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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:


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.


The Sleeping Musical Genius

Alright, this has bugged me for years. Have you ever written a song in a dream? Have you ever had a lucid dream? Do you even know what a lucid dream is? Are you even awake right now?

A lucid dream is where you’re aware that you are dreaming. Some people, I think, can control this more than others. Some people can voluntarily fall into lucid dreaming whenever they want. Lucky bastards.

I am not one of those people who can go to sleep at night and go, “okay, this is what I’m gonna do in my dream tonight.” But recently, (by recently, I mean a few years ago,) I’ve been able to tell if I’m dreaming. Not all the time, but often enough.

If I’m having a nightmare, sometimes I’ll stop and go, “wait, that thing can’t hurt me because this is a dream,” or “it’ll be fine once I wake up.”

However, the subject I am addressing today has to do with a dream I had a few nights ago, as well as many others in the past. I’ve had so many dreams where I’ve written a song, a GOOD song, in my dream. I had the melody and lyrics, and they were awesome! And then I’d wake up and not be able to remember a goddamn thing. However, the other night was one of these dreams. My dream self had suddenly started singing a song, and it was awesome! It was upbeat and the lyrics were the type of angry lyrics that gave the impression that you were mad at someone and you sort of just wanted to slap them in the face and storm away. After I finished part of the song, I went, “shit, I KNOW I won’t remember this when I wake up…” It had only been the chorus, but even if I just had that as well as the melody, I’d be able to write the rest easily. So all throuout the dream, even after the environment changed as dreams always do, I sang this chorus over and over, determined to stick it in my mind so I’d remember it when I woke up. However, as soon as I became conscious, the song was lost, and the only thing I managed to retain was the title I had chosen; “Have Another Glass.” I assume I had been singing about stupid people who drink, because those who know me well know that I ABSOLUTELY WITHOUT A DOUBT HATE WITH A BURNING PASSION WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING drinking. It makes sense that I’d write such a song.

A long time ago, I had a dream that was a COMPLETE musical, with verses, choruses, music, characters, etc. Unfourtunately, this was not a lucid dream and had no idea that I wouldn’t be able to record any of this. I hope, though I don’t have faith in the idea, that sometime in my lifetime, they will invent a device that will record the video and audio of one’s dreams. Imagine the movies, musicals, works of literature, art, and anything else you could think of that could be conjured up thanks to this device. However, it’s an unrealistic dream… just as unrealistic as the one I had about the artichoke that sprouted legs and ran off my counter for me to chase.

Anyway, I’ve wasted enough time talking about dreams again, which seems to be a popular subject of mine. I’m just so interested in dreaming. Anhooziwatzit, I’m gonna go illistrate page 20 of chapter 3 of my ZADR comic.

Before I go, ZADR is an acronym that stands for “Zim and Dib romance.” It’s basically Invader Zim Yaoi, and Jhonen Vasquez HATES it. If you hate the idea of ZADR too, move on with your life and don’t read the next sentence. If you DO like ZADR and want to read my surprisingly popular comic, here is the link to page 1 of chapter 1: http://reitanna-seishin.deviantart.com/gallery/36623658?offset=48#/d4x1lvy

It’s so popular, I’ve even had a few Anti-ZADRs tell me they like it. THAT means a lot to me, for them to commit to something they hate. Just like I hate the band The Used, but I like the song “Taste of Ink,” or the fact that I hate Avril Lavine, but I like the song that was used for the ending credits song to Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland titled “Alice.”

Anyway, I’m going back to my world of ZADR comic writing and listening to Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events on audiotape. Bye-bee!

A Boy Named Koda

On February 21, 2008, a boy named Koda was born. But he was not born as a baby. He was me. I had bought a wig so I could be L from DeathNote for halloween, and I had aquired a lot of boyish black clothing from my gothic years. I also had an ace bandage for my ankle injury. Not only that, but I had a black beanie that I had no use for. I thought, “what would I look like as a boy?” So I bound up my chest, put on the wig and the beanie, and darkened my makeup as much as I used to when I was gothic. And Koda was born. He became a character in mine and Lauren’s roleplay; Tenji’s son. But he also became my alter ego, a person I could play when I didn’t want to be me, which was often. Even though I knew Koda was me, and I was well aware that I had a vagina, he still felt like a different person. He had an attitude that I seemed to not be able to achieve as myself, and frankly, I couldn’t even roleplay online as him without dressing as him. He even walked around with Lauren and Ariel, and was addressed as Koda. Here’s the two very first pictures ever taken of him:

Of course, back then, because I was so skinny and had no hips and barely any breasts, I was able to look much like a boy. But as I got healthier and gained a little weight, the illusion sort of wore off. Before, Koda could walk around the mall and have girls flirt with him, thinking he was a guy. But after, Koda was called a girl.

However, the funnest part of playing Koda was people trying to figure out if he was really me or not. My old friends Courtney and Kade thought he was really a guy, mostly because of this picture:

I used my gay friend’s body for this picture, since at the time, we had the same body type. At this time, I realized I could’ve done a better job at photoshopping. Another fun part was my Youtube viewers. I made up that Koda didn’t have a computer, and exchange for using mine, he share my channel. I had three types of people comment. One, the people who were really confused, and had trouble figuring out if he was really a different person. Two, the people who knew it was me, but played along. Those people I liked. And three, the people who knew it was me, but made it less fun for everyone else by trying to expose me. Those comments I deleted. I wanted people to enjoy him, but of course, you’re always gonna get stupid people on the internet. Here’s Koda’s first video:

Of course, it was hard to make my voice sound like a guy’s. I made it as low as I could, but it wasn’t really fooling anyone. I tried to play it off like he had a tenor’s voice, and I’ve known guys to have voices like that.

Another issue I ran into was people thought Koda was emo. He wasn’t, he was a gothic rocker type guy. Also, people thought he was gay. When I invented him, I made him straight as a board. He wore makeup because he wasn’t afraid to express himself. There are a lot of straight guys who wear dark rocker makeup. However, there was this girl on Youtube who took clips of my videos and made a music video to “Pretty Rave Girl.” It was so good, it won my heart. But soon after that, she stole clips from the above video and dubbed it over saying Koda was gay. I reported her for using my clips, and her account was cancelled immediately. Just an hour later, she made another account called KodaKindaGay. She made like four more videos, some portraying Koda as gay, or me as homophobic. This was while I was bisexual too, and I had a gay best friend. How the hell could I be homophobic. I tried to report her videos for copywrite, as did my friends and subscribers. Nothing worked. I even wrote a letter to Youtube explaining the whole situation, but they didn’t respond, let alone take action. This girl changed her age from 16 to 22 in a day, and sent me a message saying, “Are you tired of me yet? I’m going to harrass you to the end of your sanity,” or something like that. I didn’t respond. I blocked her, I was tired. I had a girl comment me saying, “Don’t worry about her. I know her in person, and all she does is be bitchy to people.” I don’t know if this girl ever knew ME in person, but whether or not she did, she had no right to harrass me, especially when she got on my good side at first. Last time I checked, she hadn’t touched that channel since like a month after I blocked her. But, THANKS Youtube, thanks for looking out for your users.

I played Koda for a couple of years, but I played him less as I started beauty college. I found less time, and Lauren also got a job and had school, so she couldn’t visit me or him much. Then, I got hired at walgreens and met Michael, so I had even less time. Not only that, but I didn’t want to be Koda around Michael, because I know he’d be weirded out. Finally, I decided to give Koda up. Not only did I not have time, but I was also turning twenty that November, and I figured I was too old for that. I had already given up online roleplaying. So I retired him after my birthday, and made him go out with a bang, creating a video in his honor that opens with a kickass music video to Marilyn Manson’s “This is the New Shit.” Here is said video:

Greatest video editing I ever did, and people were pretty impressed by the music video segment of the video. We made up that he and his family were moving to Japan. And so ended Koda. I try to keep him alive by working him into comics or pictures, or even making video game characters based on him, like a wrestler version of him in Smackdown VS. Raw 2011. They never come out perfect, but you can only do so much.

Frankly, whenever I look at pictures of him, I really miss him. I think the biggest thing I miss is taking pictures of him. He was so fun to look at, because, let’s face it. He was pretty hot. I could care less about roleplaying as him or making videos, I just want to take pictures of him. Maybe at some point I will continue that, just for fun.

But I had a great idea to buy another black wig in the same style, hair over one side of his face, except longer, and have him return after a few years, just to do one comeback video, and also to take pictures. I had a hilarious idea to have him make a badass music video to “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by the Scorpions. But I don’t know if I will have the ability to do that, so it may just be another dream.

I miss him, Lauren misses him, and a lot of his fans on Youtube miss him. But like they say, all good things must come to an end. Goodbye Koda.

Jump into My Background

First of all, I want everyone to know that I am not telling you this so you can give me pity. I frown on pity. I don’t want you to say, “I’m so sorry all that happened to you.” No. I beg you, take what I am about to tell you as inspiration to fight any traumatic experiences you may have endured. I will also make sure you all know, that just because this happened to me, I do not pity myself, for I KNOW for a FACT, that many MANY people have had much worse lives than me. I will not deny that. It’s those people I want to reach out to.

I was a kid when it started. I was young, with white blonde hair and brown eyes, living with my unwed parents and my half-brother. I was as innocent as any other child. I barely remember mom and dad fighting. The only thing I remember is that one day when my mom and dad had a huge fight; I was two. I remember distinctively, as the police took him away… let me tell you, he didn’t do anything. My mother was throwing things at him, and showing me what violence was towards him, and my dad didn’t lay a hand on her. She called the police on him, and they took him away. I remember yelling at the police that I wanted to go with him, and my mom telling them he tried to KIDNAP me from her. But I WANTED to go with him. That’s when I learned police were bad people.

The next thing I remember is being home alone late at night with my brother, eating uncooked ramen, watching the Simpsons, and playing Super Mario Bros. on the Super Nintendo, while my mother worked at a bar. I remember a storm hitting our area, and the power went out. My brother had to play around with the power box to get it going again, so we could continue playing video games. My brother was the only one I had.

Next, I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember being very sick. I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing and dizzy, and I woke my mom up, crying about how I didn’t feel well. I didn’t understand back then that mommy was what they called “drunk.” Mommy, of course, got angry. She started screaming and spanked me with a wooden spoon, to the point where it actually broke. I cried and cried, “mommy, I feel sick!” begging and pleading for her to stop. Finally she seemed to come to her “senses” and felt my head. Finally realizing that something was wrong with her daughter, she took my temperature, and I don’t remember exactly what she said it was, but I am almost positive it was 105 degrees. Now, 108 is the temperature you need to achieve in order to die. We lived in a small town in Idaho, the nearest hospital was the one I was born in, the one in Cour d’lane (or however you spell it). Not only that, but it was like 3 am. She had to call a doctor asking what to do. The next thing I remember was being placed into a bathtub filled with freezing cold water. It was so shocking, I screamed to get out. Now I know, she actually did a very dangerous thing by putting me in there, but obviously I’m alive now.

I don’t remember a lot that happened after that except for short memories of her many boyfriends and them beating each other up. I saw my mom stabbed one of my step dads with a fork. My mom had been arrested more than three times while I was a child. I witnessed these things that a child should never witness. But still, I uttered the words, “I love you mommy.” Where was daddy? Gone. No contact, no birthday presents, and according to mom, no child support. I was always screamed at, hit with wooden spoons, and has tabasco sauce on my tongue. I think I remember a belt just on one single occasion.

Like I said, I don’t remember much. Really, the next thing I remember was my mom fighting with my brother, and he ran away to california to live with my grandmother, and he didn’t take me with, even though he knew that mom was only gonna get worse. And she did. Eventually I was fed up at eight years old, and begged to go live with my dad. Miraculously, she let me move to Washington to be with that family. They were bad too. They never laid a hand on me, but they were all angry and psycho. My grandmother on my dad’s side was this twisted woman who spoiled you and bought you as much stuff as you wanted, and then turned around and said that you owed her. Then my aunt Amy was also psychotic. She reminded me of my mother. She yelled at everyone over the smallest issues. She never hit me, but she hit her daughter. My father also had anger issues, getting angry over small things like dropping an unbreakable object on the floor or getting a mark on his shoe or something. Don’t get me wrong, out of the two, he was the better parent. He actually fed me. But he yelled, and he was fucking scary. A year later I thought I missed my mom and went back to her. Big mistake. My step dad Mike was still there. The next thing I remember is him and mom getting into a fight, and it all ended with me and mom covered in bruises and him riding away in the back of a police car.

Let me mention also that I never had a baby sitter when she worked late at night. I had to fend for myself for eight hours of the night, no matter how young I was. I also went to see my grandmother on my mom’s side every summer, the one my brother ran away to. One summer, I went to California, and never came home. I was forced to stay there because mom couldn’t pay the rent, was a raging alcoholic and a drug abuser, and she needed help from her not biological mother. She moved to California too. She was clean for about two years until she started drinking non-alcoholic beer, which have a very SMALL percentage of alcohol. It was enough to break her. One day, she bought a snake. My grandmother was so insensitive, she kicked us out. We moved to a small apartment in Alpine, where I went to middle school. My mom became an animal hoarder, ending up with the one snake, three hamsters, two rats that had babies to feed to the snake, one lizard, three cats, two guinea pigs, a rabbit, and a fish tank. I was responsible for feeding and cleaning up after all these animals except the snake, because she grew to eighteen feet. Middle school was horrible. In sixth grade, the only friends I could make were kids with down syndrome, so people thought I was a “retard.” I was made fun of so much, I was unmotivated to work. This is when my depression started kicking in. I failed all my classes and had to go to summer school. That’s when I found out that I WAS smart, and I had a quick ability to learn as long as I was motivated. In seventh grade, I tried to become what everyone wanted me to. I started wearing makeup and wearing preppy clothes. That was not who I was. I was a little more accepted, and tried to part from my… slow friends… I became friends with a girl named Caitlyn. She was my best friend, and she was a good friend. But towards the end of our relationship, I found out she was a liar, so I broke it off. I also had my first boyfriend in seventh grade, but on the last day of school, he broke up with me. During the summer, I was so depressed, I became a hardcore goth, listening to disturbed, slipknot, korn, and many other angry bands. I went to school in all black, dark makeup, and a morbid attitude. I hated everything, and even considered myself satanic. I cried all the time and drew horrible pictures. At this time, mom was even worse. She had started hearing voices and hit me regularly. She called the police many times because I tried to defend myself. Without her knowledge, I started cutting myself. Most of the time, I hid it under my slipknot wristband, but eventually that area became full, and had to make excuses for the other cuts. My friends used to hit them. I started going back out with my first boyfriend, and his sister became my best friend. I lost my virginity at fourteen. I was never taught about sex, let alone everything else.

One day, I had my neighbor spend the night. In the morning, I wanted to make breakfast. Mom had never had a problem with me cooking; I could cook almost as well as her. But for some reason, she didn’t want me to today. She started yelling at me and pushing me into a corner, right in front of my friend, scaring the SHIT out of her. My mom hit me over the head with a wooden spoon and shoved my nose into a corner, forcing me to hold two big books in each of my hands and holding them up until my arms were aching. My poor friend ran back to her apartment to her parents, who heard the commotion. She hit me again, and I pushed her, trying to get into my room. She pushed me to the floor, and I tried to kick her away, but she kneeled down and grabbed my wrist, digging her nails into it. She screamed something at me, but I don’t remember what it was. She threw my arm away, which was bleeding, and left my room, I shut the door, crying, and next thing I knew, I heard her calling the police. Next thing I knew, a police man was in the house, and my mom was telling him how I attacked her. He came into my room to tell me it wasn’t okay, speaking to me like I was five. I showed him my wounds, trying to tell him she did it, but he didn’t care. He left and I overheard him telling my mom she could “discipline” me as long as it wasn’t a closed fist. I still have those scars. I also have a scar from when she burned me with a cigarette. Another time, she tried to kill one of my hamsters, and scratched the hell out of my face when I tried to save him. Finally, one night, I got the opportunity to call the police on her. After telling the police everything she does to me, and how kids have threatened to kill me at school, and them NEVER believing me, they finally got a little hint and a police man drove me to my boyfriend’s house. I lived there for a few months until my mom got evicted and we moved in with my grandma. The second morning mom had to take me to school, my grandmother witnessed exactly what I was trying to tell everyone, and called the police on her. Mom tried to play the victim and reached out to me and said, “come on sweetie, let’s go,” but I was frightened, backing away and screaming that I didn’t want to go with her anymore. I was taken to school, and by the time I got home, mom had packed up and was forced to leave, and she had lost custody of me. The next three years were hell, because I had troubles getting over it. I was in therapy, but it was making it worse. They put me on prozac, but it made me even more suicidal than I already was. I broke up with my boyfriend because I felt like he was using me.

As a freshman, I became friends with all of the darker kids and the artists. I had a huge group. As the school year went by, the group depleted, and there was just three or four of us left. Ariel was one of them, my best friend. Even so, in highschool I was getting worse than ever. My sophomore year I went out with a boy named Tyler. He led me on, and the night my grandfather died and my brother attempted suicide, he said, “I’m thinking of breaking up with you. Don’t speak to me or be around me for a week. You are not allowed to approach me.” So I didn’t, crying constantly, everyday, and making a HUGE art project to give to him. But oh, he made it worse. He came up to me to hold me, pretending to comfort me, when he said for me not to talk to him. During this week, he was also going out with one of my “friends.” He hadn’t officially broken up with me. Finally it happened, and I was going to kill myself. It took my new friend Lauren to talk me out of it, and to this day she is my one and only best friend.

Junior year got a little better. Lauren got me into roleplaying. We’d roleplay online, and live roleplay at school. I had an escape. That was the year I developed a crush on Lauren and came out of the closet as a bisexual. I had always looked away from girls changing in the locker room, feeling embarrassed to look at them. When it really comes down to it, there were always clues, but I had always denied it. Lauren and I went through some rocky times, her dealing with my depression, my torment, all the shit I put her through. Senior year I started getting better. I stopped cutting myself, stopped dying my hair black, and started wearing color and dying my hair punky colors, like pink, blue, purple… but I still had some problems. I was underweight, I developed trichatillomania (involuntary impulse to pull out your hair,) and was very pallid. I developed insomnia, and an intense loathing for my grandmother, who at times was very insensitive and irrational, like every other old person. I stepped into the rave group, but I never touched drugs or alcohol. My mother taught me to never touch it… because that’s all I saw, and I saw what it did to her. I said, “I’ll never put my loved ones through that.” But one week, Lauren and I got into a fight, and she refused to talk to me. I attempted suicide, banging my head against the wall until I passed out. Frankly, when I woke up, I was surprised to be alive. I suffered, however, even to this day. I suffer from short-term memory loss. I can’t remember the summer of when I was eighteen. Even now, I have trouble remembering things that happen just a day ago. If I take a nap in the middle of the day, I can’t remember what happened before I went to sleep. Lauren and I got better, and I graduated highschool… only to be kicked out of my house by my grandmother. She said, “I don’t care if you’re homeless with all your possessions on the street, get out.” Ariel and her mother took me in at the last-minute. I was so grateful, and Ariel and I were inseparable. I started going out with my first girlfriend. That winter, I went to see my father in washington to see if that family could BE a family. They could not, they were just as hostile as they were in the past. I came home to find out I had no home again. I made a deal with Ariel’s mom to constantly look for a job. I searched for a week, just as I had been searching since the day I turned eighteen, but no luck. Finally, Ariel and I enrolled in beauty school, and I was allowed to stay. Near the middle of the year, Ariel became distant and started ditching class. I had reason to believe she started doing drugs. I know she started smoking, but she denied it. She always cut herself, but made stupid excuses on how it happened. Not only that, but she tried to become better than everyone, claiming to know more, when she couldn’t even spell the simplest of words correctly. Then she started talking shit behind my back when she thought I couldn’t hear, and began destroying my possessions. Then she started coming home at 3 am and waking me up so I couldn’t get to sleep. On weekends, she’d sleep until 4 in the evening. She never came to school, claiming she was sick. Finally, I had it. After getting my first job at walgreens, I moved back in with my grandma, and haven’t spoken to Ariel since. She was a great friend at one time, and was so fun to be around, but she destroyed her life, and I wasn’t going down with her. I graduated beauty school and got certified as a makeup artist and licensed as a hairdresser. Before I graduated thought, my girlfriend and I split up. Turns out she was doing drugs. I met Michael, and spend most of my time at his house. I started to realize my depression was getting much more out of hand and decided to go get medication, which is helping a lot. If I forget to take it, I have a panic attack and am uncontrollable.

After all that happening, yes, I am screwed up… but I thank god it all happened. It taught me a great lesson in life, told me what not to do, and gave me the motivation to do great things. I also would’ve never met Lauren or Michael if it never had happened. I never wanna see my mom again until she’s on her death-bed and I can make her last moments the most unpleasant of her life. But I thank her for teaching me to not become her.

That reminds me of what this Sunday is…. happy mother’s day.

So now you know that depressing story, I hope you’ll understand the position I’m in now. I color my hair as I want, in fact, this Thursday I’m going back to blonde. I wear anything I want, despite the color. I shop at hot topic and forever 21. I listen to disturbed, marilyn manson, and my chemical romance, but I also listen to lady gaga, ke$ha, and adam lambert, then I listen to many japanese artists. I draw morbid AND cute pictures, mostly cute now. My makeup is colorful, and my eyeliner a thin line. I’ve gained a healthy amount of weight and have gained some thickness to my hair, and my complexion is a healthy color. I am my own person, no longer slave to a label. I’ve matured a considerable amount, even though I sill am pretty immature. And in two weeks, I’ll know if I will finally be out of my grandma’s house and thrown into the real world of paying rent and bills, and being in my own house. I am scared and excited. It’s a sign that life is going to get harder, but much better. I am enjoying life, and am trying to get over my lack of confidence and my constant inability to relax. And so you know about me, and I will going on to more… happy posts.

Note: When it says “PRESENT,” that means during that time of senior year. My makeup started getting more colorful, and I went from pink hair, to blue and purple, to purple and blue, to pink and purple, to blonde, to pink, purple, and blue, to blonde and pink, to brown, to blonde, to black, to black and pink, and then finally to red. I’m going back to blonde this week. XD I like change. I also like my hair short, I hate it long.