and he said, “daddy told me not to tell.” She ended up calling her best friend, saying she suspected her husband was abusing Carl, but she had to hang up quickly when she heard Will walk through the front door.

Then, when she was changing Carl’s diaper, she noticed bruises around his lower body, and came to the horrifying conclusion that her husband had raped their adopted son. This caused a huge fight between Anne and Will, resulting in her being savagely beaten in front of both boys. Will also took the opportunity to tell her that he had been doing the same thing to Kyle for years, and that if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her mouth shut. Will threatened to kill her if she even tried leaving. Anne was sickened by this entire thing, but couldn’t help but wonder why Kyle hadn’t shown drastic changes in behavior like Carl had. Then she figured that all of his behavioral problems must’ve come from the abuse in the first place.

Kyle got less “attention” than Carl did as the boys grew older, and that’s because Kyle was now “too old” for Will’s interests. Kyle continued to be a very bad kid, torturing the cat, killing random animals outside, breaking objects, fighting at school, and hitting his adopted brother. Carl spoke less and less, and became very afraid of people, including other kids at school, and this caused him to be bullied. It didn’t help that their family was poor, so his clothes were shabby. He spent a lot of time in his room where he’d pin up doodles he made on lined paper to the wall. Even as childish scribbles, they weren’t very happy looking.

Things escalated for Carl as time passed by. Kyle was hitting puberty, so now, on top of his preexisting problems, he now had to deal with hormones. Being raped by his own father messed with his mentality, and made his view of the real world and social interactions very warped. Kyle started sneaking into Carl’s room at night and molesting him as well. With both his adopted father and brother sexually abusing him, and with his mother constantly drowning her sorrows in substances, Carl’s trust in humanity was broken, and so was he. The only living creature he seemed to want to even be around was the cat.

When Carl entered middle school, he was still quiet and afraid of people, but he was now entering the transition into manhood. On his first day in sixth grade, he wasn’t sure where his first class was, and a seventh grade girl named Mary (this was her actual name in the dream) noticed how lost he looked. She was very petite, having long, straight dark brunette hair, peachy skin, and was wearing a black shirt, grey skirt, and black leggings that stopped below her knees. Lastly, her shoes were simple black flats, and wore no socks. I’m not sure why she stuck out to me so fiercely, but I think it was because this documentary was showing this past segment as if the camera man had been there while it happened, which was impossible. There were quite a lot of moments like that, some I’d rather not go into detail about.

Carl immediately took a shine to Mary, but he wasn’t used to speaking to people, so he was very nervous. He stuttered when he spoke to her, stumbled over words, said words wrong, and sometimes said the wrong thing completely. This didn’t bother her at all, being smart enough to recognize shyness, and being kind and confident enough to tell him it was alright. After this first encounter, Mary considered Carl her friend, and he’d follow her around like a puppy following its master. He practically idolized her because she was so caring and nice to him, and she even stood up to his bullies for him. Having a girl stand up for him didn’t emasculate him, but caused him to fall for her even harder.

It seemed like life was getting just a little better for Carl. The police were called by their neighbors after a particularly violent outdoor domestic disturbance between Will and Anne, and Anne took the chance to tell the police that Will had raped their sons. She didn’t know about Kyle doing the same thing to Carl because Carl wouldn’t talk about it. Will was arrested, and Anne took her children and cat to live in a small house in Alpine (I guess they were living just outside of the town beforehand, so they didn’t have to change schools). It wasn’t much nicer than their old house, and was even a bit smaller. Carl didn’t mind, because the house just happened to be right next door to Mary’s, and could even see her bedroom window from his own.

However, even though one of his life’s horrors was out of the picture, it didn’t change the fact that Carl’s mind had been severely messed up. Even after Kyle started “visiting” him less frequently, Carl still viewed the world very differently. He and Mary entered high school, but he never asked her out, and she was oblivious to the fact that he was madly in love with her. Little did she know, his “love” was actually a very unhealthy obsession. He wrote her name all over his walls, drew pictures of her, and watched her through her window using a cheap telescope. Whenever she had any interaction with another boy at school, Carl would draw pictures of himself killing them in many different and horrific ways. In these pictures, it always depicted Mary praising him for “saving” her from the filthy men of the world.

Kyle was a senior, and still a very bad kid, committing juvenile crimes, abusing drugs, and getting violent for pointless reasons. After school one day, he actually came up behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her, and tried to feel her up, but she turned around and pushed him away, shouting at him. Carl flared up as well, telling his brother to keep his hands off of her, but he punched Carl in the face and told him to shut his mouth, or he’d regret it. Mary didn’t take too kindly to this, so she socked Kyle right in the face as hard as she could. Enraged, and not afraid to hit a girl, Kyle lunged at her, but a teacher stopped him. He was suspended for about a week.

This would be the biggest week of Carl’s life. Anne worked two jobs, so she was rarely ever home, even for days at a time. One of these jobs was prostitution, so she was mostly gone at night. Kyle was now forced to stay at home for a week, and due to Carl’s and Mary’s retaliation, he was extremely hostile toward Carl, hitting him whenever he had the chance. Carl constructed a home made lock to install on his door to keep Kyle out of his room so that he’d finally have peace, and he spent his time spying on Mary through the window, writing in his journal, or writing and drawing on his wall. Some of it was written on scraps of paper pinned to it, but most of it was written on the wall itself. It showed obvious obsession over Mary, and when she couldn’t be seen through her window, he’d stare at places he had written her name.

Carl also had gotten his hands on an inexpensive digital camera that could take low quality pictures and video, though it wasn’t capable of recording audio. (I’ve actually had a camera like this, so that’s probably how my dream fabricated it.) He didn’t use it much… at first.

Kyle had recently started going out with a girl from another school named Wendy (actual name in the dream), so during his suspension, he’d bring her over. This was actually the first time Carl had ever seen her, and he found her very beautiful. Incredibly quickly, he became just as obsessed over her as he was with Mary, and started writing her name all over his walls as well. There were now two girls in his life he was madly in “love” with, and Wendy didn’t even treat him nicely. Why did he become obsessed with her? Maybe he idolized beautiful women because one had never harmed him in the way that his father and brother had. He even considered his own mother a lost cause because she was so far gone anyway, and she was never able to stop the abuse. Plus, she was so junked up, she had long lost her beauty, if she even had any to begin with.

Carl had an unhealthy obsession with spying on Kyle and Wendy when they had sex, and his obsession with Wendy was already unhealthy enough. Midway into the week, Kyle spotted Carl and became enraged, as was wont to happen, and Carl tried running away. Kyle, only wearing his underwear, chased Carl outside and grabbed him, tackling him to the ground and punching him repeatedly in the face. Wendy had gotten dressed and followed them, and she simply watched with satisfaction. Seeing Wendy with her arms crossed and smile on her face became Carl’s breaking point, and he went into a sort of blind rage where he had no control of what he was doing, and didn’t even realize he was doing it. This caused him to summon strength he had never used before, and he pushed Kyle off of him, standing and grabbing a nearby shovel that was sitting in the yard. Terrified that Carl had a weapon and a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, Kyle and Wendy ran back into the house, but didn’t think to close the door behind them.

The two hid behind the couch, and once Carl entered with the shovel, Kyle jumped out and kicked it out of his hands. Wendy ran back outside to keep away from the danger, sitting against the side of the house and crying. Now that Carl had no weapon, Kyle thought he’d have the upper hand, but was proven wrong. The two fought violently, both getting covered in cuts and bruises, and Carl had landed a punch that broke Kyle’s nose. Kyle pushed Carl into the wall next to their mother’s open bedroom door, and Carl ran inside, grabbing the gun that Anne kept under her bed for protection. This made Kyle frightened again, holding up his hands and backing away, trying to apologize to his brother. As they slowly made their way back into the living room, Carl was breathing heavily, but the gun he pointed at Kyle was held in very steady hands. Kyle attempted to dash out the open door, but was shot in the head, collapsing to the floor.

Hearing the gunshot, Wendy screamed and made to run away from the house, but Carl had come out and smacked her in the temple with the gun handle. She fell to the ground, still conscious, and started screaming when Carl dragged her back into the house, where he shot her in the head multiple times. Both her and Kyle were dead, blood covering the floor, and some splattered on the nearest wall.

Alone next door, Mary was doing her homework when she heard the yelling coming from Carl’s house, then became horrified when the first shot was fired. It was followed by a series of female screams, and the next few shots caused her to run downstairs and out her front door. She sprinted over to Carl’s, seeing the door was open, and she ran in to see what had happened. This had not been a good choice. Mary screamed upon seeing the two dead bodies on the floor, and an unrecognizable Carl with a gun in his hand. At this point, Carl had come out of his blind rage, but he didn’t regret what he had done. Realizing she had stumbled upon a dangerous situation, Mary immediately made to turn around to run through the door again, but Carl grabbed her from behind, wrapping an arm around her throat, and choking her. She struggled, but became limp as she lost consciousness.

When Mary woke up, she was lying on the floor of Carl’s room, which she had never been in before because he had never even invited her over to his house. She soon realized that her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were tied together very tightly, so she could only squirm with fright. Her eyes scanned the room, and she saw hers and Wendy’s names written on the wall in multiple places, as well as obsessive expressions of love, drawings of the girls, and drawings of Carl killing other guys. Mary also spotted the telescope pointed at the window, which she knew was right next to her own bedroom window. The next thing she noticed was Carl scratching out Wendy’s name with a knife, though he hadn’t gotten to all of them.

Scared, Mary demanded Carl to tell her what was going on. He knelt next to her, telling her how pretty she was, and that he loved her so much. He took the knife and cut into his palm, which didn’t seem to hurt him, and used his index finger to touch the blood, applying it to Mary’s lips as if it were lipstick. This, naturally, did not calm her down, but scared her even more. Then Carl took the digital camera and started taking pictures of her, showing her each one after he took it. He also leaned his head close to hers, taking a picture of himself with her. Mary told him he was sick, and that she regretted ever being his friend, but this angered Carl. He slashed her upper arm with the knife as he shouted about how she was just like everyone else, that he couldn’t trust anyone because everyone he ever cared about only ended up hurting him. After being maimed, Mary tried a different approach, apologizing to him and saying that she did care for him, and that she could help him.

Carl used the digital camera to take a video, propped it on his bed, made perfectly sure that it was pointed at Mary, and began stabbing her repeatedly in the chest. When Mary was dead, he untied her, grabbed the camera, and filmed her lifeless body up close for about a minute. Then he turned it off. He didn’t take care of any of the three bodies in the house, but instead sat on his bed and wrote in his journal, explaining about what he had done in a fit of anger, and then what he had done when he had come back to himself.

A lot of this part of the story was told through showing the scenes of what actually happened, which, as I mentioned before, would’ve been impossible. However, I soon found the role I played in the documentary. I was chosen by the director to interview Carl’s parents, Will having been released from prison just a year before filming. They lived in the same house, and Will and Anne had “found God,” so they no longer indulged in unhealthy and criminal vices. Will said Jesus had come to him in a dream, saying he’d be forgiven if he vowed to never harm another human being, so he believed he was saved. I asked them questions about how Carl was as a child, and about everything that happened in their household, so a good chunk of the story was told by them. The rest of the information had been gathered from reading Carl’s journal, observing his bedroom wall, and recovering photos and video footage from the camera.

To my conscious self, there was still the mystery of why I was interviewing them in the first place. I watched myself interacting with the cat, who was now very old, as well as being led around the house by Anne while she told me where everything happened. Will was raking leaves outside when I asked him questions, but I didn’t want to spend too much time with him because of his disgusting past with his children. The director did his fair share of interviewing as well, so I was not alone.

We went to the police department to ask the officers involved with the case some questions, and they told us everything they could legally disclose. We also interviewed the families of the victims… and this was when I found out more than three people had been killed. It was one of those “but Kyle, Wendy, and Mary were not the only ones to lose their lives to Carl” moments to increase suspense. Two more girls had been murdered in Carl’s bedroom, but his would-be sixth victim had escaped her fate.

I watched myself being led up to Carl’s old room by Anne, and she opened the door, turning on the light. The blood had been cleaned up, the digital camera and journal had been taken in by police, but everything on the walls was left the way it had been. The police had taken pictures of the walls as evidence, and Anne and Will decided not to clean them up as a reminder of how they broke their adopted son. It was a form of self punishment. I examined the walls, seeing the names “Wendy” and “Mary” crossed out by a knife’s blade. There were three other names written on the wall as well, but I can only remember the name of one of the two other girls that were killed: Morgan. We’ll call the other girl Sandra. Both “Morgan” and “Sandra” were crossed out, but the third name was not, and that was because Carl only crossed the names out after he killed them.

There were poems, drawings, and words of longing expressed toward the three girls he captured after Mary. He had fallen in “love” with them the moment he saw them, stalked them, kidnapped them, and brought them to his house all within the span of a few days. First to get caught after Mary was Sandra, and as she lay unconscious and tied up on the floor, Carl wrote about her on his wall. This is what she would wake up to, as well as the dead body of Mary laying right next to her. According to his journal, he had already met Morgan and the third girl by the time Sandra was taken, so his obsession over them were on the walls as well.

Using his mother’s makeup, he applied heavy eye shadow and lipstick to Sandra’s face, and then took pictures of her like he had with Mary. He explained to her that she was a beautiful girl, confessed his love to her, but said that her beauty had made her as corrupt as the rest of the horrible people on this planet. “Even though I love you, you have to die,” Carl said, “but we have to learn to let go of the things we care about.” She screamed as he set the camera up on his bed, pointing it at her and using the video function to record a video. He watched her struggle for a few minutes, and she pleaded with him to let her go, that she didn’t even know who he was, but the camera was unable to record her voice.

Carl ended Sandra’s life by beating her mercilessly with the shovel he had almost attacked Kyle with. Even after her body stopped moving, he hit her face constantly, and by the time he grabbed the camera to show the details of her body, her face was unrecognizable. After the video was stopped, Carl untied her, left her body where it was, used his knife to scratch out her name in the various places he had written it on the wall, and sat on his bed to write the event in his journal.

Next to come was Morgan, who actually was one of my friends at my middle school at the time. This is the reason I could remember her name. She woke up on Carl’s bed, but was able to see Mary’s and Sandra’s corpses on the floor, which was stained with huge amounts of blood. Carl was sitting next to her, stroking her brown hair, and she started crying and whimpering. He said, “even though you’re a few years younger than me, I still find you so beautiful.” Once again, he confessed his love for her, and she asked him if he had raped her. Carl was overcome with rage and yelled at her, saying he would never do such a thing, that he was insulted she’d even think that. “Don’t you understand? I love you, Morgan! I don’t ever want to hurt you!” he said. She asked why she was tied up, and Carl responded by saying that beautiful women need to die so that they don’t hurt him or anyone else ever again. He somehow didn’t count killing as “hurting” someone, but felt that pain was more of an emotional thing, and that’s what he meant by “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

While Morgan had been passed out, Carl had dressed her in one of his mother’s dresses, which was a little too big for her. After explaining that she needed to die, he did her makeup, but cut his hand again, running it over her hair and tinting it red. It was now damp and slightly sticky. Carl then told her he’d spare her life if she smiled for all of the pictures he took of her, so she did, even smiling for the ones that Carl included himself in. Of course, when he was done, he told Morgan that he lied, and set the camera up on the bedside table to video record her. She pleaded with him to spare her, but he held up the gun he used to kill Kyle and Wendy, then emptied the two remaining bullets into her head. As usual, Carl filmed her body, then left it on his bed as he crossed out her name, and added another entry to his journal.

The name of the third would-be victim sent me into confusion and distress. I watched my face fall while my eyes scanned the wall, seeing certain things that I recognized. Carl had drawn Divel and Sticky the Female Mad Man in some places, which were two of my very first characters that I invented in middle school. I found the name “Kara” written everywhere, included in the mess of obsession. “Kara” is my real name, and I definitely did not remember being kidnapped. While this was filmed, the director explained to me that he asked me to help him with the documentary because I had been the only person who survived Carl’s killing spree. I was so confused, I started crying, asking him how that was possible when I had never even met him.

Apparently I had met him. In fact, stalking me was the only reason he had discovered Morgan. The scene changed to back at the police station, where they handed over the journal for us to read. The officer turned to the first page that mentioned my name, and it told the story of how Carl and I met.

He was in high school, and I was in middle school, but Alpine was a small town that I often walked around in with my friends, or even alone. I didn’t feel unsafe there; nothing bad had happened… that I knew of. I had met Carl at the grocery store not too far from my apartment, but I’ve always been pretty afraid of people myself because I have my fair share of mental problems coupled with a traumatic past, though I later admitted to myself that Carl’s situation was much worse than mine. I encountered him while picking out some candy, and ran straight into him as I exited the aisle. Shyness being one of my flaws, I avoided eye contact as I apologized repeatedly, stumbling over my words like I always did in front of strangers. I had dropped my candy, and Carl picked it up for me, handing it back.

“Are you shy?” he asked in a surprisingly quiet voice that had a bit of a stutter. My fear of people made me want to get away from him and out of the store as quickly as possible, which was normal for me, but the question intrigued me too much to make an excuse to purchase my candy and go. I finally looked him in the eyes, and I could see there was something very dark behind them. He was so pale and sickly looking, and his expression was completely blank. I wasn’t sure if I was afraid of him, or even more curious. I told him I wasn’t very good around people, and he said he had the same problem. I tended to get along better with boys anyway, even since I was a young child, so meeting one with fear or social interaction made me feel a little more comfortable.

Carl followed me as I bought the candy, and then we sat outside to talk. I shared the candy with him, and he told me that he’s only had one person he’s felt comfortable enough to really talk with, and that was his friend Mary, who had moved away recently. Now he had no friends, was bullied constantly, and life at home was less than desirable. I told him I was bullied too, that many of my only friends had been special education kids when I was in sixth grade. Even though I had never been in a special education class in my entire life, I was called a “retard” because I hung out with them, but the reason I hung out with them was because they were the only ones who were nice to me. When I entered seventh grade, I changed the way I dressed to fit in, and stopped hanging around my old friends to try and stop the bullying, which was a very unkind thing for me to do, and to this day, I’m not proud of my decisions. Bullying didn’t stop, but I was able to make new friends, one of them having been Morgan at the time.

We actually connected a lot even though he was older, and he offered to walk me home, saying it wasn’t safe to go anywhere alone. I humored him because I was enjoying his company, so we went back to my apartment complex, and I said goodbye to him. He asked me for my phone number before I headed up the stairs so that he could talk to me if things got bad for him, so I wrote it down and gave it to him. He watched me as I entered my apartment, which was on the second story.

Reading this entry caused heavily repressed memories to return, and it terrified me. The director asked me if I was remembering something, so I filled in the blanks, the things that Carl had not been able to write about in his journal.

Carl didn’t call me for a few days, but when he finally did, he sounded like he had been crying. He said something really bad happened, and that he wanted to talk to me, but in person. I told him to come over, and we could walk around while he told me what was wrong. I met him outside, then we left the complex, and he asked me to come to his house so that he was in a place where he felt more comfortable. I was nervous, but agreed, so we walked to his house.

As I read the journal entries about me, I learned that, during those days I hadn’t heard from Carl, he had been stalking me. He followed me to school, watched me from afar while I was at break or lunch, saw me talking to Morgan in PE, and followed me home. He sat outside my apartment, staring up at my window, which I usually shut the curtains to. I kept the actual window open to let cool air in because I hate getting too hot, so he could hear what I was doing. I usually listened to music while drawing or doing crafts, but I also had an old hobby where I used my dolls to record plays and stories on an old tape recorder. I had actually done this since I was little, which eventually evolved into my interest in video making and narrations.

Morgan was mentioned a lot after seeing her with me at school, and he had stalked her as well. Then the journal mentioned that he had killed Morgan, and now I was next to be taken for the sake of cleansing humanity, though Carl admitted in the entry that I was less of a cancer to the world than most people he’s met. Still, to him, I was pretty, and pretty girls will do nothing but hurt others, just like all men will. There were even doodles of Divel and STFMM in the journal, and it never told me how he even knew about those characters.

Upon entering Carl’s house, I immediately saw the bodies of a teenage boy and girl lying on a large brown stain near a wall. When I was younger, I was much less desensitized to gore, and was definitely afraid of death, so this was a terrifying sight for me. Before I could let out any sort of scream, Carl had grabbed me and put his arm around my throat, choking me until I passed out just as he had with Mary.

I woke up, wrists and ankles tied together, inside Carl’s bedroom in front of the door, which was closed, but I had a full view of the three dead girls in the room. I recognized the one on the bed as Morgan, and I started crying. Carl had been sitting on the bed, watching me as he flipped a knife over and over in his hands. He smiled as he stood, and then knelt next to me, a digital camera in his hands. “Don’t be scared,” he said, “you’re much more beautiful when you smile. See, Morgan was smiling…” Carl then showed me the pictures of Morgan, and she had indeed been smiling, despite being tied up and wearing way too much makeup. Then he showed me the video of him killing her, and told me that pretty girls have to die so that they don’t hurt people, and even though I was a lot like him, I was no exception.

I have been convinced throughout my life that I am not at all pretty, and that stems from the fact that I look exactly like Erin. I told Carl that I wasn’t really that pretty, but he insisted that I was beautiful and that he loved me. “But even you have hurt me,” he said with spite, and he showed me a comic drawn on lined paper of him killing a boy that looked familiar to me, and then showed a girl that looked like me smiling about it. “You’re dating this boy,” he stated. It was true that I had recently started going out with a boy named Lance. “I almost thought you were the exception, but I was wrong.”

I was scared an confused, wondering how he expected me to feel the same way about him if we only just met, and spent barely an hour together. Carl said this is why pretty girls need to be eliminated, because they can’t help but hurt people, even when they’re not trying. He compared them to all men, but said men are different because they know they’re hurting people, and they enjoy it. I asked him why he thought he was different than other men, and he said, “because I’ve discovered the truth.”

Just like he had with the other girls in the room, Carl applied heavy makeup to my face, but I was still wearing the clothes I had left my house in, which I later assumed were pretty enough for him. He took pictures of me, showing me each one in turn, but I was disgusted by the terrible makeover, especially since I had become obsessed with trying to look beautiful to fit in at school. Then Carl set up the camera on his bed, recording a video of me, and standing over me with the knife. I was scared out of my mind and screamed as loud as I could. I was always told my scream could break glass, which was not true obviously, but it was still a pretty effective distraction.

However, Carl was distracted by a second scream from downstairs, and he seemed to panic, backing away from me as running footsteps came up the stairs. I watched as a woman, who I later found out was Anne, his mother, burst through the door. She saw the bodies, and then looked at me. Anne bravely wrestled the knife out of her son’s hands, and it fell next to me. My hands were tied behind my back, but I was able to sit up, grab it, and with difficulty, cut the rope around my wrists. Anne had Carl pinned to the floor as I cut the rope binding my ankles, and she screamed at me to run, so I did. Not wanting to stay in the house, I ran to the closest public store and told them to call the police, that people had been murdered.

The memories were even more vivid when the officer showed me the photos Carl had taken of me, as well as the video. I felt a little sick as I watched myself about to be murdered, and then escape, but the camera hadn’t been shut off as Anne fought with Carl. He managed to throw her off of him and grab the knife, and Anne backed out of the frame. He went after her, and everything was still for a couple of minutes. Then Carl fell to the floor in front of the camera, the knife falling out of his hands, the open wound on his throat bleeding profusely.

The officer turned the camera off, explaining to us that it continued to record Carl’s dead body for a good five minutes before the SD card finally ran out of space. It was concluded that he had killed himself. What I didn’t understand was, why didn’t I remember any of this?

They told me that, after the incident, I was put into therapy, but it wasn’t doing any good. I was losing sleep, and when I did sleep, I was plagued with nightmares, reliving the event. After a few weeks, I told the therapist that I just wanted to forget, so she decided to tell me about an experimental treatment that involved hypnotism. I didn’t believe in that stuff, but I was willing to try it. After being hypnotized, the therapist was able to wipe my memories of the experience, and even meeting Carl in the first place.

It wasn’t explained in the dream how I didn’t hear about my escape from people who read the newspaper or watched the news on TV, but I had heard about the other murders, and that someone got away alive. In reality, forgetting the event would be impossible, and there’s no way they wouldn’t have reported about the one survivor. I’m guessing that it’s possible (in the dream) that they kept my identity a secret, saying there was an anonymous survivor, so I’m going to assume that’s what happened.

The documentary switched back to me speaking with Anne, and she told me that, after I escaped, Carl had thrown her off. She backed away as he pointed the knife at her, but told him that she was sorry she couldn’t have saved him from the torture he endured, that no one deserved what happened to him. She was sure that Carl’s real parents were up in Heaven, looking down at their poor baby living in Hell, and that there was no way Anne was ever going to be up there with them after death, but she hopes they know how sorry she was. After hearing all of this, Carl had started crying, and then slit his own throat, killing himself.

The film ended with a scene of me before I had discovered the truth of my involvement, petting the old cat and smiling. The director’s voice over said, “some speculate that Carl did not kill himself, but that Anne had grabbed his hand holding the knife and forced him to cut his own throat. There’s no proof of this, but it’s this point that makes the story very mysterious. Did Carl actually commit suicide, or did Anne Dawson kill her adopted son? We may never know, and Anne certainly denies the allegation. Nearly a decade after the tragedy, Kara has remembered what she experienced, and it may take some time for her to really come to terms with it. The families of the victims give words of encouragement, hoping that she values the life that was almost taken from her. Carl Dawson’s story remains a dark stain on history, one that is impossible to forget, no matter how hard you try.”

After watching all three parts of the documentary, I sat away from my computer and sighed, wiping the tears that had come from my eyes. My dream self had known exactly what the film contained even before I watched it, having remembered everything during filming, but it was a massive shock to my conscious self. Other than the tears, my dream self didn’t seem to express how I felt about the situation, but left a comment under the third part. It said, “this turned out very good, I’m glad to have been a part of it.”

Then the dream changed to my male rat Sammy actually being a girl, and the reason she was so fat was because she was pregnant. Within twelve hours, she gave birth, the babies grew fur, opened their eyes, and were running around my apartment. I had to round them up and put them in a cage. It was as if the previous dream, so complex and detailed, never happened.

It’s not often that I remember a dream so clearly, and I’m surprised I was able to recall almost everything. This entire post is almost eight thousand words long, and I doubt anyone has read this whole thing. It doesn’t matter to me, I just needed to document it, but I wanted to share it just in case people are interested in reading the whole thing. I feel a little better after getting this out, but my throat feels tight when I remember what poor Carl had to go through, and even what Kyle went through until he started doing the same thing.

I’m not sure what this dream means. Maybe it’s telling me I will lose my life by being murdered someday, maybe it’s telling me I will escape from a murderer. Maybe it’s simply telling me to value my life while I can. Or maybe it was showing me some sick, subconscious fantasy combining my fear of people with my fear of experiencing a painful death. It’s no secret that, even though I don’t fear my life ending, I am afraid of being tortured or dying painfully. That’s why I am able to write “Muffins,” because I write about what I’m afraid of. It’s therapy in a sense.

Whatever it means, I’m glad it’s over.

Deep Web Urban Legend: Human Experiments

The “Deep Web” is more of a term to describe websites that can’t be accessed through your typical browser. The corner of the Deep Web that holds the crazy shit is known as the Darknet, but for the sake of people not knowing the difference, I will refer to it as the Deep Web.

I actually learned about the “Human Experiments” website that supposedly exists on the Deep Web the same time I learned about Sad Satan. (You can find that blog entry here:https://reitannaseishin.wordpress.com/2015/08/09/sad-satan/) I’ve actually been hearing a lot of stories concerning the Deep Web that just seem so… farfetched. Don’t get me wrong, the Deep Web is a dangerous place to be, and you need to be careful, but it’s actually not quite as bad as people say. When I heard about Human Experiments, I thought to myself, “well, wait… that seems pretty unrealistic.” Once again, I decided to dig deeper.

For the first time in ages, I started up Tor and looked around. There were some changes! For one, both Torbook and Galaxy had been shut down, so now the two main social networking sites are Blackbook and Galaxy2. I also found something that very much surprised me! A small, simple website dedicated to freeing Tor of CP! Granted, I know the creators have good intentions, but in reality, their movement is not going to keep Cheese Pizza off of the Deep Web. All the same, I’m in full support of it, and more power to them for trying!

ftncp_bb

Before I get into my journey, I have to clear something up. Human trafficking is a real thing, and it does occur on the Deep Web. There is plenty of evidence of sales of human body parts on the Black Market, websites dedicated to cannibalism, and plenty of other sites involving murder and torture. Red Rooms exist, no doubt about that, though I think you need to pay to enter one, and as far as I know, it’s illegal to view their content. And you know what? Snuff films exist, my friends, so there is no end to the atrocities the Deep Web has to offer. However, I am going to explain to you why it is not only possible, but probable that the Human Experiments website was not what the stories claim it to be.

The Hidden Wiki is pretty good at listing active websites and telling you exactly what you’ll find on them. It also shows which sites were taken down, but sometimes it’s not as consistent as we’d like it to be. Going through the entire list of sites, there is not a single link to Human Experiments, and it’s not even listed as one of the sites that were taken down. I actually searched quite a few link directories before I finally found it. The wiki took me to a site called TorLinks, and under the “media” section, there is a link to “The Human Experiment.” When clicked on, it simply says there was an error connecting to the site, which is typical for sites that are taken down.

Here’s my question: Why would a site dedicated to torturing and killing people of all ages and genders be so easily accessible? Sure, it took some time to track down, but it’s still on one of the main link sites listed on the Hidden Wiki. It’s not actually that hard to find! Also, usually when sites are taken down, they pop back up again rather quickly, so where is the new Human Experiments site? And last thing, if Red Rooms are so hard to find and require payment to enter, why was Human Experiments so casual?

First, note that, just like on the Surface Web (AKA the Clearnet), there are honest sites. I found a site dedicated to helping people deal with depression and getting help to fight suicide. I even found an anonymous “confessions” site where you “confess your sins” without even having to make a screen name. However, just like on the Surface, there are also troll sites. I came across a site called “Gorey Site.” Thinking that maybe “Gorey” was accidentally spelled wrong, I clicked it, and was brought to this page:

gorey1

Well cool, okay… BestGore has a warning on the front page too, and a nice cute picture of a puppy to click if you want to leave. So I clicked “ENTER SITE” and was brought to this page:

gorey2

Yup, that’s it. There are no other pages aside from this one. This is Gorey, my friends, and apparently it’s in Ireland! I distinctly remember saying out loud, “oh, that’s messed up” because I seriously thought it was going to be a real gore site. Nope, I got trolled. To be fair, the town looks very pretty.

Next, let’s discuss what we know about Human Experiments. The only thing we have that “proves” its existence is a few screen shots. I think there are four in total, but I could only find three. I will post them here, but note that the text may contain disturbing subject matter to some. There are no actual pictures of people being tortured, so don’t worry about that. Here they are:

print 3 print 2 humanexperiment3

I’m pretty sure the page I’m missing is the “about us” page (as far as I know, warehouse two and four do not exist), but here’s what it says…

“In this website, we attempt to illustrate several experiments that are being conducted by our group on human subjects. The people chosen for this range of experiments are usually homeless people that are unregistered citizens. Experimentations range from:

· starvation and water/fluid restriction

· vivisection/pain tolerances

· infectious diseases and organ effects

· transfusions

· drug trials

· sterilization

· Neonate and infant tolerances to x-rays, heat, and pressure.

Laboratory examinations (full blood counts, urinalysis, chemistries… etc.) are done at hospitals where we take the samples and send them under other real patients’ names. The results are carefully dispersed so as not to arouse suspicion. The bodies of the dead are dissected and then disposed of in dumpsters of meat shops where their bodies will not be found. No IRB approval was sought for this secret range of experimentations. The high command oversees all operations and designates potential targets. The names of the test subjects will be kept confidential. Only their serial numbers will be displayed.”

It is also stated that their team consists of three nurses, six medical students, two medical interns, and three medical residents. Not only that, but they refer to themselves as “the high command.” Hmm… sounds like something you’d hear in a Shitpasta written by an angsty thirteen year old. Laboratory examinations are done at real hospitals under real patients’ names? No. No they are not. There is absolutely no way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. To make it even more convincing, there are four warehouses where the victims are kept, and they are completely unguarded! Talk about professional!

As a horror writer, the main reason I search for gore and violence is for research. I need to know how to torture and kill my characters’ victims as realistically as possible, even if it’s fiction. The other parts of my research are to study the psychology of different types of killers, find out how they eluded capture for as long as they did, and also find out how they finally got caught. I need to study cases from both the view of the killer and the legal system, otherwise your fictional character seems about as realistic as Jeff the Killer.

Let me tell you this; disposing human bodies in restaurant meat dumpsters will not go unnoticed, and in fact, is probably one of the most reckless things a killer can do if they don’t want to get caught. Do you really think human remains are just going to be ignored, dissected or not? Especially if you’re disposing of as many humans as you claim to be? Not only that, but you have at least twenty people in each warehouse. That’s eighty people right there, but the site claims to hold more if they need to. They claim that these experiments are done if the team has “spare time.” If?

So let me get this straight. You have medical professionals and medical students experimenting on at least eighty people stretched across four different warehouses. Hang on, stay with me here. I know that people in the medical field are quite busy building their careers, so I understand that school and work might leave one with little to no “spare time.” So… these eighty-some people are locked up in four abandoned warehouses located god knows where, and they are completely unguarded? No. Just no. Will someone get all of these little teenagers off of the Deep Web please? Parents, do your job!

Because of my thirst for knowledge, I am rather good at doing research. According to the screenshots, I have found some very interesting things! One, the only pages you could go to were “home,” “experiments,” and “about us.” The “experiments” page brought you to the same place clicking on the warehouses would, and that’s just a simple description of the experiments taking place. When I say “simple,” I mean written by someone who has very little knowledge of the subject matter they are writing about. There are no pictures or videos on the site. In fact, further research led me to discover that the entire site was created using a web designer template! Human Experiments was nothing more than text thrown on to a few blank layouts!

But don’t assume I only did research on the Clearnet, oh no, I dug as deep as I could legally go, and there is absolutely no record of anyone visiting this site and finding actual footage of torture and murder. All of those stories you read on reddit or the Creepypasta wiki are just that; stories. None of them are true. Besides, looking at the screenshots of the site, it’s obvious that medical professionals, highly educated and intelligent people, did not write any of it. I’m sure even a nurse would know better than to put a comma in the sentence, “we go, where few dare.” Not to mention other grammatical mistakes, as well as using the British nontechnical spelling of “foetus” instead of “fetus.” The word “foetus” is rarely ever used, and I have a feeling the one writer of the site’s content only used it to look professional, when in reality, it just made him/her look like a jackass.

So, did the Human Experiments site exist? Yes, but it was nothing more than a couple of pages spewing fictional nonsense to scare people. It was just a troll site, an attempt to create an origin for Creepypastas. And you know what? It worked! People seriously think this site was what the stories say, but it wasn’t! So why did it get taken down? Well, it’s no secret that the FBI is trying to regulate the Deep Web (though they are failing), so the stories surfacing on the Clearnet would attract attention to the site. It was so easily accessible, it wouldn’t take long for feds to track it down, do an investigation, and shut down the site. But would some badly written descriptions of experiments done on human beings really warrant for a full fledged investigation? Most likely not. The police deal with internet hoaxes all the time. Chances are, this site was shut down simply to put the stories to rest, but I don’t think the FBI realizes how stupid most of the people on the internet are. The smart ones would know better than to dump their victims’ bodies in a dumpster.

Human Experiments could’ve been way more convincing. You can find tons of pictures on an image search on like Google or Bing and find plenty of pictures of human experimentation. Dig deep enough, and I’m sure you’ll find some videos too! There’s plenty of footage of mental hospital lobotomies performed in early days, so I’m sure there are other experiments too. Or if anything, you could’ve faked the experiments yourself. What really gave it away was the bad writing, the completely unrealistic explanations of how the team worked, and lack of site navigation. I’m sure there’s a Red Room somewhere doing exactly what this site claimed they were doing, but I guarantee it’s harder to get to than just a few clicks.

This story is a hoax. You know, at least Sad Satan tried. The original “gameplay” may have been a hoax, but the person who made the clone laced it with a virus, so they did some actual harm. Human Experiments didn’t even try, they may as well have just created the site on the Surface and claim it was real. Then again, if it’s on the Deep Web, it’s super duper scary, right?

Alright, so I’m going to go take my camera, some liquid latex, fake blood, and some random knives, lead my best friend into the forest, and create a fake snuff film to post on the Deep Web to get some scares. No, screw the knives! I’m just so edgy, I won’t need them to cut her open!

In all seriousness, I’d love to make a fake snuff film, but I’d need a lot more than liquid latex and fake blood. So… yeah, sarcasm.

Did this post disturb you? Here’s a puppy:

Sad Satan

First, before I get started, note that I will NOT be providing a link to the “real” game in this post. I will explain why “real” is in quotations and why I won’t give the link, so if you are curious about reading about the game, carry on. If you’re looking for a download, it’s not here.

So, while perusing YouTube, I came across a “Top 15 Most Disturbing Sites on the Deep Web” video. Now, I’ve been to the Deep Web, and actually explored as much as I could while avoiding drug and porn sites. As a horror/gore enthusiast, I was looking for something very specific, and after a few months, I stopped going on because I never found it. And they say you can find anything on the Deep Web…

Torbook is the Deep Web version of Facebook, and even though I don’t like Facebook, I enjoyed taking a different persona using this site. Thankfully, CP was specifically banned from this site. (CP is “Child Pornography,” or known to some as “Cheese Pizza.”) I didn’t have much to worry about when it came to images on that specific site. I also will not reveal who I was there because… well, that’d be foolish. I expect my “friends” there probably wonder where I disappeared to, but I lost interest in the Deep Web because I could not find what I was looking for. AND NO, you will not be arrested by BROWSING the Deep Web, that is just something people say. There are things you can do there to get you arrested, like drug dealing, distributing and buying CP, hacking, hiring hitmen, et cetera, but as a pretty avid law abider, I of course was not interested in anything illegal. Believe it or not, you can safely browse the Deep Web! You just gotta know your way around, and the Hidden Wiki helps with all of that. I was surprised at how honest and kind the people were compared to the Surface Web… you’d think an entire community of sleaze bags would be way worse than the usual people you get on this 4% of the internet…

ANYWAY, when I heard about this “game” that supposedly came from the Deep Web, a place I haven’t gone to for months, I was curious, so I looked up videos on YouTube. The video set I came to was uploaded by Obscure Horror Corner, and honestly, it wasn’t really like what the stories said. If you are unfamiliar with the story, the game is supposed to have many disturbing images, but all this footage had was gameplay that was halfway between LSD: Dream Emulator and SCP-087-B, a couple of random images that were not disturbing in any way, and strange audio. There wasn’t even any threat to your character. Confused, I did some digging.

Apparently, from what I’ve gathered, OHC created that “game” himself, claiming that someone sent it to him from the Deep Web. However, the .onion link was not a real link. But then someone on 4Chan provides a link to the “real” game, claiming to be the person who sent the game to OHC in the first place. Of course, people downloaded it like crazy. However, it was only similar to OHC’s videos, but had distinct differences.

The gameplay and audio is pretty much the same, and there are a couple of images that appear that are from OHC’s videos. Then there are the images that gave the game its creepy backstory. There are a bunch of gore pictures and one, count ’em, one CP image. But the biggest thing that is in the game……….. is a very vicious botnet virus. This virus is pretty sneaky; it can get passed both VMs and virus scanners, and does really heavy damage to your computer, to the point where you’d have to do a system reboot, and that’s not fun! Hope you didn’t have any important files!

There are eleven images; one “game over” screen, a screen that says “you won,” four gore pictures, one CP picture, and four seemingly pointless pictures that were found in OHC’s “original.” So this malicious version of the game is known as the “clone” of Sad Satan, and OHC later said that he purposefully provided a fake link because he did not want to distribute the game with the CP and gore in it. Many have speculated that this is all bunk.

Now, I am absolutely desensitized to anything that doesn’t involve animal abuse or rape/molestation. I actually get pretty irked if there’s even a consensual sex scene in the movies I watch, but that’s just because I personally don’t want to see other people having sex. Anything that’s bloody or disgusting, I can handle no problem. So I tracked down an uncensored video of someone playing the game (obviously not on YouTube because it violates the Terms of Service), and I was able to see most of the “horrific” images. I am glad to say that the uploader had the decency to blur the one CP picture, as I was quite afraid of seeing that one, but I wanted to find out if these gore pictures were really as bad as people said they were.

Well, for me, no, they were not. Most of them are just decapitations and/or severed limbs, and the one of someone’s head being crushed by a truck tire was too pixelated to even get a proper idea of what you were seeing. I’ve spent quite a lot of time on gore sites like BestGore, and these pictures were nothing. Then again, I’ve never seen anything on BestGore that disturbed me, but then again again, I avoid all sections of that site that involve animals or sex. Murders, suicides, accidents, all that stuff, no problems.

It’s fully possible that these images in the clone game are of real deaths, which is tragic. I’m not saying that it’s no big deal that people died, I’m saying that it just doesn’t disturb me like it does other people. I watched “3 Guys 1 Hammer,” and the only thing on my mind was, “that poor guy didn’t deserve to die.” Unlike many people’s reactions, I did not cry, I did not cringe, I did not vomit, the actual violence did not affect me, but even though I felt sorry for the victim, the death did not surprise me. I’m not afraid of death, and I’m not shocked when I read a story about people getting killed. There are filthy people out there committing these crimes, and I’m just so used to the fact that people are evil. This lack of sensitivity isn’t a bad thing, but it’s not exactly a good thing either.

There is a “clean” version of Sad Satan out there. A user on reddit took the clone and replaced the disturbing images with appropriate ones, and when you do that, the game itself is nothing special. It’s actually extremely boring. Then again, I found the clone boring anyway once I saw what all the fuss was about. If you want to go into depth about this game, here is a link to the reddit page: Sad Satan Reddit

Note that you will NOT find a download link to the original clone there either. You don’t want to! I myself didn’t even look for it because I wasn’t interested in attempting it. I have a very nice gaming computer with a lot of art and projects on it, and I am NOT risking some virus killing it. Plus, my boyfriend (who builds computers and built mine) would not be happy with me. Seriously, it doesn’t matter if you’re desensitized like me, do not go looking for the download, it’s not worth it.

A couple of things need to be said here. Many people are not familiar with laws concerning these types of things, especially in the US. You will not go to jail for viewing gore, real or fake. Now, if you have a connection to the killer of the victims in the photos, or if you are the killer, you might run into a wee little problem… sarcasm on the “wee” part. Also, technically you would not go to jail for simply stumbling across a few CP images. Let’s face it, even on Google, if you have safe search turned off, you might run into something that makes you go, “oh shit, did not need to see that!” Chances are, that image will soon be reported and taken down anyway. On the Deep Web, you are able to view CP, but I assume you have to pay for it on bigger sites. This is what can get you jail time. You get in trouble for “producing, distributing, disseminating, importing, exporting, offering, selling or possessing” CP according to the law. In the United States, this does not apply to art depicting fictional underage characters, but some countries do prohibit that as well. So sure, if you go looking for it (which I don’t know why you would), you’ll get in trouble. But no one can penalize you for accidentally seeing a picture of CP. However, if you do stumble across one, you might want to contact authorities immediately. Thanks to SomeOrdinaryGamers, authorities in the US and Canada are aware of Sad Satan’s existence, but in reality, that won’t keep it off the internet.

Just as a side note on Cheese Pizza, I cannot understand how anyone could be sexually attracted to a child. You know, skirts are getting shorter, and little ten year old girls are showing their legs, but this doesn’t turn me on like a woman in her twenties wearing a short skirt would. Why? Because kids just… don’t have it! They don’t have sexy parts! Little girls don’t have breasts, hips, a developed figure, and little boys are sort of… awkward to say the least. Guys just aren’t sexy until they GET THERE, you know what I mean? Why would you want a little boy instead of a MAN? Yes, I’ve seen children that are cute, children that are beautiful, and children that make me think, “that kid is gonna be pretty good looking when they’re older, if they’re lucky.” Appreciating another human’s beauty is not a problem, but there’s a difference between “beautiful” and “sexy.” Sorry, but children cannot be sexy, and pedophiles are absolutely disgusting in every way. *Sigh* I felt like I had to get that off my chest.

Another thing is, there is a huge misconception concerning horror junkies like me. Many people believe that horror/gore lovers are psychotic, sick, violent, and murderers-in-the-making. This is not true. Yes, I’m technically insane and need medication, but I’ve always kept my “murdering” and violence to fiction. Actually, by definition, I’m most likely a borderline Sociopath, or maybe a full blown Sociopath, I don’t know, I’m not a psychiatrist. But a majority of horror junkies are far from dangerous. To quote the song “Vicarious” by Tool, “I need to watch things die from a good safe distance. Vicariously I live while the whole world dies. You all feel the same so why can’t we just admit it?” MJK makes a very good point throughout this entire song. We love scary things, we love to see blood and guts, we often do not fear the concept of death, and even the real stuff doesn’t phase us, but when it comes down to it, we’re still just watching from a distance, out of harm’s way. When it’s fictional, we explore it, we smile about it, we thrive on it, and it gets us excited (not sexually in most cases… I hope…) And when it’s real, it doesn’t shock us, but it sure as hell doesn’t make us say, “oh thats a gewd idea! I’ma go kill me a fella!” Sure, you’re going to get someone that’s just unstable enough to do that sort of thing, but please don’t lump us innocent ones in with the people who actually take lives. We’re definitely not the same.

So, no, it does not make someone “sick” if they enjoy gore, or if the sight of a dead body doesn’t affect them. The ones who are sick are the ones actually giving us the gore, and that’s what makes being desensitized a bad thing. (I also am weirded out by people who get sexually aroused by it.) The good side of it is, seeing that stuff won’t damage our psyche. Some people who see horror and gore have nightmares, or are constantly bothered by it for days, weeks, maybe even months. Some people who witness murders go to therapy afterward because the image haunts them. But if you still think desensitized people are sick, think about people who deal with death and real gore as a profession. They have to be mentally prepared to work in the many fields that deal with that sort of thing. In reality, people who are desensitized and healthy are helping society because they are able to pursue those types of careers. If I wasn’t Manic Depressive, I’d be able to work in one of those fields no problem… well, and if I were good at math. XD

As for Sad Satan, what is it really? Well, it seems it was first something OHC created to boost his channel popularity, and then it was taken by some sicko for no reason but to cause harm in as many people as possible by using different methods at once. Hell, for all we know, OHC and the creator of the clone could be the same person! But the fact of the matter is, the clone targets people in a variety of ways. Even if you’re not sensitive to gore, and even if you can chase the image of that one CP picture out of your head, you’re still left with a FUCKING VIRUS. The clone was not made as a form of art or a tribute to the original “gameplay,” it was an all out attack. It’s actually not fair, they could’ve made a pretty cool indie game if they toned down the images and left out the virus. But I guess some people get off on negative popularity…

I’m still glad the CP picture was blurred in that uncensored video. Shit like that really does disgust me.

Sad Satan ORIGINAL video by Obscure Horror Corner:

SomeOrdinaryGamers Plays the clone:

“Clean” version:

I won’t post the uncensored video, if you’re really that curious, you can find it yourself.

Sweet, Sweet Salvation from Myself

This is sort of a different blog post than the stuff I have posted more recently. I honestly don’t write enough on WordPress just because I never really think about it. I mean, I don’t have nearly as many followers on here as I do on Deviant Art and YouTube, but my right mind suddenly says to me, “wait a minute, that’s not why you write here. Your mindset of ‘nobody is reading this’ just sounds like another blogger trying to gain popularity for no reason.” My right mind is… RIGHT… as usual, and my unstable mind is always wrong.

Youtube and DA are different because they are ways to express doing what I love, and the mild popularity I have obtained over time was accidental. Now making videos on YouTube is my job, I get paid every month for it, it pays my bills, buys me food, buys food and bedding for my beloved rats. Sure, I don’t make enough to buy things for enjoyment, or help my boyfriend and I buy a house instead of living in this shitty apartment that’s too expensive for what it is, but it’s only a matter of time before I get there. We need to make money in this world to live, and it SUCKS because everything is so damn expensive!

The point is, I write these blogs because I just need to get it out. Even if only a couple of people read it, it doesn’t matter, because the point of most of these senseless banters is a form of therapy. I have a bad habit of bottling things up because it’s become a fad to accuse people of “wanting attention” for expressing the way they feel, and the reason for this is because there are some little shits out there who think it’s okay to pretend to be feeling something they’re not just to get people to pay attention to them. What people don’t understand is that there is a difference between “crying out for attention” and “needing to vent.” For anyone that has a problem expressing their feelings and bottling it all up, you know it builds and builds until you eventually burst into a fit of anger or a traumatizing panic attack. It’s unhealthy, especially for people who already suffer from psychological disorders. I honestly feel that sometimes people accuse others of wanting attention because they want attention. When it comes down to it, they are not my problem. I am my problem. I always have been.

If you keep up with my activity, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental disorder known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. I was diagnosed when I was a preteen, but I displayed signs of it much earlier according to family members who actually gave a crap but could do nothing about it because the woman who birthed me was an insane whore that didn’t give a shit about her children. I could’ve gotten help a lot sooner if she had just stopped fucking strange men who beat her and paid attention to her daughter. I was put on medication that made things worse, so I was afraid to take medication until I was twenty. Unfortunately, Manic Depression gets worse as you get older, so when things got really bad into my adulthood, I decided it was time to help myself.

It was a very good decision. I told the psychiatrist about my bad experiences with medication, and he put me on some meds that made me feel normal. It was the best I had felt in my entire life. Finally, I didn’t want to die, finally, I’d stop hurting myself, and finally, I stopped sobbing for hours for no apparent reason. Of course, this meant that I’d have to be on medication for the rest of my life, and doses would have to be adjusted accordingly.

A few years later, my most recent doctor decided to put me on Paxil, which is an SSRI. The two medications I had had bad experiences with were also SSRIs, so I’m sure you can tell where this is going. It seemed like the Paxil was doing a good job at keeping me stable, but the price I paid was uncontrollable shaking, twitching, and increased anxiety. It didn’t help that I accidentally took double the dose my first time because of a misunderstanding, and I was vomiting for a few days. However, the shaking and twitching never stopped. People noticed it; even on my videos it was noticeable. It worried my friends, my boyfriend, my coworkers at the time… and then I quit my job. The reason for this was because for the three years I had been working there, one of the assistant managers was harassing me to the point where the company actually required me to attend therapy, which did not help. Therapy has never helped me. So finally, I couldn’t take it. I quit my job and went home.

My boyfriend was supposed to be in Vegas with his family the day I quit. If he had gone, I’d be dead. The trip was cancelled at the last minute, so he was home to stop me from trying to kill myself. After that, I started to develop very aggressive Agoraphobia, which is fear of leaving the house. It doesn’t help that I am also a Sociophobe, and that escalated as well. I am currently in the recovery process, but I didn’t leave the house for two years, and I gained a lot of weight. Because of my Agoraphobia, I could not go to the doctor, so my medication ran out, and I suffered very extreme withdrawal symptoms from quitting Paxil cold turkey. I couldn’t leave my bed for a few months because I was dizzy, I was always throwing up, and yet I could not eat, so nothing but bile came out. Water and bread were all that I could stomach, and I slept sixteen hours a day, which made me feel even more lethargic.

Finally, the symptoms subsided, and eventually, I stopped shaking and twitching. I was off my medication for six months, so in that period, I was depressed most of the time with very few manic episodes, I got angry at the smallest things, I cried constantly for hours on end, and every single fucking day, I just wanted to kill myself. I also could not sleep because I have insomnia that requires medication as well. My fear of death disappeared, my pain tolerance increased (which made cutting myself so easy, it was like nothing more than a stubbed toe), and my extreme fear of needles that I’ve had all my life was GONE. That last one surprised me very much; I have always been terrified of needles, so much that a simple IV would send me into a panic attack. But no, all of that was gone. Why? Absolutely no idea.

Again, for those who follow me, you’ll know about Annatier. She is a character I created many years ago to help better understand and cope with my disorder. Note that hallucinations are NOT part of my disorder, so no, I do not see her, and no, I do not hear her. She is simply a metaphor, but she as a person does not exist. However, when unstable, my thoughts start to get out of control. They don’t become an outside voice, I simply cannot control them. They will tell me things like, “you’re worthless,” “no one loves you,” “mommy didn’t love you,” “you should kill yourself,” et cetera. Suppressed memories are dug up, all positive thoughts are drowned out, and the bad thoughts overlap each other. They don’t need to be a voice to be loud.

I had to try and keep myself busy to shut “Annatier” up. The problem is, Manic Depression is notorious for making people unmotivated and uninterested in every day activities and beloved hobbies. So I was left alone with my thoughts, and it drove me mad. I even began feeling homicidal, feeling like I should simply throw away my life, go stab some people, and get tossed in jail. Hell, the only reason I didn’t kill myself was because I promised to my boyfriend and best friend that I wouldn’t, and my code of honor prevents me from breaking promises. I wanted to go to a mental hospital because I felt I should be locked up. Fuck! I thought about killing people! Actually fucking killing random people who didn’t deserve it! Yeah, I love me some horror and gore, and I write plenty of it, but it is meant to be fictional, I am not a murderer. So not only was I a danger to myself, but possibly others. Luckily, I was able to keep these sick fantasies exactly what they were: fantasies. But still, why couldn’t I go to a mental hospital? Well, my boyfriend kept saying I didn’t need to. I just needed my medication back.

Finally, after two years, I decided I didn’t want to be afraid to leave the house. So I started taking small steps and going places, but never alone. I am still working on it, but I am much better than I was. Unfortunately, a recent car crash has regressed me a little, but that’s just another obstacle, right? At long last, I was able to see my doctor, and I told him what the Paxil did to me. He came to the conclusion that my body did not react well to SSRIs, so instead he put me on an SSNI called Effixor (I don’t actually know if that’s how it’s spelled), along with my sleeping medication and my antipsychotic. I had also been on Welbutren (sp?) before, but he didn’t want to give me too much too fast.

After the first week, I started to notice differences in how I felt. The best part was, I had zero side effects. I began to feel sane, my thoughts were more controllable, my disturbing urge to murder innocent people just to be locked up was gone, and for once in what seemed like decades, I didn’t want to kill myself. It was the best fucking feeling ever, and I remembered what it was like to feel sane. Mean comments on YouTube and DA no longer struck me with irrational anger because I was thinking logically, and was able to tell myself that the people who took the time to insult me were idiots that didn’t deserve my time or energy. Little things that usually depressed the hell out of me no longer had such an effect, AND NO MORE PANIC ATTACKS! And the frosting on the cake? SLEEP. GLORIOUS, UNITERRUPTED SLEEP. My best friend has noted that the shadows under my eyes are considerably less noticeable!

For six weeks, I progressively felt mentally healthier than I had been before, but I noticed something odd. Instead of feeling decently happy like I did when I was on my previous medications, I felt… numb. Yeah, I could laugh, smile, and brief periods of joy were not uncommon, but when it came down to it, I felt so neutral, so apathetic, I wasn’t sure if I should be worried or not. Things did not affect me, and not just because of mental stability, but just every day things had no negative or positive effect on me. Of course, I was also not depressed, so I said to my boyfriend, “I’d rather feel numb and apathetic than depressed and suicidal any day.” It’s been like this since I’ve been on the Effixor (sp?), and I think I know why.

The chemical imbalance in my brain causes me to feel angry, depressed, or sometimes the exact opposite side of the emotional spectrum at extreme levels, though my manic episodes used to last way longer when I was a teenager. What it feels like right now is that my brain is trying to fight the medication, trying to tell me to be depressed, but the medication is putting up a very good fight. As a result, I’m stuck smack-dab right in the middle, causing me to feel next to nothing on a regular basis. I have also seen only a small increase of productivity in me, but I still end up losing motivation. However, instead of “what’s the point,” it’s simply a loss in interest. Because of this, I’ve seen almost every horror movie available on Netflix. T_T Some were pretty good, like American Mary, but some SUCKED HARDER THAN SUCKING ITSELF. I considered The ABCs of Death to be a waste of my time, and refuse to watch the sequel. I’ve also watched quite a few “found footage” movies I wasn’t too fond of, though the V/H/S series wasn’t too bad.

Two weeks ago, I saw my doctor again, and told him how I’ve been feeling. He mentioned that I looked a lot better, and was happy to hear I was also feeling better. In the end, he put me back on Welbutren (sp?), and so far I’ve seen minimal improvement, but these things take time. The car crash sort of didn’t help things, so I’ve just got to be patient. But anyone who knows me knows I am very impatient…

Overall, compared to how I was feeling, I feel fan-fucking-tastic. Like I said, I’d rather be apathetic than suicidal any day! The upside is that negative comments over the internet do not affect me in any way, except to shake my head, block the loser, and delete the comment. Of course, it does annoy me that idiots and scum exist out there, but at least I don’t feel like I want to strangle someone after reading, “o my gawd u suk nd r ugly.” I am able to rationalize the reasons the person left the comment and decide it’s literally nothing. Once it’s deleted and the person is blocked, they don’t exist to me anymore. Besides, all they want is attention, right? Well, I get sick satisfaction out of denying them that attention, because nothing gets to a bully more than their victim not reacting to their torment. It’s actually quite hilarious.

Hopefully I will be seeing more improvement over the next few weeks in my ability to feel, as well as my lack of interest in things. My rats help a lot, because at least cute little animals still have the ability to make me happy. I don’t think that’ll ever change, even if I have bouts of unreasonable homicidal thoughts. I’d never hurt an animal, so at least there’s that much. Nevertheless, I don’t want to kill myself, I don’t feel I need to hurt myself or anyone else, and I’m sleeping. I feel healthy, sane, and less of a worthless screw up. When it comes down to it, all I needed was my medication back. Sometimes that’s all it takes to help someone who is mentally ill. We’ve come a long way in medicine, and I’m glad for it. Now keeping my promise is much easier, and Annatier has finally shut up.

Sweet salvation indeed.