#1 ·
I found myself in a bit of a dark place just a moment ago. I was sitting there at my desk, heart racing and legs trembling with this overwhelming urge to head into the kitchen, grab a knife, and find the most vulnerable spot possible to let it all out.
I am currently thirty years old and residing in the beautiful city of V. g.
My earliest memory takes me back to when I was just two years old. It was late winter, just as the sun was beginning to dip, and my paternal grandmother arrived with my uncle at the small apartment where my parents lived. At the time, both of my parents were in their mid-twenties, living a quiet life until that evening when my grandmother essentially forced us out of our own home. I have this incredibly vivid image of my little green plastic sandbox—the one with those tiny little figurines where "Mr. Man Doesn't Get Mad"—lying discarded as I wandered into the kitchen. There, the scene was heavy with emotion: my mother was in tears, while my grandmother, bundled up in a thick winter coat and a heavy hat, was slamming her fist against the table in frustration, leaving my uncle to stand off to the side, looking down at the floor in somber silence.
After being successfully evicted from our apartment, my mother and I have relocated to a small house where I’m now living with her, my maternal grandmother, and my uncle. It honestly feels less like a home and more like a cramped, neglected workshop; there is no central heating, the floors are perpetually grimy, and we are constantly struggling to make ends meet. My mother carries the financial weight for all of us, while my uncle works tirelessly in the manufacturing sector, often returning home completely exhausted from his shifts. Every couple of years, when she manages to save enough, she treats me to a trip to the coast, and because of that, I feel an incredibly deep, unbreakable bond with her.
I find myself drifting off in this antique marital bed, sharing the space with my grandmother and her sister just as I did back when I was an eighth grader. During the winter months, frost patterns dance and shimmer across the ceiling like tiny constellations. It brings back those vivid memories of navigating the awkward turbulence of puberty, lying there next to my grandmother and trying my absolute best to stay perfectly still so I wouldn't wake her.
My childhood has mostly been defined by a certain sense of solitude. I find myself constantly chasing the idea of achieving some kind of social status, though it always seems to slip through my fingers like sand. While other kids are out there causing chaos—doing reckless things like tormenting animals or taking dangerous leaps off rooftops just for the thrill of it—I simply can't wrap my head around that mindset and choose to walk away. For me, true fulfillment comes from much simpler rhythms: riding my bike through the quiet countryside, gathering wood for the stove, or losing myself in the intricate puzzles of electronics.
The year was 1991 when war broke us apart, and my uncle—the man who stood in for a father to me—left for St. Louis, only to lose his life at Ovčara. He felt the house was simply too small to hold all of us, so he went to serve. I didn't find myself weeping at his funeral, mostly because we never quite managed to bridge that emotional gap between us while he was alive. My grandmother spent the service quietly counting the mourners, noting how many people had come to pay their respects. To the local community, he was something of a legend, serving as the ultimate moral compass for the V. G. scouts. It remains an incredibly painful memory, one that feels like a weight I’ve somehow failed to honor.
School life has been a constant struggle of friction and misunderstanding. I’ve never been one to bow down to arbitrary authority, though I’ve always had a sharp mind for what’s actually going on. Because of that, I find myself constantly being sent out into the hallway to sit with the guidance counselor—someone who used to be my mother's colleague back when she worked under the old, rigid social structures where a woman's merit was often overlooked, regardless of her family's resilience through hard times. To make matters even more complicated, my current English teacher actually went to elementary school with my mom; they were in the same class together. It’s quite a funny dynamic because, truth be told, my mother was always the superior student when it came to language arts, whereas this teacher was the type of overachiever who lived for perfectionism. I think we all know how those stories go.
Making friends back in elementary school? That was an uphill battle for me. From first through fourth grade, I was essentially nothing more than a human punching bag for every boy in class—it was relentless. It wasn't until fifth grade that I finally hit a growth spurt, and that was when everything shifted. One day, I just reached my breaking point and completely lost it on the kid who had been tormenting me the most. I will never forget the sheer, blinding fury and hatred that surged through me after school that afternoon. It was like a storm breaking; I felt absolutely nothing but pure, unadulterated rage as I stood my ground while a group of eighth graders looked on. I haven't experienced a feeling quite that intense ever since.
It’s a bit disheartening to realize that I haven't quite learned my lesson yet, as I find myself constantly clashing with the rest of the class through the eighth grade. While there are a few students who are certainly more formidable than I am, they generally prefer to leave me be rather than engage in any physical confrontation. However, most of my peers tend to keep their distance from me, largely because my family struggles financially; I don't have the luxury of keeping up with the latest designer trends or high-end fashion, and even my basic school supplies are just simple, budget-friendly items from a place like Walmart.
It was just toward the end of eighth grade, right before we headed out on those final school trips to the Grand Canyon and then up to Maui for graduation, that I finally felt a true sense of connection with the classmates I’d spent the last eight years alongside. It was like we were all little adults experiencing one last shared moment of childhood together.
Since my grades weren't exactly stellar after middle school, I managed to enroll in an electrical technician program for high school instead. However, I ended up crossing paths with a few troubled kids from around the outskirts of Portland, and once that introduction to drug culture began, everything just spiraled completely out of control. It was really just that classic, misguided urge to prove oneself through rebellion and a desperate need to deny any sense of inadequacy.
I’ve been skipping my apprenticeship sessions with a mentor who is truly the gold standard of decency—just a genuine, salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He took me under his wing with the clear intention of investing in my future, believing that if he poured enough knowledge into me, I'd become someone he could actually rely on in the field. Honestly, I’ve completely blown it. It feels like a recurring pattern where I can't seem to stay on track; much like a student struggling through high school, I just can't catch a break. I failed my freshman year once, and then after being held back a second time by my counselor's decision, I simply reached my breaking point and walked away.
Around the age of fifteen or sixteen, I started hanging out with a crowd a couple of years older than me, and I began sourcing every high imaginable; back then, in the aftermath of the war, everything was incredibly cheap. I spent most of my days just lounging in the park. While most kids my age were cruising through high school, planning for college, or looking for steady jobs, I was the kid perpetually slumped on a bench, high on weed, wired on speed, or floating on ecstasy. My mom struggled to connect with me, eventually finding a partner of her own, which she truly needed after spending so many years grinding away to support our family.
Thanks to some inheritance my grandmother received from my uncle, she decided to renovate the house, and as part of that package, I got a little attic room where I could set up a bed. That became my sanctuary, though the crew was constantly dropping by so we could get high together. People were always coming and going, and honestly, I grew tired of the constant intrusion.
Eventually, my drive for physical intimacy became overwhelming. I ended up stealing a girl away from one of the guys in the group, and he began to look at me with this deep, calculated disdain. If my mother were here, she’d call him a sleazy character. It was then that I finally started paying attention to what people actually said about me. The mockery began, mostly coming from the older guy in the group whom I had hooked up with. Every time I was high, someone would take a jab at me, sending me into a spiral of shame—even though I was high from dawn until dusk. The first thing I'd encounter when the morning sun hit my eyes was the remains of last night's unfinished joint.
I remember one evening staying in with my girlfriend. It was summer, the window was wide open, and we were just relaxing and talking. The following Saturday, there was a massive party out in the hills near Seattle. Everyone was on something, and I was on absolutely everything. As I hovered near my "social circle," I noticed that certain things they were whispering seemed to mirror exactly what my girlfriend and I had discussed privately just a few nights prior. I am a hundred percent certain they had been standing right outside our window one night. The "elder" of the group pulled the same stunt on me a few days later at my place while we were both completely wasted on X. I could see the sadistic pleasure in his face as he threw those comments my way.
Some of them started moving toward heroin, and it finally clicked for me: if I didn't pull myself away now, I was headed for a disastrous end. People were already starting to crash hard, and I found I lacked the willpower to say no when an offer was put in front of me. I broke it off with the girl from the group, turned my back on everything, and frankly, I didn't care; I still had my stash. We stayed together, fueled by drugs, living like rabbits for over a year. But during that time, I stopped going out entirely; I stopped socializing, and I even neglected the dentist despite needing to fix a tooth I cracked falling off my bike in eighth grade. Eventually, she reached her breaking point and barely managed to walk away from me. I was left completely alone, with nothing but my computer.
Then came the standard descent: depression, rage, and a pervasive fear of everything. I lived with this constant paranoia that someone was lurking outside my window. Even then, I could still find stuff to smoke, but the meth only served to amplify my paranoia. Years passed, and even when I could no longer find anything to get high on because everyone had written me off, the paranoia persisted. I’d have episodes where I’d pull a blanket over my head, trembling with the terror that someone was filming me, watching me, eavesdropping... or even reading my thoughts. Sometimes, I’d hear these terrifying screams behind me—indescribable, haunting, shifting shrieks. My only connection to the world was IRC, but even there, I felt like everyone was reading me.
Ten years have slipped by now, and my mental state is a wreck, much like my dental hygiene. I can't bring myself to look people in the eye; my self-confidence has vanished into nothingness. You can't even attempt to move forward when your chipped tooth has fallen out and your breath is foul. I don't look good, and my teeth make it worse. It's pathetic. I can't meet anyone's gaze. I can't talk to them directly. I feel worthless. Don't expect any help from me; I am stuck in a dead end.
"OK, just scream! Scream your lungs out!" Suddenly, the voices stopped, and they never returned. In that moment, I felt a spark. I started fighting back against all this garbage, trying to reclaim my life. Through meditation, diving into the Zeitgeist, watching UFO videos—all sorts of things—I managed to pull myself back. I returned to IRC and Twitter. I met Anonymouse, and we went after Mastercard, Visa, and PayPal for the sake of justice. For the first time, I found a sense of purpose.
I started making actual progress. I began to understand my problems, how they formed, and how I might solve them. I started crafting ambitious plans. It’s wild—I’m actually giving advice to people online, and they genuinely value it. They even seem to like me. So, I guess I'm not a complete lost cause after all.
Today, it has been two years since I started communicating with the world again, though true change is a slow process. It's been thirteen years since I sat at this computer without attending school. However, I know a vast array of software technologies, I am proficient in two programming languages, and I can hack into at least five others if necessary. But none of that matters much when I lack a diploma, a certificate, a decent smile, the drive to chase nothing, or even a single relationship to help me land a job.
It has been thirteen years since I last allowed myself to truly laugh, because if I am being honest, I haven't felt genuinely happy in a very long time. There was a time when I could charm anyone with my silver tongue, but nowadays, I find myself struggling just to get the words out without stumbling over them. More than anything, I find myself aching for a sense of connection and a chance to love deeply again. I know I am finally ready to face this, because as I write these words, I am simultaneously weeping and smiling at the sheer absurdity of it all.
What drove me to write this was a recent encounter that felt much like those old stories where someone stands vigil outside a window only to be mocked; in my case, a group at a local radio station decided to broadcast their ridicule of my recent Twitter outburst right over the airwaves. The sting of being laughed at for my perceived immaturity hit me so hard that it triggered a wave of intense paranoia and doubt, making me feel as though I were losing my grip on reality. I ended up staging a bit of a scene on my timeline, practically demanding they confirm they were actually mocking me so I could prove to myself that I wasn't descending into madness. In a strange way, perhaps I should be thanking them for the clarity.
Friends, I am reaching out because I need help. After thirteen years of fighting through what feels like a lifetime of wasted opportunities—though I suppose I have had a few small victories along the way—I am finally standing on the threshold of a breakthrough, and I find myself needing guidance, advice, or simply a friend. I need someone to talk to, someone who can listen openly, honestly, and from the heart. I am not looking for a prescription, a hospital bed, or a therapist who is too burnt out by their own existential dread caused by the current state of the economy to actually care. I am looking for someone who understands this path because they have walked it themselves.
I am hoping there is someone out there who feels close to my situation. I've mentioned my general location, so please, send me a private message or just leave a reply.
I am currently thirty years old and residing in the beautiful city of V. g.
My earliest memory takes me back to when I was just two years old. It was late winter, just as the sun was beginning to dip, and my paternal grandmother arrived with my uncle at the small apartment where my parents lived. At the time, both of my parents were in their mid-twenties, living a quiet life until that evening when my grandmother essentially forced us out of our own home. I have this incredibly vivid image of my little green plastic sandbox—the one with those tiny little figurines where "Mr. Man Doesn't Get Mad"—lying discarded as I wandered into the kitchen. There, the scene was heavy with emotion: my mother was in tears, while my grandmother, bundled up in a thick winter coat and a heavy hat, was slamming her fist against the table in frustration, leaving my uncle to stand off to the side, looking down at the floor in somber silence.
After being successfully evicted from our apartment, my mother and I have relocated to a small house where I’m now living with her, my maternal grandmother, and my uncle. It honestly feels less like a home and more like a cramped, neglected workshop; there is no central heating, the floors are perpetually grimy, and we are constantly struggling to make ends meet. My mother carries the financial weight for all of us, while my uncle works tirelessly in the manufacturing sector, often returning home completely exhausted from his shifts. Every couple of years, when she manages to save enough, she treats me to a trip to the coast, and because of that, I feel an incredibly deep, unbreakable bond with her.
I find myself drifting off in this antique marital bed, sharing the space with my grandmother and her sister just as I did back when I was an eighth grader. During the winter months, frost patterns dance and shimmer across the ceiling like tiny constellations. It brings back those vivid memories of navigating the awkward turbulence of puberty, lying there next to my grandmother and trying my absolute best to stay perfectly still so I wouldn't wake her.
My childhood has mostly been defined by a certain sense of solitude. I find myself constantly chasing the idea of achieving some kind of social status, though it always seems to slip through my fingers like sand. While other kids are out there causing chaos—doing reckless things like tormenting animals or taking dangerous leaps off rooftops just for the thrill of it—I simply can't wrap my head around that mindset and choose to walk away. For me, true fulfillment comes from much simpler rhythms: riding my bike through the quiet countryside, gathering wood for the stove, or losing myself in the intricate puzzles of electronics.
The year was 1991 when war broke us apart, and my uncle—the man who stood in for a father to me—left for St. Louis, only to lose his life at Ovčara. He felt the house was simply too small to hold all of us, so he went to serve. I didn't find myself weeping at his funeral, mostly because we never quite managed to bridge that emotional gap between us while he was alive. My grandmother spent the service quietly counting the mourners, noting how many people had come to pay their respects. To the local community, he was something of a legend, serving as the ultimate moral compass for the V. G. scouts. It remains an incredibly painful memory, one that feels like a weight I’ve somehow failed to honor.
School life has been a constant struggle of friction and misunderstanding. I’ve never been one to bow down to arbitrary authority, though I’ve always had a sharp mind for what’s actually going on. Because of that, I find myself constantly being sent out into the hallway to sit with the guidance counselor—someone who used to be my mother's colleague back when she worked under the old, rigid social structures where a woman's merit was often overlooked, regardless of her family's resilience through hard times. To make matters even more complicated, my current English teacher actually went to elementary school with my mom; they were in the same class together. It’s quite a funny dynamic because, truth be told, my mother was always the superior student when it came to language arts, whereas this teacher was the type of overachiever who lived for perfectionism. I think we all know how those stories go.
Making friends back in elementary school? That was an uphill battle for me. From first through fourth grade, I was essentially nothing more than a human punching bag for every boy in class—it was relentless. It wasn't until fifth grade that I finally hit a growth spurt, and that was when everything shifted. One day, I just reached my breaking point and completely lost it on the kid who had been tormenting me the most. I will never forget the sheer, blinding fury and hatred that surged through me after school that afternoon. It was like a storm breaking; I felt absolutely nothing but pure, unadulterated rage as I stood my ground while a group of eighth graders looked on. I haven't experienced a feeling quite that intense ever since.
It’s a bit disheartening to realize that I haven't quite learned my lesson yet, as I find myself constantly clashing with the rest of the class through the eighth grade. While there are a few students who are certainly more formidable than I am, they generally prefer to leave me be rather than engage in any physical confrontation. However, most of my peers tend to keep their distance from me, largely because my family struggles financially; I don't have the luxury of keeping up with the latest designer trends or high-end fashion, and even my basic school supplies are just simple, budget-friendly items from a place like Walmart.
It was just toward the end of eighth grade, right before we headed out on those final school trips to the Grand Canyon and then up to Maui for graduation, that I finally felt a true sense of connection with the classmates I’d spent the last eight years alongside. It was like we were all little adults experiencing one last shared moment of childhood together.
Since my grades weren't exactly stellar after middle school, I managed to enroll in an electrical technician program for high school instead. However, I ended up crossing paths with a few troubled kids from around the outskirts of Portland, and once that introduction to drug culture began, everything just spiraled completely out of control. It was really just that classic, misguided urge to prove oneself through rebellion and a desperate need to deny any sense of inadequacy.
I’ve been skipping my apprenticeship sessions with a mentor who is truly the gold standard of decency—just a genuine, salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He took me under his wing with the clear intention of investing in my future, believing that if he poured enough knowledge into me, I'd become someone he could actually rely on in the field. Honestly, I’ve completely blown it. It feels like a recurring pattern where I can't seem to stay on track; much like a student struggling through high school, I just can't catch a break. I failed my freshman year once, and then after being held back a second time by my counselor's decision, I simply reached my breaking point and walked away.
Around the age of fifteen or sixteen, I started hanging out with a crowd a couple of years older than me, and I began sourcing every high imaginable; back then, in the aftermath of the war, everything was incredibly cheap. I spent most of my days just lounging in the park. While most kids my age were cruising through high school, planning for college, or looking for steady jobs, I was the kid perpetually slumped on a bench, high on weed, wired on speed, or floating on ecstasy. My mom struggled to connect with me, eventually finding a partner of her own, which she truly needed after spending so many years grinding away to support our family.
Thanks to some inheritance my grandmother received from my uncle, she decided to renovate the house, and as part of that package, I got a little attic room where I could set up a bed. That became my sanctuary, though the crew was constantly dropping by so we could get high together. People were always coming and going, and honestly, I grew tired of the constant intrusion.
Eventually, my drive for physical intimacy became overwhelming. I ended up stealing a girl away from one of the guys in the group, and he began to look at me with this deep, calculated disdain. If my mother were here, she’d call him a sleazy character. It was then that I finally started paying attention to what people actually said about me. The mockery began, mostly coming from the older guy in the group whom I had hooked up with. Every time I was high, someone would take a jab at me, sending me into a spiral of shame—even though I was high from dawn until dusk. The first thing I'd encounter when the morning sun hit my eyes was the remains of last night's unfinished joint.
I remember one evening staying in with my girlfriend. It was summer, the window was wide open, and we were just relaxing and talking. The following Saturday, there was a massive party out in the hills near Seattle. Everyone was on something, and I was on absolutely everything. As I hovered near my "social circle," I noticed that certain things they were whispering seemed to mirror exactly what my girlfriend and I had discussed privately just a few nights prior. I am a hundred percent certain they had been standing right outside our window one night. The "elder" of the group pulled the same stunt on me a few days later at my place while we were both completely wasted on X. I could see the sadistic pleasure in his face as he threw those comments my way.
Some of them started moving toward heroin, and it finally clicked for me: if I didn't pull myself away now, I was headed for a disastrous end. People were already starting to crash hard, and I found I lacked the willpower to say no when an offer was put in front of me. I broke it off with the girl from the group, turned my back on everything, and frankly, I didn't care; I still had my stash. We stayed together, fueled by drugs, living like rabbits for over a year. But during that time, I stopped going out entirely; I stopped socializing, and I even neglected the dentist despite needing to fix a tooth I cracked falling off my bike in eighth grade. Eventually, she reached her breaking point and barely managed to walk away from me. I was left completely alone, with nothing but my computer.
Then came the standard descent: depression, rage, and a pervasive fear of everything. I lived with this constant paranoia that someone was lurking outside my window. Even then, I could still find stuff to smoke, but the meth only served to amplify my paranoia. Years passed, and even when I could no longer find anything to get high on because everyone had written me off, the paranoia persisted. I’d have episodes where I’d pull a blanket over my head, trembling with the terror that someone was filming me, watching me, eavesdropping... or even reading my thoughts. Sometimes, I’d hear these terrifying screams behind me—indescribable, haunting, shifting shrieks. My only connection to the world was IRC, but even there, I felt like everyone was reading me.
Ten years have slipped by now, and my mental state is a wreck, much like my dental hygiene. I can't bring myself to look people in the eye; my self-confidence has vanished into nothingness. You can't even attempt to move forward when your chipped tooth has fallen out and your breath is foul. I don't look good, and my teeth make it worse. It's pathetic. I can't meet anyone's gaze. I can't talk to them directly. I feel worthless. Don't expect any help from me; I am stuck in a dead end.
"OK, just scream! Scream your lungs out!" Suddenly, the voices stopped, and they never returned. In that moment, I felt a spark. I started fighting back against all this garbage, trying to reclaim my life. Through meditation, diving into the Zeitgeist, watching UFO videos—all sorts of things—I managed to pull myself back. I returned to IRC and Twitter. I met Anonymouse, and we went after Mastercard, Visa, and PayPal for the sake of justice. For the first time, I found a sense of purpose.
I started making actual progress. I began to understand my problems, how they formed, and how I might solve them. I started crafting ambitious plans. It’s wild—I’m actually giving advice to people online, and they genuinely value it. They even seem to like me. So, I guess I'm not a complete lost cause after all.
Today, it has been two years since I started communicating with the world again, though true change is a slow process. It's been thirteen years since I sat at this computer without attending school. However, I know a vast array of software technologies, I am proficient in two programming languages, and I can hack into at least five others if necessary. But none of that matters much when I lack a diploma, a certificate, a decent smile, the drive to chase nothing, or even a single relationship to help me land a job.
It has been thirteen years since I last allowed myself to truly laugh, because if I am being honest, I haven't felt genuinely happy in a very long time. There was a time when I could charm anyone with my silver tongue, but nowadays, I find myself struggling just to get the words out without stumbling over them. More than anything, I find myself aching for a sense of connection and a chance to love deeply again. I know I am finally ready to face this, because as I write these words, I am simultaneously weeping and smiling at the sheer absurdity of it all.
What drove me to write this was a recent encounter that felt much like those old stories where someone stands vigil outside a window only to be mocked; in my case, a group at a local radio station decided to broadcast their ridicule of my recent Twitter outburst right over the airwaves. The sting of being laughed at for my perceived immaturity hit me so hard that it triggered a wave of intense paranoia and doubt, making me feel as though I were losing my grip on reality. I ended up staging a bit of a scene on my timeline, practically demanding they confirm they were actually mocking me so I could prove to myself that I wasn't descending into madness. In a strange way, perhaps I should be thanking them for the clarity.
Friends, I am reaching out because I need help. After thirteen years of fighting through what feels like a lifetime of wasted opportunities—though I suppose I have had a few small victories along the way—I am finally standing on the threshold of a breakthrough, and I find myself needing guidance, advice, or simply a friend. I need someone to talk to, someone who can listen openly, honestly, and from the heart. I am not looking for a prescription, a hospital bed, or a therapist who is too burnt out by their own existential dread caused by the current state of the economy to actually care. I am looking for someone who understands this path because they have walked it themselves.
I am hoping there is someone out there who feels close to my situation. I've mentioned my general location, so please, send me a private message or just leave a reply.