#she would try to get the attention of paramedics by being like ''I am genetically related to this child therefore my heart stopped too'' lo

[rxvera]

my mom is literally blowing up my phone being like "but I have hemophilia too 🥺🥺" and like girl....your clotting factor was 49% you only count by 1% and have never had any symptoms

[sadselfhelp]

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks. 

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me. 

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing. 

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble. 

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one. 

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me. 

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

[ecotone99]

[SF] [HM] A New Way Forward

A New Way Forward

“I need to meet with you soon, stoopidmod” My alarm bells were already ringing, when the caller identified himself. “This is Ian, you know me as br0nytail” Great, another neckbeard incel wants to expound his ideas on how the world should work to me personally. Initially, I did not return the call, as I was far too busy sorting my collection of Pokemon cards. My name is Wolfgang, and my reddit id is stoopidmod. In addition to being an avid Pokemon card collector, I am the moderator for a few subreddits, namely; r/newworldorderdreaming r/pokemonnsfw r/pokemontrade Certain members of these subreddits have extensively searched me out, by analysing every post I have ever made. This, combined with serious web searching had enabled a few of them to pinpoint who I am. Unfortunately, I suspect my ‘for sale’ post on a popular website had alerted at least one of them to my phone number (Still for sale, by the way, 2008 unopened package of Hot Pockets – serious enquiries only). So, here we are. “I know you live nearby. We need to meet”. Ugh, no Let’s not. After spending many hours reviewing Br0nytails posts and comments in many subreddits, my initial impressions were confirmed, in an even deeper and more troubling way. His racist, misogynistic, protectionist, and clearly self-hating ideas and thoughts have come through quite clearly. The twenty-third message he had left me was a little more troubling: “I am dying, and I have something I need to tell you, and you only. You are my only friend”. Huh. Only friend. I guess my fifteen or so replies to his comments qualified me! I am a lucky man indeed.

My name is William J. Lynch, and I was appointed to the position of Assistant to the Deputy Director of the United States Space Force (USSF). I have since been seconded to the Department of Homeland Security; due to budget reallocation away from the USFF towards building the Wall (apparently our USSF business cards and snazzy uniforms consumed our operating budget for the fiscal year, rendering our department rather useless). Ian Walthorn, otherwise known as ‘Br0nytail’ on some silly website called Reddit, came to my attention when my new boss called me into his office. ‘We need you to find out what happened to this individual. There is evidence certain events related to this individual could pose a risk to national security. Assemble a team, and let me know what additional resources you require.” One of the first reports I received back from my analysts indicated that Ian had written an ‘application’ to become a member of the USSF, either as an intelligence analyst (citing his googling skills as experience) or volunteer to be one of the first to colonise the moon (according to Ian, extreme social isolation such as living on the moon can be equated to being a lifetime basement dweller from an experience standpoint.) Communication intercepts led me to an individual named Wolfgang McAllister, also known as stoopidmod, as we also discovered.

Ian buzzed me in, and I walked down the greasy carpeted flight of stairs to his basement apartment. The smell of microwaved fishsticks lingered heavily in the hallway. I knocked, and the door immediately swung open. “Come in quickly, Wolfgang”. Ian did not look well. That was obvious. Nor did his apartment, garbage strewn everywhere, evidence of his horrific diet which apparently consisted largely of Cheetohs Puffs and diet Coke . Dingy and dark, with the exception of the glow of two large LED displays identifying his primary connection with the outside world – or so I thought. I could feel a strange buzz permeate my body. “You need to hear this, and it’s going to sound weird” “You don’t look well Ian, do you need help? Are you sick?” “I am disconnecting”. At first I thought he meant he was having trouble with his internet connection. “I am coming apart, physically and mentally, I am literally disintegrating” I suppose he did look a little fuzzy, now that he mentioned it. “You know my ideas on women, politics and immigration, but what you don’t know is my power of prayer. I grew up in stifling religious family. I may have abandoned the religion, but I did not abandon prayer. I just applied it to my more modern thinking. About 6 years ago, I realized that what I was praying for was becoming reality. I truly started understanding that my power of prayer was influencing the world, at first in small ways, escalating to my stronger ideals. It was like a dream coming true. As Ian spoke, I had to keep adjusting my eyes. I could swear that he was getting blurrier. And that buzz I felt, it was getting more intense. What is going on? This all sounds a little incredulous. “I can’t prove to you that I have this power, but I know I won’t be here for long. If you know about it, maybe you can try and follow up on it, see if anything changes once I am gone? “My energy is running out, and I am fading. I can tell that you feel that buzzing sensation. It’s tearing me apart.”

I assembled a team to visit the basement apartment, not really knowing what to expect. The whole block had been cordoned off once the paramedics had called in the Department of Homeland Security. After donning our hazmat suits, we climbed down the stairs in the dim light. The place smelled vaguely of microwaved fish sticks, even through the mask filters. There he was. Or, what was left of Ian. A puddle of goo on the floor, reflecting the blue light of the computer displays. One of my team members, Dr. Lu Shuan, a physicist, poked a stick into the goo, and deposited it into a glass container, which was then placed into her tungsten briefcase. Dr Shuan then brandished her ionization detector to scan the basement apartment. She had a deeply troubled look in her eyes. I met Wolfgand Mcallister the next day. “Explain to me again why you called 911?” “At first I thought I was hallucinating, you know, there was this weird buzzing in the apartment. Then I could see Ian literally coming apart in front of me. Not like falling apart, but breaking up microscopically, with little bits sloughing off onto the floor. “I ran out of the apartment and called 911, they arrived in minutes, and took my name. I hung around outside for about an hour, but then the police arrived and cordoned off the whole area. They took my name and number, and they asked me to leave” Wolfgang indicated to me that Ian was a real jerk, who had a thing for prayer. A ‘neckbeard incel’ (I had to look that up) who believed he was controlling the world through his ‘prayer’. Wolfgang sensed that Ian just wanted to watch the world burn. Later that day, Dr. Shuan called me into her office. “We have some pretty startling news. What we have ascertained is that the deceased, Mr. Walthorn was being bombarded with high speed subatomic particles. The source of these particles came directly from beneath his apartment. Until we ascertain the cause of this, the area must remain cordoned off to all except those with the appropriate clearance. “We ran genetic testing on samples taken from the goo, and determined that specimens were complete enough to run a comparison against our national database. We found an interesting match.”

So, it turns out that Donald J. Trump is a pretty good guy, after all. After two years in office, at a time when the American people, and even his own party, have lost patience with his protectionist policies and backward-thinking, came a shocking change: Donald Trump announced a “New Way Forward” in his State of the Union Address. “I am a changed person, no longer grasping on to the archaic ideals” he said on National TV. And, as such, he quickly cancelled the construction of the wall, invoked new laws to provide support for immigrants and refugees, re-engaged with trading partners globally, appointed females to roles within his executive where seats had remained vacant for years. And this was just the beginning. Suddenly the USA became whole again, unemployment was at its lowest in history, global trade created opportunities for underdeveloped nations. And Trump became admired globally. In fact, over time he would be compared to the likes of Ghandi (ignoring Ghandi’s nasty parts) and Mother Theresa (also, disregarding the nasty bits). People were happy. What most people won’t know is this: Donald J Trump was indeed a puppet. But, not of a foreign power, like Russia or Saudi Arabia like everyone assumed, but of a neckbeard incel known as Br0nytail. Ian thought his power of prayer was manipulating the world towards his ideal. In reality, it was a little more complicated than that, and no coincidence that Donald Trump’s New Way Forward coincided with the demise of one Ian Walthorn. “Ian Walthorn was entangled with the President of the United States”, said Dr Shuan at the highly classified meeting. Einstein didn’t believe in ‘spooky action at a distance’, but apparently Ian and Donald had more than just a quantum entanglement. “Mr Walthorn lived above a geographic anomaly, a natural source of radiation , which was focused through his apartment. This radiation, when passed through the fine dust of Cheetoh Puffs, accelerated to collide and separate particles of Mr Walthorn himself. After determining through genetic match that Mr Walthorn was the unacknowledged child of President Trump, we now know that this genetic connection had a major impact on the quantity of entangled particles shared between the two men. Enough of these particles were entangled with the President, through genetic similarities, that we can ascertain that these two individuals were actually one from a subatomic comparison. What a mess. The fact that Ian Walthorn was now a puddle of goo had changed the world for the better. Wolfgang sat at his desk, reviewing posts in his subs. “You know, I have seen a big change in people’s attitudes, even in these toxic subreddits. Even when I follow the news, it’s less about global uncertainty, and more about new developments that are progressive. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there are still stabbings and stuff that get reported, but since guns have been banned, there just seems to be a lot less violence.” The world indeed was heading to a better place.

Except that there is this super angry pre-teen in North Korea, who happened to reside over a strange geographic anomaly, and who just may have a genetic link to another person in power.

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