I no longer know what the goal of the site is, I write horror fiction, and love letters to myself.
This site is a tool to facilitate the act of seeing clearly, written by hands that used to hurt myself.
Explanation: I am Damien, I speak to my split personality Amanda. I am two people in love with each other, and I am okay with that now.
I have paranoid schizophrenia, narcissistic personality disorder, bipolar II-manic/depressive- rapid cycling, depression, anxiety, hydrocepholus, narcissistic personality disorder suffering from alcoholism, drug addiction, alcoholic. with OCD and PTSD- was addicted to heroin, meth, crack, alcohol, cocaine, prescription pills.
I am drug addict/alcoholic/dual diagnosis/ex-homeless person.
Through dark horror fiction I rake the muck of the lives of street addicts.
Or in plain English this is an epic poem/novel about addiction told about low bottom addicts in horror style.
There is someone there, who has bad intentions, because they are simply there, and everyone has bad intentions.
There is someone there, and I don’t like them, because they have bad intentions, because everyone has bad intentions.
I am afraid of myself.
I am afraid of being back in padded rooms, which I have been in before.
I am afraid that whenever you help me, it is one step away from the constraints on my arms to help myself.
Control myself, accept the things I can’t change…
I ruined my own life, and I am trying to fix it, and people are trying to help me, stop ripping their heads off with words.
I think everyone is out to get me, because I am an idiot, or that is what it feels like sometimes… both of those things alternating not simultaneous, never simultaneous, unfortunately…. not yet at least. I can never remember when under insane delusion, that I am prone to insane delusions and that as much as it seems like people are out to get me…. just realized why my ex’s hated that wording… they are not out to get me..
That kind of sucks.. because now I have to admit I was ***hole fighting the universe my whole life. I did the right thing and apologized, and it was very humiliating.
I thought this was significant for me because it is close to 100, which is crazy. I remember we had to do something when I was a little kid that involved 100 days, I think it was the 100th day of school or something, we celebrated it. The whole thing was riddled with irony actually, because I hated it.
I told my teacher that the day counting was stupid, because it was just counting down your life, and who would want to do that. I think the irony there is amazing, for someone who would later go on to do the drugs that would tick seconds off my life and smoking and drinking. It’s funny I went from being completely petrified by death to being completely petrified by life, or maybe both are the same thing, and it is really just all the control thing? Dunno.
I like to go to things like this sometimes, because something about it helps me. I have a hard time with my arrogance every day, reflecting on something higher takes me out of myself, and makes me less self focused, which is great because I hate myself anyway, which I am working on, but it is hard to sit with myself everyday, because, most of the time I wish I could break up with me, like everyone else did.. haha…
That was really pathetic… but I am trying to be honest. I think the thing that I appreciated the most about the whole thing is it showed the strength of someone doing something completely out of duty, for something that was not all about them, but a sacrifice. It really spoke to me, because my life has been quite the opposite, and I used to think that made me strong, but I am realizing very slowly, it just makes me an ***hole. I am trying to figure out the middle ground, the way to break the cycle between self assertion and self-pity and self hatred. I am just not there yet, because I am still not able to surrender completely to something, because I am still stuck at the resenting me part.
I really need to work on the whole thing, which I think the first step to is getting over the fact that I am alone, because I need to be right now. I was a self-seeking ***hole and those kinds of people need to be alone sometimes.
I sleep in oblivion because obviously sleep must be partially that
Because I can’t remember it and that is oblivion right?
Hmm… being dead or asleep, meaning having no power and receiving pardon or amnesty?
Just realized I called myself my own ex-girlfriend…
There was a woman who lived in a house painted in the most beautiful shade of red. Not brick red, not maroon, but this rare shade of red, unlike any other shade. It almost glittered in the sun, catching the rays of light and dancing off the carefully painted natural wood walls of the cabin style weather conditioned little cottage. It’s windows were large and allowed in large amounts of the light of the sun which danced off the outside walls of the house, and darted in rainbow rays of reflected light into the living room of the house.
The living room was simple, containing no works of art or decorations, just the same beautiful painted walls sparkling in a shade of green, that had in the same gold flecks and radiated light throughout the room.
The kitchen was green and brown, opposing walls, painted opposing colors, with the same gold flecks, haunting in the similarity to that of the other rooms.
The bedroom of the house was the most beautiful. It was painted a unearthly purple and green, and like the rest of the house had the same gold flecks in the paint. The gold flecks in the purple gave the bedroom a luxurious almost king or queen like look, but was simply decorated as well. It contained only a large chest on the end of the bed with green and flecked with gold as well, strangely because it was unclear how the maker of the sheets had the ability to do so. Over the green sheets was a purple and brown stitched quilt with the word knowledge carefully stitched across it in gold lettering. No one thought anything of the strange quilt thinking, it a reference to the makers love of quilting.
Morning Star lived in the house happily alongside her cat, her name having been chosen by her mother who loved the Grateful Dead. Morning Star lived a simple life, never taking up any gentleman callers, and always keeping to herself. Her reclusive nature only added to the mysterious nature and allure of her abode. Her desire to keep to herself only added intrigue to the events that unfolded and lead to her untimely demise.
They found her on a Tuesday morning dead on her floor looking as if she had fallen over, but unharmed looking, looking as if she could be sleeping. Next to her head was the only clue, as to anything having happening at all. In plain looking handwritten writing, looking like it had been written by a child, read
I know what the paint is made of…
The woman, having no known family was left like that until a passerby driving down the road broke down, and stopped to ask for gas, and found her dead on the floor. It was unclear how long she had been there, her body looking like she might have died that same morning.
The woman was found to have died of natural causes, nothing of note leading to her death, her heart had simply stopped, as if she had calmly died in her sleep. This was strange because she according to record was only 35….