Every day is a fight

I can hear you in the wind

You’re whispering the sweet words of murder and destruction…

“Tumbled” upon this: Whoever fights monsters… Very interesting to read.

I have no real reason to write anything today. I was outta house hearing if it’s possible to get a loan from my bank. It’s not. SHIT. Then I have to lend money from my ex once again if I want to do anything else this year than sitting at home going nuts.

It’s getting closer and closer. Those voices are calling me. No, not THOSE voices. They are back too, talking bullshit day and night. I don’t get their point. Why the hell are they bothering me at all?? I can’t even understand most of their gibberish. I choose to listen cause I have no choice. Trying to drive them away never really worked in the first place. Drugging myself is impossible, don’t have enough stuff and not strong enough anyway. I just lay awake and listen that crap until I eventually fall asleep. Every damn night.

But what I mean are the voices of darkness. The hunger gets bigger. The hunger no food can satisfy. I spend too much time in sites like Mentalzero. I don’t feel anything towards the poor in most cases innocent victims shown. For me they are not humans in that what is happening to them. It’s the exact same experience than when I was in school: seeing people being killed or dead bodies laying around doesn’t make me feel bad for them because for me they are just objects. I can’t – and I must honestly say I have tried to – get myself to realize they have once been living breathing people with personality and feelings. When I watch those, often extremely graphic, acts of violence I mostly only feel mild excitement. Sometimes I might say “whoa that was a blow” or “that guy is surely not going to stand up anymore” or something else like that to myself. And smile a little. Sometimes I might laugh out loud.

After closing the browser I get up to eat or watch TV, I see my knife on the table and maybe take it in my hand. Today I cut some skin off my hand. Not enough to cause bleeding. But before my eyes I can see the dark blade soak in human blood other than my own.

I write this now as answer to a comment I recieved in the post “Hunting”. I have very clear detailed fantasy of how to kill and what is a perfect victim. (This is why sometimes when I read stuff like the link I posted in the beginning of this post I get strange familiar feeling about the way professionals talk about serial killers and the reasons they act the way they act.) The following quote is taken from the site Whoever fights monsters:

//The fantasy is rehearsed in many different ways, many different times by the killer before he acts on it. He is driven to find “the right victim” and to commit “the perfect crime” – one that will fit his fantasy perfectly. But the actual crime never lives up to the standard of his fantasy. The victim may not respond the way she would in his fantasy. There may be some distraction that was not there in his fantasy. The actual crime is never as good as the fantasy. So he is driven to pursue the perfect enactment of his fantasy.//

This also acts as a part of my answer to Jani’s comment. It is said to be like that. But I have not proved it right or wrong. I will only know if I act upon my fantasy. There are many things in life that I don’t know anything about. Some because I cannot put myself in the place of someone else. Or I can do that, I have done that in the past and still do – only with the clear difference I don’t put myself in the place of a victim. I’ve never done that. It’s a strange thought and I’d do it only if pushed by whatever shrinks or law enforcement.

As long as I don’t have a proof I will believe in my fantasy. In my “plastic baby”. Even if it turns out to be just an illusion, as long as it lasts it’s worth all the effort and risk.

And just by the way, on a day like this it’s extremely important that I keep a gun close to me. They have the divine power to calm me down. I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this without my Sig that’s here beside me. I will only stay in my apartment tonight because I have them. I don’t want to lose them. Have also reduced the amount and quality of food I eat, once again. When there’s no energy, there’s no danger. I even made myself eat something with lactose.

This is getting fucked up. But I have one week to go and then I hopefully get at least some help. I guess medication changes once again… I’m not eating the right portion of one of mine cause I ran out of the right mg tabs and now take 200 mg less than I should. It’s probably one reason why my head’s on fire. The sedative has no effect anymore and THAT is rare. When it loses it’s effect things are seriously getting fucked up. I cannot guarantee myself being no danger for people around me anymore. My sanity has begun to crack, like I foresaw. The voices, the hallucinations, uncontrolled fantasies.

Shit I should hold myself together just one more week!! I got something to do on Friday and Saturday where I must stay calm and absolutely awake and “there”, I can’t afford going nuts before those things are done. On one side I fear this ends up in the psychic ward, on the other it would be a great relief!! If I lose control I’d so like to be sure there’s someone to watch over me. That place is only so small, I have no idea if they’d take me in when I just left 1,5 months ago.

That PD thing is heavy on my shoulders. I foresee a bloody blade tonight. Must release some pressure, and to spill my own blood also a little bit helps to the craving inside.

5 Responses to “I can hear you in the wind”

  1. Thanks for taking the time to answer my comments.

    I think a big (though not big enough to be first-time-preventive) difference between you and psychopathic killers is that you’re not superficially motivated. A psychopath has no trouble hurting people in order to gain something relatively trivial — typically grotesque is the seek of sexual gratification.

    You’re more of the “I believe an antisocial act will have a cleansing effect on my soul” type that, upon acting out, either gains the spiritual emancipation they’re after, or realize they’ve just been pursuing a flare. The reason I think so is all this introspection you demonstrate here. I can’t picture you, after committing a bloody act, sitting there, thinking “well that didn’t do much, maybe I just didn’t do it good enough, big enough?” You’d more likely have your answer there, and wouldn’t have to keep on repeating the act, banging your head against the wall so to speak (as thrill-seeking psychopath would). You’d have made your statement and either it makes an effect on others or it doesn’t. Either way, it’d be out of your hands by then, no use doing it over and over again.

    • (Then again, I could be completely wrong about your motives, and you could be just after some cheap kicks after all, but I only have what you’ve written as basis and I don’t think you’ve ever hinted of being just after something as petty as sexual satisfaction.)

    • Well, that indeed describes me pretty well! :) Right at this moment I experience since a few days that the meds actually do their job. I have been feeling extremely bad, I should maybe consider myself lucky of not being in the hospital, but at times (the whole evening til now) I really wish I could be there, safe inside those familiar walls with people there to help me 24/7.

      The whole violence thing is truly a more spiritual experience. At the very beginnings of it, when it first times appeared into my life in early teens it had a strong sexual momentum. I was confused all those years but thinking about killing someone and having their blood all over me brought me some sort of satisfaction. I wrote completely insane short stories about torture and murder – which probably were the ground reason for my that time psychiatrist to suspect a PD. Having those thoughts on very early age is anything but normal. ;) Since I have had long breaks without any violent thinking or behaviour (at least some sort, I have very little memories of the long and intense depressive periods of the past) the whole concept has gone through a change. It’s now more of a way to find peace of mind. Something to satisfy the hunger, a moment to savor, a fullfillment of a long time dream. Like meditation.

      The craving is craving for some balance, peace, and an unusual experience that hopefully would show me the right way in my life. When I was 13 I decided I would kill someone before turning 18. I never acted upon that wish. Not IRL, but in my head, in my dreams I have killed so many people I have lost count looooong ago. ;) When I was young I sought some sort of help in the fantasy world. I hated my life, I still often do, and at those times I tend to escape reality.

      Now when I come to think about it I don’t believe there’s anything like the stereotypical “perfect kill”. Every kill is perfect in it’s special way. For me guns and knives are holy, and therefore just ANY damage they do is perfect. There’s no imperfect cut. Whatever the perfect blade touches becomes a sort of sacrifice. Not to any god though. Sacrifice isn’t the right word. The blood spilled fills a holy function, it flows to become part of the beautiful universe. Blood is the purest of human fluids. I’m not really religious… But blood and spilling blood is beautiful.

      Also, I like the cheap kicks too… ;) But it’s definitely not right done if I attack someone out of nothing just because they happen to annoy me on bus stop or train. It must be planned carefully, I’m not allowed to leave evidence of any kind – only the note which tells whoever finds the victim about why, and who. Today at the bus stop I got high explosive caused by the stupid cackle of those stupid little chickens. I had no knife. But I thought what I would do if I had one. Kill them all and send them to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Where do you think they get their chicks anyway? I hate their voices, how they walk, how they dress, how they laugh, their smoking, their bird brains that are waste of good skulls. Such people are low. I wouldn’t care if a law would forbid them wearing their skintight whatever they are called, with no underwear, cheap whore shoes and purses, all generic clothing and hairstyle that makes it impossible to make difference between each individual. No, they cannot even be called individuals. They are a mass product of the non-existent rules todays kids have. Of smaller kids I cannot even tell which one is male and which one female.

      OK, enough of that. Just wanted to get that out of my head. I’m cracking like a damn nutshell and getting heart stopping adrenaline rage everytime I go out of my home is not very helpful.

      Trying to be strong. There are still reasons to live.

      • Again, thanks for the effort you put into your answers. After leaving the previous comments I felt slightly worried whether I’m too eager to dish out my kitchen psychology. These are deeply personal issues for you and for me to label you as this or that based on the little I (really) know about you is just my typical self-centeredness: I tend to get too fascinated with my own mental constructs to take into account that people I involve in them might not be as enthusiastic about them.

        (Thanks for the video link btw, haven’t had time to properly watch it yet but I will.)

      • Oh, kitchen psychology is always for some good. ;) I don’t mind someone picking and digging my head. Mainly because you only see what I want to be seen and if there are things/issues that are too personal or hurt me very much each time when taken on the table I keep them covered inside. In my past (and present) there are things I keep well hidden. Have not yet found a person I’d trust enough to talk about them. Some of that affects my daily life and some might be connected with issues I’m open about. Many things have roots in my childhood, I was not raised logically and have clear development delay. I’m slow and dull witted sometimes.

        Well, anyway, thanks for your comment. :)

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