Snook - 4 Hours of Unhinged Confession Threads

Episode Date: July 19, 2026

This is 4+ Hours of Unhinged Confession Threads! This is a megacompilation of some of the most wild, disturbing and scary stories I have ever read from reddit... I hope you enjoy! And let me know if you would like to see more videos like this in the future! Thank you all for listening! Make sure you rate the podcast 5 stars and follow! Thank you all so much for listening! Make sure to subscribe to the Patreon for early access videos and many more perks! ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.patreon.com/SnookYT⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Also! Go follow me on Spotify and Instagram!  Yes, my voice is human.  The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

I faked cancer. Hello, Snook. I'm a passive viewer and watch one of your confession videos. I don't expect you to add these to your videos, but I really need to get these off of my chest. I'll be sending you three confessions, apologies for flooding your inbox, all of which are horrible and unforgivable. But I feel like I'd feel a little better if I shared them, even if they just sit in your inbox. My first confession is that I faked cancer. When I was 18 to 20 years old, I faked having cancer.

I can't remember what kind, but I did it to avoid facing the consequences of skipping classes when I was in college. To explain further, I was deeply depressed in college, to the point where I never left my room, other than to grab food or attend class when there was a presentation. I even went as far as finding a website that provided fake doctor's notes for you if you paid a fee, which I stupidly did. I also need you to know that I was going through a hypomanic state, which, to explain my state during that time,

to better understand how hypomania looked like for me was, it felt like a half-dream state. Everything I did was technically under my control, but it wasn't coming from a rational place. I wasn't hallucinating or hearing voices, but I was emotionally erratic, spending money I didn't have, chasing dopamine like it owed me something,

and of course, faking a horrible disease. It was a horrible time, and I made horrible decisions. I convinced pretty much everyone I had cancer because they had no real reason not to believe me. I even S-Hed myself to make it look like I had a surgery scar. I never asked for money or sought support from charities. So while what I did was horrible and fucking detestable, I didn't technically commit any crimes. I'm 28 now, fully lucid, and in control of my actions. I regret the hell out of what I did and pledged to never.

lie again, though. It is something I still struggle with. I lied a lot as a child to protect myself from a horribly abusive situation. I was physically, spiritually, mentally essayed as a child, and lying was a survival tactic. My mom was actually diagnosed with breast cancer in late 2022, and unfortunately, the cancer has spread to her lymphatic system. It's not looking good. But seeing my family, seeing my mother going through cancer and knowing I lied about having it myself, makes me see so angry at myself. I'm aware I was in a horrible mental state, but still, I will live with that guilt every day. I did have a therapist, but unfortunately passed away from cancer, but I'm finding another to further help my mental health. I'm still in a bad spot, but I am much more mentally

sound and fully acknowledged that despite my horrible mental state when I was younger, it is no excuse to fake having such a horrible disease that affects so many people today, including people I love very much. And for those wondering if I ever confess to faking the cancer, no, I have not. And I don't think I ever will. I catfished people. Hello, Snook, this is the second confession I'm sending you again.

Sorry for flooding your inbox. This one is about how I catfish numerous people from the ages of 13 to, I think, 20-something. I think my early 20s is when I finally grew a brain and stopped being an absolute scumbag. Not that me stopping absolves me from my detestable actions. To provide some much-needed context before I tell you more about my terrible actions, I'm a survivor of horrible abuse. From the ages of 6 to 14, I was abused in every way someone can be. I was raised in a very religious household,

and my abuser discovered quite early on that I was exhibiting behavior of a gay person. Basically, I liked people of the same gender. I'm non-binary, but was born a female. Let's call my abuser Tremaine, since they were almost exactly like the evil stepmother from Cinderella, but on steroids. Anyway, Trey Mane was a devout Christian and basically raised me in a conversion camp. I wasn't allowed to attend sex ed. I was accused of trying to be S-word inappropriate with my own family members. Tremian treated me as a S-word rival with my own father.

It was 50 shades of fucked up. I wasn't allowed to use the internet because Trey Mane accused me of being a raging P-word addict, and I thought I'd look up inappropriate videos while online. Man, I could go on and on and on, but basically, I had horrible self-esteem issues, extreme body dysmorphia, and I developed an ED, later on in my life, which I still suffer from at the ripe old age of 28, and I hated who I was, what I was. Being gay was a sin, therefore I was a monster, and deserved to burn in hell. So, to cope with these terrible thoughts and feelings, I pretended to be,

other people. I catfished my fellow classmates, created untold amounts of drama. I was eventually found out, I mean, I wasn't being smart about it, but I ended up escaping from my abusive living situation and living with my other parent. Trey Mane was my step-parent and their partner at the time. I continued catfishing people there, and I told people I had an older brother and pretended to be him. I even dated one of my own friends. I managed to keep up that lie until I was in the 10th grade. Along the way, I pretended to be so many different people. To me, it was nice for being someone else than myself. I could be anyone I wanted to be, do whatever I wanted to do, date whoever I wanted to.

But the older I got and the more I healed for my trauma, the more I realized how horrible catfishing was, how it destroyed lives and made people so distrustful. I thought back to all the people's lives I had potentially destroyed, all the trauma I had caused for my sins. Finally, I stopped catfishing people. I've told my best friend about my catfishing tendencies, and unfortunately, I don't regret what I did. That's something I'm actively working to address. And if I ever meet one of the people I harmed in person, I will go up to them and apologize. I don't expect to be forgiven.

Hell, I don't deserve it. If you end up putting this in a video snook, I want people to know that I got my due diligence. I was catfished for two years by someone. and I got a nice dose of reality. My best friend even roast my ass from my past mistakes and fully tells me I got what I deserved with getting myself catfished. And for anyone wondering,

I am in a much better place now. I'm 28 years old, non-binary, and a raging pansexual, and damn proud of who I am. But for anyone who is currently, or is thinking of catfishing people, don't, just don't. I was lucky were the people I affected,

never committed self-deletion, but that is something that can and will happen if you fuck with people's lives like that. People aren't play things. They aren't there to help you make you feel better about yourself. You will regret it later in life. And if, God forbid, someone commits self-deletion as a result of your horrible actions, it will destroy you from the inside out. And to be frank, I hope it does.

I may not regret from my past actions, but as I said before, I'm actively working to make sure I feel guilt, that I feel horrible for the lives I toyed with carelessly and cruelly, all because I had such a low opinion of myself. Don't catfish. It can and will ruin lives. Thank you, Snook, for the space. For real, your community, this corner of the internet,

offers something rare, a place where people can just confess with minimal judgment without fixing, just listening. Writing this out is a small part of my healing. I found that sometimes, sharing, something that's eating you up helps. Focusing on what we can control helps. And reminding ourselves to honor the effort it takes just to keep going, that helps too. So here it goes. I work as a school psychologist slash school counselor. And during my very first week on the job,

I was asked to attend a meeting about a student. Let's call him Jude. He had been on our case load previously and remained there when I joined. So I had to meet with his father, Mark, to follow up on recommendations from the summer. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for what I was about to learn. Mark is in his late 70s or early 80s. He has two adult children from a previous marriage in France, but he abandoned them and their mothers years ago, cutting off all contact without explanation.

He then moved to another country and entered a transactional relationship with a sex worker, paying her regularly for sexual favors. She became pregnant, reportedly without his knowledge, and gave birth to twins. Jude is one of those twins. The other didn't survive infancy. According to what was shared, Mark shook the baby in frustration when he wouldn't stop crying and the child died. Rather than face justice, Mark fled the conjure with Jude and settled in the one where I now work. Jude was in second grade when I met him, and yes, he knows about his twin.

Not because anyone lovingly explained it a tragic story, but because Mark uses it as a threat. He tells Jude things like, you don't want to end up like your brother when he misbehaves. Imagine living with that. Jude isn't allowed to go anywhere except school. No extracurriculars, no sleepovers. He has no contact with his biological mother. And I don't know he even knows she's alive.

He doesn't know he has older half-siblings either. His whole world is just his father and whichever much younger girlfriend Mark is living with at the time. One of those girlfriends, in her 20s, hit Jude in the mouth after two weeks because he didn't want to call her mom. She broke his tooth over that. We did what we could. We documented.

We reported. We followed every single protocol we are supposed to. But then, in November, two months after I joined, Mark withdrew Jude from school. Just like that. No forwarding address. No transfer request. No responses to calls, emails, or any form of contact. He vanished.

Again, just like he did with his first family. And I can't help but wonder if that first meeting set something off. If my presence, my questions made him feel the school was watching, that Jude was in danger of being taken away, that we knew too much. And so he ran. I know it's not really my fault. I know I did what I was trying to do. But I still feel guilty.

I still wonder where Jude is, if he's okay, if he's even alive. That was my first year on the job, my first week even. I've had many meetings since, but none like Jude's. And I don't think I'll ever forget him. And first off, thank you so much for sharing this story. I really appreciate you sharing it to the email and to the channel for me to read. I'll try my best to give you some, you know, words of, you know, acknowledgement or make you feel better.

But I really don't think you should feel guilty at all. I mean, in all reality, Jude was just, you know, had a very rough upbringing, very bad start in his life. But you gave him a place to talk. I mean, you could be the first person in his entire life that even acknowledged that he was a person, that he had feelings. I mean, his father obviously didn't want him. His mother, he never even met. And so you might have been one of the very first people in his life that really acknowledged him, which is an amazing thing. for you to do. I think you did everything in your power you could have possibly done.

It's unfortunate that his father took him away from you, but I mean, you can't really control that what he does. I really hope that Jude is out there doing all right, that he's still alive, that he's still well, and hopefully got out of that situation. But I really don't think he should feel guilty because I think you did your job and you did it right. You made Jude feel heard, you talked to him, and you made him, like I said, feel acknowledged, which may be the first in his life. Very sad, but true. And so I don't think you should feel guilty.

And just thank you so much for sharing this. And on to the next one. Hello, Snook. I've been an on and off watcher of your channel for months now. Your videos are something I always have playing in the background, whether I'm doing schoolwork or just gaming. What I appreciate most is how you genuinely seem to care about the people and the stories you tell.

I could go on about why your content stands out to me, but that's not why I'm writing it. Right now, I'm in the process of getting screened and hopefully diagnosed and treated for schizophrenia. My entire life, I've seen, heard, and physically felt things that weren't real. I wanted to share a few of those experiences, not just to get them off my chest, but in hopes that someone else out there might feel a little less alone. One of the very first stories that comes to mind happened when I was around 14. By then, I'd already experienced multiple hallucinations, shadow figures,

voices when no one was home, eyes watching me from the windows. I genuinely believed I was psychic and could see spirits. One night, I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep when I felt something in the room with me. It felt malicious. That's the thing about these hallucinations. Sometimes they just feel eerie or unsettling, but this one felt actively hostile. I could sense it staring at me from the corner of the room. Then it started crawling across my bed, this massive king's bed and came to a stop right in front of me. I opened my eyes and sawed clearly. It was a tall, humanoid figure, completely black and white like it was pulled from an old TV show. It wore a black suit and had stark white skin. It must have been 10 feet tall, bent at a perfect right angle to meet

my gaze, and its smile. I still remember it. Its cheeks curved into its eyes, completely unnatural, completely terrifying. I wondered if it was sleep paralysis. but I could move. Eventually I grabbed my phone and shine the light on it and just like that it was gone. I've never seen that figure again, even four years later. I've had some other visual hallucinations, but the delusions are sometimes worse. For a while, I was convinced someone was living in my attic, even when my parents assured me there wasn't. I couldn't shake the fear. I'd lock my door at night, sprint past the attic entrance to my room, and sleep with the lights on every night. And then there were the audible hallucinations. One of the scariest happened during my senior year. I was taking a nap in my

sociology class after finishing a test. When I woke up, I heard a loud, deep voice coming from the school intercom. It was inhuman, muffled, and way too loud, but no one else reacted. That's when I realized it had to be hallucination. Still, it rattled me. I have more stories, but those are a few that have stuck with me and to anyone out there going through something similar, you are not alone and you are not crazy. These experiences are overwhelming and there is help. For me, talking about them helps so much. Schizophrenia is misunderstood and often unfairly stigmatized, but living with it doesn't make you a bad person. It just means you need support. So if you're struggling, please reach out. You're real, you're here, and you matter.

And thank you so much for sharing these. And I think your final words on your, you know, story or email really are impactful. You're real, you're here, and you matter. I mean, that could apply to every single one of these confessions. I mean, just don't feel bad. Talk to somebody. That helps a lot. And if you have any sort of, you know, something happened mentally. I still think even mental health is so under-talked about, so stigmatized still. so if you're suffering with anything mentally just talk to someone uh reach out to a therapist psychiatrist someone to help you out because mental health is so so serious and so important so if any of you watching are you know suffering with anyone you're not alone and uh it's not bad to need help

uh you guys are the best and uh just uh stay healthy and if you fear you might be coming down with something whether be schizophrenia depression or just need to talk to somebody just Just reach out to somebody and yeah, never handle it alone. That's definitely the worst possible choice. So just talk to somebody. And thank you so much for the kind words in the beginning of your story. I really appreciate that. I really appreciate you.

Enjoying the videos. It means so much. And on to the next one. I am not okay. Dear Snook, I would first like to say that your videos are entertaining. They help pass time as I listen to your stories while I do chores around my house. Good to see your channel is doing great. One thing to note is that this may be a long confession, so feel free to shorten it to your liking.

Now, as for the confession, it's something I've been holding in for a long time. It's something people may understand, but not agree. I don't know if I should get help because I think it's something that can help me in the future. There are thoughts I have about harming people. It's something I think about at least once a day. It's not impulsive or anything, just thought. I think of scenarios where I kidnap an individual and subject them to torture and kill them. I only think of this to people who deserve it, like Mr. Swirl, a notorious child, Mward,

or the guy in Australia who killed a litter of puppies and their mom while committing acts of zoo love. I know people like them deserve to be punished not only by law, but by my hand as well. I know killing in general is bad and shouldn't be a solution, but to me, people like them deserve to be tortured and killed. It's only fair to people or other living beings that they've hurt. And not only them, but people who hurt the innocent. I even think about these scenarios when I work and even before going to sleep because it helps me sleep.

I like it. I used to not be like this at all. I was once very religious and had a strong belief in Christianity, but certain events in my life caused me to lose my faith in religion and certain people in my life. When I started having dark thoughts, I condemned myself because I know they weren't right. But at the same time, I like the idea of causing pain to those people. So I let myself have these thoughts.

I thought I couldn't be saved at the time, but that time was the best time to have tried saving myself. Now, I firmly believe that I must do something about these people that live in this world. I used to be outgoing while still being a little introverted. I had friends and a social life, at work, college, hangouts. Now I've closed myself to everyone, and it's by choice. I want to be alone, and I see it as a good thing. I don't have to deal with anything but myself. I do think of starting family when I'm older, like in my 30s,

but I don't know how I'm going to do it. But what I do know that I must do are two things. One, use the pain and suffering I've experienced to motivate me do better. I think of going to college to study politics so that I can help and serve the people of my city. I want to change the world for better. I want to be able to help my city flourish in every way possible. I also plan on going to the military to get experience and discipline needed to be a police officer, which then I will become familiar with the law and the people of the community. Second one is exactly as the first one, but with crime. I will be an experienced person

when it has comes to the things I will do. It's going to be terrible. but I will do it for the right reasons. And I know this won't be a factor of redemption, as I would be committing crimes like theft and murder. I wouldn't expect people to agree with my actions, but I will evidently do these things for the greater good. As of now, I'm debating on going to college or the military. I have a comfortable life as I work as a mechanic and make good money,

but I want more. I've always been poor, and I know what it's like to not have things you desperately need, which is why I want to move up in life. Not just for me. but to those who need it. And thank you so much for sending this in. And I just want to say hurting people or killing these people won't solve anything, but ruin your life. That's just not how the world works. You can't go out there, kill people, and people will just forgive you, and the law will

just forgive you. I think your best case scenario, if you want justice, get into politics, like you said, get into being a police officer, an ethical police officer. Do something. coming along those lines and you might be able to feel kind of that justice be served to these people. Although going out to killing and torture them is not the way to do it. I really hope you don't do that. I really hope you can get more of what you want. Go to college. I'd recommend that. Go to the military if you decide to go that route. Both of those are very productive things. I think you can get a very great life out of both of those careers or educations. and I'm sure you can do better, but I don't think, you know,

thieving your way or murdering your way to justice is the way to do it. I really hope you think about this more and read some comments on this video. I recommend everyone viewing to leave some feedback on this guy's story and tell them what you think he should do. So please, if you're listening to this, please read the comments, listen to my advice. I know it might not be right, but You know, it's a little bit more down the middle of the road, a little bit more sane, so to say. I'm not calling you insane, but killing and torturing is not the way to go.

I really hope you can think about this. Thank you so much for sending this in, and I hope the feedback helps. On to the next one. A Haunted Man's Confession. Not mine. I'll explain. Hello, Snook. I've been listening to your channel for a little bit now in one of your confession videos popped up.

I'd like to make a confession and ask for forgiveness, but, not for me, is for my father. Weird, I know, but hear me out if you'd be so kind. A bit of background. My father was raised old school Catholic back in the 50s, where he grew up there were a lot of farms and even more poor people. As a young child, he was basically an indentured servant. He was given away to a local farmer to work on the farm in exchange for food in a home. He lived close to his parents and his siblings. His father was a nice man, but his mother was basically a monster in every way that means. In order to escape that life, my father enlisted into the Marine Corps as soon as he was able to. By now, this was just in the middle of the Vietnam War and my father did two tours, voluntarily.

At the time, he thought he would rather be over there and not come back than be stateside, because no one cared about him either way. The things that happened to our soldiers over there, I don't think anyone could ever. ever possibly imagine, but put a young man who grew up thinking he was garbage in the mix to start with, and you have a recipe for guaranteed PTSD. What I'm about to type, I please, I beg you that if you do, and if you choose to read this, and everyone else, please listen with an understanding heart, please understand, war is literal hell, and Vietnam especially holds literal nightmares worse than what I'm going to type here.

I can only tell you what I was told. And according to my mother, what I was told wasn't even the worst of it. My father, a decorated veteran with three purple hearts and then some, when he came back and my parents had my brother and I was a stone cold sober man. He never drank a drop of alcohol for good reason, but I'll come back to that part later. He was a respected police officer. His neighbors loved him. He helped him when he could.

He helped his husband. elderly neighbor plower driveway every year. He would give his fishing gear away to local neighborhood kids. He became a shoulder to cry on for a friend of mine when she was going through hard times. On the job, he was the guy you called when you needed a level-headed, fair officer unseen. He believed greatly in justice and the law, to the point he turned to some crooked officers. He helped train a lot of officers throughout the decades. He served his community. He did all of this as a single dad after my mother ran off with another guy. This is a man who suffered from severe PTSD with undiagnosed bipolar disorder. He did his best to provide for us, but we were dirt poor.

My mother really took him to the cleaners and a judge just let her do it. But that's another story. One night, I was 10 years old at the time. I woke up and heard talking in a living room. It was my dad's voice, but I couldn't make out what he was saying, even though his voice was very clear. My room was situated so that I could see past two bedrooms, straight through into our small living room, and the walkway into our kitchen. I quietly got out of bed and slowly peeked my head around the doorway of my room. On the couch I saw my father, cleaning a gun. That wasn't unusual.

Being a police officer, he worked odd hours. He was also an avid hunter and outdoorsman, the kind that city boys called to take them hunting and pretend they got a deer, moose, bear, whatever. This time, though, it was different. It was terrifying. His face, it was absolutely blank. His eyes were strange, as if his pupils were dilated as far as they possibly could be. What he was saying, almost chanting.

I later found out it was in Vietnamese. I don't know exactly what he was saying, but it was said in a lifeless, monotone voice. As if someone pressed stop on whatever he was saying. He stood up and turned to face. down the hallway, gun at the ready, and his face totally blank. Lifeless. I'm not ashamed to admit I almost did something involuntarily out of fear. I thought whatever that thing wearing my dad's face was looking right at me, and I was going

to no longer resist in the next few minutes. Almost as soon as I thought that he stiffly turned again, and robotically opened the side door, walked out into the night, closed and locked the door. I must have cried myself to sleep because I woke up under my bed where I was hiding from my own father. I'm grateful to say I'd never seen him do it again. I have no idea where he went, what he did, or why he looked and acted so strangely. A few years later, my father took me out to the local camping side of the beach. This was a yearly thing that every family did during the summertime.

My dad and I were the last ones to be awake. My dad had a huge, nasty scar on his shoulder that must have been nine inches long, about three inches wide and just looked like it had been ripped to pieces. I reached out and ran my finger on it and finally had the courage to ask my dad what it was like over in the war. He did the normal.

It's not something I really want to talk about. You're a girl. You don't need to know about such things, etc., etc. We both got quiet for a bit when he finally started speaking. Do you know why I call you Barbie? I said no. I just thought it was short for my real name, which is it, but he never called me by that name. I knew a little girl. She used to hang around our platoon. She was clearly an orphan. She had these big brown eyes that were so innocent. I have no idea why she hung around, probably because we were giving her some of

her food. Some of the guys started calling her Bambi for those big brown eyes. She was smart as a whip too. She wanted to learn what we were doing, I think just out as childlike curiosity, so we let her polish our empty shell casings. She was very proud of what she thought a huge help to all of us guys. She liked me a lot, was always right next to me. One day, sitting with her just behind me, I felt something hot, just ripping through my arm. I turned to look at my arm, and that's when I saw Bambi, on her back on the ground. Her little hand was there in the mud, like a little hand. was reaching out for me. Her big brown eyes dimmed as I held her in my arms. You remind me a lot of her.

Smart as a whip, always by my side. My girls, I'm sorry I could only save one of you. I love you more than life itself. That's the first time I saw my father cry. He got up and went into his tent and just like he did every day of his life, pretended the nightmare wasn't real. I truly believe he wished he had just sat a little bit to the left and been there to block the bullet. He never forgave himself. The second time I saw my father cry was a year later. We were on a fishing trip at night on his boat. We had our poles on the water.

The lights of the town were reflecting off the water. It was beautiful. I was telling him something about a fight I had with my best friend. It was something petty about her asking my then-boyfriend out on a date. He said, Friends should never be taken for granted, but be careful who you trust. Back in Vietnam, there was a little old lady who used to give me and my platoon sandwiches all the time. We thought she was such a sweet old lady.

We never knew where she was getting the meat for these sandwiches, but we never really asked. We figured it was dog or cat. Then we started noticing some weird marks on our fallen comrades and body bags before they were flown back home. A few of us followed her one day to the hut she was living in. We found out where she had gotten the sandwich meat from. I'll leave that story at that and me seeing tears running down my dad's face. I'm pretty sure you can figure it out and I don't need to go into more detail about what one of my dad's buddies did when he snapped.

My young girl mind had no idea how to respond to that story and it was only as I got older that I realized two things about my dad. He was incredibly tortured by what he had seen and done. He lived in a world where he wore a mask of normality. and while he truly loved his kids, friends, and community, he lived in absolute distrust and terror of anyone and everyone. As I said, he never drank a drop of alcohol. He knew it would drop his mask and things would go very wrong.

For example, he had to have knee surgery. He asked the nurse and doctors to please, to not give him any pain meds, not realizing they would have to as he came out of the surgery, being completely out of it from the various medications my dad stood up on his bed, screaming stuff, full-blown flashback stuff. He had two of the security guards and headlocks. It was going after security staff.

It took his then-girlfriend and a few friends from the police station called in for help. A good hour to talk him down as the meds left his system. That's the level of self-control he battled for every day of his life. Before he passed, he kept having nightmares of nuns with black eyes tormenting him. biting him, hating him, screaming at him all night. He was frightened. My dad was a good man that had terrible things happened to him that he carried to the grave. So what I'm asking from you or anyone that now knows part of his pain, for his sake is just forgiveness. Would you, could you, or anyone that reads or hears this, please give a Catholic man's wounded, saddened, haunted, haunted soul,

for the things he did, taken to his grave in silence. He can't give his confession, so I will for him. Other than that, I don't think anyone else has. Thank you for your time possibly reading this. I ask only that my email and last name be kept private. Barbie. Thank you, Barbie, for your dad's confession, and I really appreciate you sending that in,

and we've had multiple war stories in these confession videos now, and every single time I read them, it just keeps proving that war is literal hell, as you said. Thank you so much for sharing that, and I obviously forgive your father, and I'm sure everyone else watching will. Thank you so much for sharing. I hope you're doing all right now.

Thank you for sending it in, and on to the next one. Hey, Snook, first of all, I like to thank you for your top-notch content. When I saw your Confessions video, I thought of two things. how deeply I appreciate the safe space you have made and how I really need to get this one off my chest. This is something nobody knows. Even my husband, which I have known for seven years and married for three, only my therapist knows, so here it goes.

I, 30 years old, live in a Middle Eastern country. Not an Arab one, I can't say more than that. I'm positive no one from my social circle is interested in this kind of content and will not come across it at all, despite the fact that it's very deep and stressful to me. so I can't say where I'm from, and if you need to call me, just call me Ruru. I remember having an uncle who no longer exists. This is not a ghost story, not a doppelganger, or even a metaphysical experience.

It's a story of a man who got caught in addiction and slowly faded. When I was little girl, even before the edge of school, I remember him vividly, a tall, tan man with a very handsome figure. He was my mom's brother and my only uncle. I have memories of him carrying me on his shoulder, taking me for ice cream and playing in the park. Then, slowly, he came home less often. My grandma and my mom started arguing with him. I remember them crying, shutting the door on my face since they thought it was too much for a kid to handle, but I understood it completely. He had gotten into heroin.

He must have been around 22 or 23 at the time. Since I know he's the second child and younger than my mom, he was a soldier back then. Military service is compulsory here. And in his base, he had some bad friends who offered him opium, then cocaine, and at last heroin, which worked like an eraser. Drugs erased him from my family, from our memories, and even from himself. He slept in the streets, started stealing gold and pricing materials from our homes, and after some time, didn't come home at all. One of my first memories, which has become a core memory for me, is a very unfortunate one,

including him. I was in my room. My mom emphasized I don't come out since she had a very important phone call. I was peeping from the very small gap left from the door being shut and watching my mom and grandma calling the police and my uncle. By then, he had sunk deep and was at a very awful state. This was after multiple interventions, rehab visits, and countless efforts by my family. My grandma called the police, said there's an addict right across the street dealing and using heroin right now, and demanded an arrest. She cried uncontrollably, and my mom did too.

I saw this at six years old, a desperate mom, calling the cops on his own son, and just crying like crazy. They thought I didn't know. I kept asking where Uncle Deere was, and all they told me was, he's on a trip or went away for some time. This was the 90s in the Middle East, so people weren't thinking about taking a little girl to therapy to cope with this type of loss. I don't remember if this was the last time he was here, but I know he kept peeking back. He went away from her lives, but showed up in small glances. I remember two or three family supported rehab efforts, like some years later. My mom's friend called from another city and told us he found her address and went there asking for money.

I cried while writing this. One time I overheard my dad telling my mom that he saw him sitting on road out of town begging. I asked dad, who? Who was sitting there? silence. Utter silence. In the following years, the family started ripping him off from the old albums. That athletic, handsome young boy, smiling to the camera, suddenly became a space. Last week, I saw a wedding photo of my mom and dad from 1992.

He was there in the background. A tall figure overshadowing everyone else. Smiling with confidence. Unaware he was going to be completely erased. I couldn't look anywhere else in the picture. I only saw him. Why didn't anyone tell me where he went? Or is he even alive now?

I was a child, but I thought I could handle it. I imagine this is the rube of my fascination with all the dark, mysterious, and creepy material, especially in the genre of missing people. I read their files and articles daily. I'm fascinated by them. Where are they? What happened to them? Why did my family stop looking for him?

He was far too deep in to be saved. I understand that. But wouldn't a grave be nice, a physical place for his mother, now 70 years old, with multiple psychological issues to grieve his son? He just vanished into thin air. And worst, talking about him became taboo. My grandma started telling everyone that he only had two daughters. In forms and medical history exams, we all wrote the same thing.

I went to school telling everyone I only had an aunt and things went on like he just never existed. I started a search for him in my 20s. I searched grave websites, both of my hometown and the capital, where I reside now. I ran through missing person databases multiple times. I even thought about going to be one of the famous shows that do this kind of thing. Renutative families, helping people become clean, saving abused women, like a Middle Eastern doctor, Phil. I called the show. They started evaluating, but needed documents.

And all documents were gone. My grandma is not in a state to help me find a birth certificate of such things, and the family has moved on. I sometimes dream about him. I remember seeing the world as a kid on my uncle's shoulders. I miss him when I see people my age with good supportive uncles, with big families who are close. So this is my confession. Thanks, Snook, Antfor. Everyone's seeing this.

Please tell your children the truth. Let them grief. And just, wow, that was a great, greatly written story and confession. just the way you kind of use an analogy of an eraser, how heroin is an eraser. Wow, that was just, I don't know, that really stunned me and a very emotional story, very touching as well. Thank you so much for sharing. I really appreciate you opening it up and just be willing to share with the channel and with me. Yeah, I think a lot of people will gain great value from this story and from this confession. it's just important to be open. Talk to people. Out of all the confessions I've read, just talk to people, but it sounds like you're in the scenario where it's hard to talk to people because, like you said, it's taboo for your family. And I don't know if you'll ever find out what happened to your uncle, but keep searching, keep looking, and maybe one day you'll find them, hopefully.

But I wish you best luck, and thank you so much for sharing. I appreciate it so much. On to the next one. I was a horrible sibling. Hello, Snook, this is my third and final confession, and the one I feel the most guilt for. Once this message sends, I'm deleting this email. But as a child, I was horribly abused. I spoke about the abuse in a past confessional email, but to sum it up from the ages of 6 to 14, I was physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and essayed by step-parent. Now, that step-parent, well, called Tremain, and my biop-parent had two children.

children together, my half-siblings. My first sibling was born when I was six, which is when the abuse started. My second sibling was born when I was seven. I was a horrible sibling to them. I put them through the same abuse I went through. I won't go into any detail because A, I'm ashamed, and B, it's not my story to tell. I treated these two so terribly from the moment they were brought into the world and up until I moved out. To provide some context so I can give you a better idea, my grandfather was a diagnosed psychopath, manipulative, abusive, unfeeling, textbook psycho. My mother exhibited the same symptoms as her father. Manipulative, abusive, she had emotions, but they weren't, I don't know, as strong as a normal person's emotions would be.

According to my grandma, my mother was super happy when she was pregnant with me, which leads me to believe she had an imbalance of some kind. Anyway, I was apparently a happy baby, but as I got older, I was cruel. I seemed to feel joy whenever I harmed my cousins or caused them distress. I would lie through my teeth, and overall, I was just a problematic child who desperately needed a psychological help, and in horrible abuse from a step-parent, and I was pretty much a feral human when I finally escaped from my abusive home. Now, for those of you who don't know, it's common for children experiencing abuse to lash out

to those weaker than them, which, unfortunately, were my siblings. My biological parent has told me time and time again that they both suffer from PTSD. I'm willing to bet that they have C-P-D from the shit I put them through, nightmares, and have a hard time recovering from the terror I instilled upon them. As a result, I have pulled away from the family. I refuse to force my way back into their lives unless they are ready for it. I've gone to therapy. Unfortunately, my therapist has passed away a couple of months ago. And during my sessions, my therapist has told me that while my actions aren't excused, what I did because of my abuse and undiagnosed mental illnesses, I have ADHD, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression, hyper arousal,

which is like paranoia, but not as strong. I can never undo what I did to my siblings. Never. But what I can do is give them the space and time they need to heal. If they want me back in their lives, fantastic. We'll do that on their own. own terms and at their own pace. But if they never want to see me again, I completely understand and I will never try to force my way back into their lives. In a fucked up way, I know what they're going through, the nightmares, the triggers, the dread of potentially having to see that person again. But unlike my abusers, I refuse to disrupt their healing journey. I will do what I can to help them heal. But other than that, I will stay out of their lives unless they say differently.

Anyway, those are my three confessions. If you do end up reading them in a video, I hope my confessions maybe help people in some weird way, or maybe they encourage others to send in their confessions or even take accountability for their past sins. Something I still need to do myself. Either way, thanks for providing a platform for people to take some load off. Stay awesome, Snook. Hey, Snook, I'm a huge fan of all your videos, and I hope everything is going well for you. This story is directly from my dad who was involved in the global war on terror.

Also, English isn't my first language, so sorry for any grammar errors. My dad was in Iraq from 2003 until 2006 and took part in Operation Iraqi Freedom. He never really spoke about his experiences since he lost a lot of close friends during and after his tour. But a few days ago, I asked him about it after he watched the film Warfare Together. This is what he said. Me. So, what was your experience like over there? That film was heavy. Dad, it hit hard. Yeah, but what would be your most standout experience from it? What stuck with you? Well, the thing that stuck with me was the smell. The smell of burning hair, gun smoke, and blood.

Some days, I still take five showers just to try and get the smell off, but it never leaves. One day, me and my group were clearing houses in some tiny little dirt have village. village, looking for enemy weapon caches or a secret outposts or whatever the objective was that day, but we didn't find anything. Just rocks and a bunch of farmers barely surviving in the desert. I remember seeing a kid in a red soccer shirt waving at me as we were walking through the village. I waved back. Eventually, we finished up the mission and got back inside the wire at the end of the day. But not even 24 hours later, we had to return to the same village, only to find that it had been glassed, completely leveled. There was a huge crater in the center of the village

where a house used to be. Dead donkeys, limbs, and other viscera were spread all over the ground, still smoldering from the blast. And there it was. A red, half-burned, blood-soaked soccer shirt stuck to the side of a wooden cart with a gaping hole in the front of it. The corpse of a kid it belonged to was about 30 feet away, barely there, no arms. In the top of a little. It was a half a little bit of a his head was gone. Apparently, the enemy had bombed thinking we were setting up an FOB there or maybe moving supplies through it since we had brought large vehicles through. They must have assumed something. They bombed it, even though we had left hours earlier. Maybe it was our fault. Maybe if we hadn't gone there to begin with, they'd still be alive. That kid would be plain. Maybe it's our fault.

This was the one and the only story my dad has ever told me. The only reference I ever had to was military experience was his medals and a few photos of him with his buddies in Iraq, but after what he said, I understood why he never really spoke about it. I don't know if he was special forces or something. Maybe that's why he kept it all to himself, but still. Thank you for reading. If this ends up in a video, you can just call me Robert. And if it doesn't, I hope you still enjoyed the story and appreciated the read. Thank you. And Robert, thank you so much for sharing this. story and if you can't please thank your dad for his service uh i'd really appreciate that and uh yeah this is a heavy story i mean i watched that movie as well warfare it's a heavy movie for sure if you

haven't watched it i'd recommend watching it it's a war movie i mean it's really you know depressing dark but um it's it's a good movie um it really shows just the horrors of war and how it shouldn't be idolized at all no i feel like nowadays with video games movies and all that stuff. War seems more idolized than it really should be. And that movie really sets and shows how war is hell. And I really appreciate your dad's story and his sacrifices. And I think he, you know, it would be hard to live with yourself after war, but I hope he can find some sort of, you know, solace or relief from his guilt because he doesn't deserve to live with the guilt for the rest of his life. Yeah. And the kid with the red shirt, that's just so tragic. And I don't think he should

call it his fault. Yeah. Thank you so much for sharing this story. I didn't really have a lot to add, but this one just kind of hit. This one, this one was pretty heavy, but thank you. And on to the next one. Hey, Snook, so I've got a couple of confessions to share, and I'm sending this from a burner email, because while I trust this to say anonymous, I really can't risk anyone, including you figuring out it's me. My real name isn't Anna. That's just the email. But you can call me Anna for the sake of the video. I'm 25 female. A few years back, I lived with two girls. Let's call them Kylie and Layla. I got along pretty well with Kylie, but Layla, not so much. We all moved in together because the housing market in London was an absolute nightmare. This was the first time I'd ever lived with

housemates. I'd always lived alone before, so it was a learning curve to say the least. Back then, I was not in a good place mentally, undiagnosed anxiety, chronic depression, you name it. And while I'm not going to blame everything I did on my mental health, it's important context. At the time, I was overweight, never exercised, literally had never worked out of my life, ate trash food constantly and spent most of my time post-work alone in my room, either high or drunk. I was a little bit of I wasn't doing that kind of drinking that gets flagged right away, like not a bottle of vodka a night, but more like three drinks every other night than five to six on the weekends. Same with weed, not every day, not completely out of control, and not letting it affect work,

but enough that it was a problem in disguise. Now, back to Layla. She really got under my skin. She was the definition of a clean freak, and I was not. I wasn't dirty, just messy and disorganized. She'd nag on me about cleaning something I already cleaned because there was a speck of ground coffee left behind. Or get mad if I put a spoon in the wrong drawer. Or if I used one of her pans, even though I let her use my stuff all the time.

We had a group chat for flat stuff, and I used to feel pure dread every time I saw a notification from her. I just knew it'd be her complaining about something, usually something I'd done. Her presence made my mental health spiral even more, and one day I snapped. I decided to do something about it. Now here's the part I've never said out loud before. I've had some dark thoughts since I was 15. One time I had the urge to hold a knife to a classmate's neck when I was 16 or 17, never acted on it.

But the thoughts were there. One day, when Layla was in her room, I walked over to the fridge, took one of her containers of leftovers, and sprayed bleach into it. The bleach blended into the sauce and I didn't think twice. No Googling to see what would happen. no planning, I just did it. She got sick afterward, really bad cold. Was it from the bleach?

Maybe. I've never looked into what bleach actually does to the body. I don't want to know. Because now that I'm in a better place mentally, I realize how dangerous that could have been. Fatal, even. But it didn't stop there. Every time she pissed me off, I'd do it again.

And it made me feel good. Like I was finally letting go of all the resentment I was holding in. I didn't see it as a problem. I felt justified. That mindset punished anyone who disturbs your peace stuck with me. Eventually, I did the same to Kylie, even though I liked her. You just happened to get on my nerves one day, and that was enough. Fast forward to recent times, i.e. two years later, I actually started to have a physical symptom that I couldn't explain. I couldn't stay asleep. In other words, I could fall asleep, but I'd wake up. Fall asleep and wake up again. Billion times for night. I saw a doctor and eventually one referred me to a therapist who referred me to a

psychiatrist. I'm now on SSRI's. Mental health really affects your body. It's wild. Just to clarify, it wasn't guilt, but more so the presence of anxiety and depression in the body for years that would result in this. These days, I'm doing way better. I'm into strength training and I actually love it. To an extent that I hate recovery days because I don't get to train. I hit my step targets, cooked nearly every meal, no take-out, and just overall take care of myself. I'm sure the SSRIs are doing a lot of the work, but lifestyle change has played a big role too. When someone annoys me now, I still get mad, but I let it go within minutes. I don't let the rage build like it used to. But the story doesn't stop there. There was a recent moment where someone really got under my

skin. Instead of acting on it, I wrote out what I wanted to do to him. I want you to know the script is not something that can be read on YouTube, but I'm happy to share it if you're interested. I think if you really tried, you could read bits of it on here, but you may get demonetized. To clarify, I didn't act on it. I never would, but if torture was legal, who knows, then I would. This bit is not a brag, but I live a great life. Money has never been a problem. I've also got a really good job, a supportive family, despite the usual ups and downs, and a few really close, solid friends. From the outside, no one would ever think I've struggled with anything.

I, too, never felt like I did. But that's what makes chronic depression so sneaky. It's not loud. You don't even realize it's there because it becomes your baseline. It's not about crying every day or not being able to get out of bed. I never get depressive episodes. It's just this dull, heavy, cloud you live with for years, thinking it's normal. If sadness is your default, do you even know you're sad?

I realized my brain just wasn't making enough serotonin. I was stuck in fighter flight constantly. Anyway, here's where I'm at now. A, I don't feel guilty about what I did to Layla. She's alive, so all as well. I know this sounds awful, but that's how I see it. If she wasn't, and I didn't get caught, I honestly don't know if I'd feel any different. B, I know you'll probably say I need therapy, and yes, I already go.

It helps a little, and I've tried multiple therapists. It's not really for me. But I stick with it anyway, partially because you kind of have to. to if you're on SSRIs. I like your videos a lot. We'd love to hear your thoughts or your viewers. No specific reason. Just curious. Thanks for reading an anonymous viewer. Thank you so much for sharing your confession. And even though most of the confessions I get shared, I try to take it as positively as possible. I really think you should feel bad about putting bleach in your roommates, whatever you put it in their drink or whatever.

That's a horrible thing to do and very dangerous. I understand a few years ago you weren't doing so great mentally, which I'm glad you're feeling a lot better now. I'm very happy about that, and I'm not trying to harp on you and make you feel bad. But, you know, you even said if she did die, you wouldn't feel bad. Yeah, you might need to talk to somebody. Nothing against you, like I said. I just think you, I don't know, just continue what you're doing. I think the physical health and eating healthy is very good.

I'm glad you're doing that. That definitely helps your mental. But maybe you have some sort of, I mean, I don't know what the person did to you, but to feed them bleach and then not feel bad at all and you even said you wouldn't feel bad if they died, you might have some unsorted, you know, anger issues or something like that.

I mean, you even said like now you don't stay mad for more. more than a few days, but, you know, I just think you should learn to forgive and maybe feel bad for putting bleach. That's just not a good thing to do at all. It's really dangerous. They probably don't deserve it or didn't deserve it. I mean, that could have killed them or caused serious lifelong damage. I don't really know what else to add. I'm interested to see what you guys watching thoughts are coming down below, which you guys think. But not trying to make fun of you, not trying to be too mean. I hope you're doing better now.

And I'm glad you're doing better now. Keep going on the upswing. You've got this. Let's the next one. I was forced into choking out my cleaning lady. Hey, Snook, I really love what you do. And after watching you for some time, I feel like I can finally share this with someone. This took place about five months ago.

For a short summary, I'm 18. I live with my mom and we have a nanny who I call N. When we first hired N, I had no complaints. She did her job well and usually kept to herself. Around a month of her being around, she started getting really comfortable, too comfortable. For example, she would start asking for me to give her my personal electronics. Of course, I would say no. She would eat the food I ordered and loads of other inconveniences.

I'm usually very hard to annoy, so I would just ignore the things she would do and move on with my day. Then a day came where she told my mom she wanted to quit. My mom understood and said she would send her last paycheck at the end of the month. I don't remember why, but this started a loud argument between her and N. I tried not to think much about it because it was getting late and I had school in the morning. Shortly after I went to bed, I woke up to this bloody scream for help. I was half asleep and delirious, but I ran out of my room as fast as I could. When my eyes focused, I saw my mom pressed up against the wall with a knife pressed against her.

End demanded she'd get her paycheck at that very moment. I screamed to End to let my mom go. This caused enough of a distraction to allow my mom to slip away and run behind me for safety. I grabbed my own knife for protection as I kept trying to de-escalate the situation. Eventually, after an hour of negotiating, I got her to put the knife away. The moment she closed the drawer, I lunged at her and put her in a chokehold. I remember squeezing for dear life because I knew if I didn't follow through with my plan, I would end up on the news a dead man.

After about a minute and a half, she went limp. My mom was too shocked to speak the entire time. I knew I had to act fast, so without even a second to rest, I grabbed Dan's body and dragged her out of the apartment. The moment I shut the door, leaving her outside, I heard her wake up. She was screaming, scratching, and banging the door. Eventually, she stopped and ran away.

We never heard from her since. Turns out she was living here illegally, so it was basically impossible to find her. I don't know if this really counts as a confession, but either way, it feels good to finally speak about it. Ever since it happened, I've been paranoid. I can never sleep with my door unlocked. And thank you, Snook.

Somehow you are able to make traumatic stories feel like they might help someone else. Thank you so much for sending this in, and that's a scary situation. But at least everyone survived it. It seems like your mom's okay. You're okay. And the maid okay as well. But that's a horrifying situation. And yeah, I'm sure you're scared to sleep.

probably have some sort of PTSD. I'm not a therapist. I can't diagnose, but, you know, scary stuff like that will definitely make you scared for a long time after. But I'd recommend talking to somebody, get a therapist, talk to them, and maybe it can alleviate some of the fear you're carrying around because that's a scary situation. I hope you're doing better now. But yeah, just talk to someone. I'm sure I help a lot. And thank you so much for sending this in onto the next one. Hey, Snook. I've been listening to your videos for quite a bit, and I appreciate the work you put into your channel. Below is a long-witted confession of sorts that I wrote in the format of a short story. All of it is true. The only person who has read

it is my partner, but I thought I could send it your way in case you might be interested in reading it for a video. Thanks for reading if you do, Benny. I made my first drug deal for my dad when I was 12. A patient was in need, and my dad was ready to supply. But as my father was out and about, he placed that burden on his youngest. I always wondered if he used that label to justify his actions, as if there's any way to justify the lifelong trauma in recurrent peril he inflicted upon his children. But still, patient. Would that make him the illustrious Dr. Johnson, not the real last name, the medicine man with an MBA and arrest under his belt, the self-appointed prescriber who would rather blame the world around him than acknowledge his hardships as merely consequential to his

hand-picked ignorance and ill-advised decision-making? The strained supplier, selling weed to those in need while racking up his 15th consecutive father-of-the-year ward, my dad and his, quote, patience, a match too perfect for any afterlife to take credit. However, I must admit, it would be unfair to lump all his life choices into a lone-tattered box. To give my father some kudos, aside from his patients who made up half of the local college football team, he did provide relief for some of the individuals with debilitating chronic pain. He managed to accomplish some level of good. It just so happened to be at the cost of his own family.

I was home alone on a sunny Saturday afternoon when the landline sounded. I took a peek at the caller ID and picked up on the fourth ring. I need you to do a favor for me, my dad said. His version of a favor, however, might not qualify for most. Soon enough, my dad was talking about. me through weighing out a strain of weed named in my honor. I was in sixth grade, rather than sitting glued in front of the TV with the remnants of chips sprinkled on my fingertips, or feeling the wind hit my face as I coast down the small asphalt incline that my siblings and I called a hill.

I was zeroing out a scale in my dad's dimly lit master bedroom. I scanned over the dozens of mason jars until I spotted it, on a clean, cut, black, and white laminated rectangle with curled yellow ends read the words, Ben's shot. As I unscrewed the jar, an all too familiar scent hit my nostrils. I peered into the 32-ounce glass hole, staring back at me with a furry green mound of bud. Was this what my dad saw me as? A means to an end? A green clump that he could exchange for another? My momentary existential crisis was interrupted by the hum of his voice over the landlide speaker. This was not the time to philosophize and ponder my father's true intentions. I had a job to do. I needed to pull my weight for the family. After all, I'm in middle

school now. This is what maturity entails. I never had the chance to read over the terms and conditions, but my dad signed them for me. I would like to say this was a one-time event, an unfortunate anomaly in my complex childhood, an atomic trauma bomb headliner for future therapy sessions. But hindsight is 2020, and my dad clouded my prescriptions with drug dealing duties and a splash of guilt. trip-filled ambitions. I was now responsible for the occasional sharply marked baggy mailbox drop numerous times a month up until my senior year of high school. It's a strange feeling to be cognizant of the illegal acts you're committing while your father, the man you have no choice but to trust, manipulates and coaches you into his perfect little accomplice, praying on your

innocence and naivity. As the feeding strangers came and went, I snagged 10 and $20 bills from the hollow aluminum container once each car sputtered out of earshot. A handful of times I was told to hand the bags directly to them. There was no metallic barrier for these transactions. Not a single care for my safety. No hoodie big enough to cover my clammy hands and no breath deep enough to conceal my shaky voice. Not once did the patient's question the teenager providing them with their fix. And not once did my father consider the endangerment he bestowed upon his own. I was the middleman. of the family, an unknowing a better who didn't know any better. I never contemplated the morality of my situation because it was all I had never known. At school, I was taught the danger of

substances in the potential harmful existence that comes with that risk. At home, I was taught that my dad was helping people through the skunky green flowers housed in the room where a luminous green lights shown through the cracks of my ominous pale wooden door, a contrast that I never fully understood at the weight of. The jungle of smells flooded the house, attacking every nose in sight, and blanketing my clothes with its stench. The in-home grow provided an inescapable prison of complicity to one of my most important senses. In eighth grade, I showed up to school with an ugly sweater on for a choir field trip to the local elementary schools. From the moment I sat down, goofing around on the piano before we boarded the bus, a friend commented on a skunky smell

coming from my direction. I became the center of attention, bombarded with questions and stares about my prominent Melodore. After being accused of my grandma's sweater smelling like weed, I deflected stating that I had purchased it from a thrift store

on my way to school. The lies seemed to silence the interrogation for the moment, but I was forever marked with the memory of the foul scent from that point on. I began smuggling for breads from my mom's house to mask my odor with the chemically refreshing aroma from the blue spray bottle, dousing myself in a potent mist before my dad drove me to school

became part of my daily routine. I dreaded anyone finding out about my dad's business for fear of getting him in trouble and being the reason for his downfall. He heaved his biggest secret onto his three children, orchestrating his offspring amongst his felonious endeavors, force-fiends lies while making clear the ensuing horrors that would result from a slip-up. I never knew what to say when adults asked what my dad, dabbed it did for a living. Besides the overwhelming negative possibilities surrounding the illegal nature of his career, I was downright embarrassed. Why should I receive those worried looks and judgmental stares for a choice my father made? Why should I be the forced to embrace the colossal

loads of mistakes that he has continued to amass? Why did he not see the errors in his ways? Why has he remained oblivious to his unacceptable decisions and destructive forms of manipulation? Why do I have to be the adult when I am his child? These questions echo around my subconscious as I am left with no answers, but at least I have a strain of weed named after me, right? I assume my father saw this as a sentimental and caring act, involving his son in an industry he longed to succeed in. The name, Ben's shot, was inspired by my passion for basketball.

From a young age, I excelled in the sport and played through high school. He was heavily involved as my supporter, often too much at times, throughout my years of playing. Ben's shot, therefore, marked an unconventional appreciation for our combined interests. I had once embraced this gift from my dad, bragging to my fellow high schoolers about a strain of weed named after me. They would pat my coping ego on the back through a sea of dapp-ups amongst a collective nod of approval. From the outside looking in, no one could see the multitude of trauma and humiliation I continued to accumulate by seeking validation for a gift I'd not asked for. I reassured myself that I should be grateful for this present. I should take control of the

narrative and be proud rather than ashamed. But in doing so, I hid behind a facade. Hey, Snook, I've been listening to you ever since I started a job as a mail carrier. You really helped me with my boredom with that job. Anyway, you can call me Nash. On to my confession. A few years ago, my friend and I were driving to the next state over to go to a comic book shop. We've been to this place so many times, but the way we get there is. is very weird. You had to drive on deep back roads in the middle of nowhere. I'm talking no signs of civilization for almost an hour, in zero cell service. Deep woods that went on for miles and the roads were very curvy. Definitely roads that you'll need to drive under the speed limit on.

We were on that road for about 30 minutes and there was a car in front of us. We weren't really paying attention to it. Just focusing on the drive and the music we had on. Then we both noticed the car in front of us is speeding up frantically. I remember saying, they're going a little too fast. And then the car drives straight into a concrete curb and it flew into the air. Hit the ground and rolled. It stopped when it rolled into a tree. I don't know why, but we didn't stop. We kept driving. We didn't say a word until we got to the comic book shop. We were asking ourselves if it was okay that we didn't stop. I assured him that it was okay and someone probably got them help. When we drove back home, we noticed the car was gone. No signs of a crash even happened, no debris

or anything. It was almost like we had imagined the crash. We never really spoke of it again. Haven't told anyone else except you. Anyway, that was my confession. What's your opinion? Thanks for reading. Thank you for the story, Nash. And that's really, really weird. I really wonder why the car was gone, like completely gone. It sounded like a really, you know, insane crash flipping multiple times or flying through the air, and there was no debris. Like there definitely would be debris. So that's really crazy.

There's no debris, no car, but also you didn't stop. Who knows, maybe you and your friend were hallucinating. I don't know. That's kind of a crazy thing to say. But, you know, that's really weird. And, I mean, I'd recommend always stopping for people on the road. I mean, especially in a scenario like that, help them out because they probably need it. Because, yeah, just help them out.

If you ever see somebody, help them be a good person. You know, it's always better to do that. But that's really weird. It's almost like paranormal in a way. Like, why was the car completely gone? I mean, it matters how long you were at the comic book shop for. But still, that would take a long time to get a towing truck out, cleaning it all up, et cetera. Really, really interesting and really weird.

but interesting story. Thanks for sending it in. And on to the next one. Hey, Snook. First time mom here. I stumbled across your channel a few months into pregnancy and fell in love with it since. I like listening to your stories

when I need to relax or get something done. Keep up the good work. Sorry if I sound a little all over the place. I'm kind of just riding it off the top of my head and have a lot on my mind. Also, sorry if it might be long. I just needed to vent it all out. I hope it reaches an audience who

has been in this similar situation. Your advice is welcomed, but I mostly just need an outsider to listen. Because I'm having a hard time talking to my close people about it. I, 21 female, you can call me K, have recently had a baby about a month ago. Like I already mentioned before, this is my first time having a child, and it's been a little stressful. Ever since having the baby, I've just been in this really dark mindset. It's been affecting me pretty badly, and I'm sure that.

everyone around me can say the same. There are moments where I just feel inadequate to be a mother due to my personal issues. A lot of my insecurities have resurfaced. I've began to doubt myself mentally and emotionally and criticize myself physically for not meeting the unrealistic standards I set for myself. Sadly, it's come down to not only thinking negatively about myself, but others around me as well, mostly my partner. I feel as if I'm silently putting a target on his back, unintentionally, of course. Pushing these feelings aside and building a brick wall between us.

Myself, I can't do it. I'm a terrible mother. I just need to lose a few more pounds. I don't know if I love the baby like I should. I just take care of the baby. Other than that, I'm useless. Him. He will always see me as his last option.

He will change his mind about me eventually. He must think less of me. He's not telling you everything. What's he hiding? Does he even want me? the baby? These are just a few examples of things that keep repeating in the back of my mind. I don't mean to. I'm trying to work on it. I'm not going to ask him to do better and prove to me he is good. I'm just struggling to trust him and myself. It hurts me and I'm sure it hurts him

because I want to trust him 100%. I mean, damn, I'm literally his best friend and the mother of his child. I'm just scared, especially since I don't have anyone I could really trust growing up or care for in a non-toxic way. I had a pretty rough upbringing that involved abuse and drugs. Not going to lie, this kind of influenced my thought pattern a bit because if I couldn't trust my own mother, how was I supposed to love or trust anyone else? With this mindset, I made to believe he's going to fuck everything up

or I end up fucking things up letting these thoughts get to me, only to push him away even further than I am now. I'm sure he notices the changes in my behavior towards him. It's hard to hide it. I just get irritated and, and upset thinking about certain things that's been brought to my attention before. Things bothering me. I'm a little upset because I've already been clear with him that I don't want any more kids.

He does, and it makes me sad because it feels as if I'm being forced to do something I don't want to do. It's like I don't get a choice in the matter. It's like he doesn't really realize or care. Not only does it fuck me up physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. I'm afraid to leave me if I refuse as that is one of the jokes he made. I'm irritated because I should always be able to trust and love the good people in my life without constantly questioning everything and expecting the worst from them at all the time. There's always those what-ifs in the back of my mind that make me focus too much on them breaking my heart and not the good that they have always shows me. It irritates me when he asked for more when I've literally been watching him this whole time with the baby to try and get him used to slash bond with the baby and not going to lie, I feel like it's not going well.

I don't know, I could be wrong. Maybe if I saw that father's spark I so desperately want to see from him, then maybe I would actually be 100% all in with having another one instead of being obligated to do it. I get upset with some of the jokes he makes, like when he insults my intelligence. He makes me feel like I'm dumb and can't do anything right. I only begin to doubt myself more and criticize everything I say or do,

afraid to say or do the wrong thing. This could just be my sensitivity, but my emotions are already skyrocketed, enough so this isn't really helping. I try to laugh it off because I'm sure he doesn't mean it, but I still don't like it. I don't ask him to stop because it's a joke and wasn't meant to make me feel bad. I feel irritated at myself because I'm always so hard of myself to be the ideal person I want to be. Whether it be my motherhood or my obsession with my appearance, I strive to be a good mother and do better than how I was raised, but it just feels like I'm doing it wrong, and I'm having trouble getting in touch with my loving mother's side. I'm not used to

to caring for things or people. It makes me sad that sometimes my dark thoughts don't let me view the baby as my own son or even a baby, more like an alarm clock that keeps going off after you shut it off too many times. I'm trying. Physically, things could be better in my eyes. Although I basically went back to my small size after having the baby, I'm very picky with how I present myself. I used to have at the eating disorder, puking or starving myself or overworking my body, constantly checking in the mirror, ignoring my progress, and only spotting out my flaws. Don't want to go back to those old habits because currently I'm struggling to love my new figure after what the baby has done to it. I feel irritated because I slowly feel myself loose touch of reality and not being able to keep up

with taking care of myself or others anymore, yet I'm too stubborn to ask for my help. I mean, I literally shouldn't have to ask for the father of my child for a minute to myself, something to eat or a shower. It should kind of be an offer, but then again, I'm not going to put too much on his plates and ask too much of him. He's stressed out enough with things, and I get cocky to believe I can do it all on my own and not ask for anything. It basically takes the grandmother to step in just for the assistance because I know my stubborn ass isn't going to ask anyone for help. With the reality problem due to my mental health declining, I feel with what time I do sleep, the nightmares have stirred up again and so have the voices.

I don't know. Sometimes I hear random things or get distracted easily with my thoughts. It's been like this for so long as I can remember. Makes me feel crazy. I'm upset because I'm not sure how to voice this to someone without feeling like a burden. People have their own shit to worry about. My dark thoughts are not important

and I don't want to stress anyone else out with my problems, so I shelter myself and build this wall up, feeling quiet and angry and out of focus all the time. These are the moments when I really need someone, but instead I never speak up and state of myself, pushing everyone away. Don't give me wrong. Just because I made these statements does not mean I don't have a wonderful partner and family. I am truly grateful for him and with how far he's pulled me out of my shit show.

I don't know where or who I'd be without him and his family. Also, he and I both have a pretty dark sense of humor, hence the jokes he makes, and we have little moments of disagreement, but other than that, we never argue and have very open with a lot of things. Didn't want anyone to get the wrong impression of him or anyone. I just need to let it out. This isn't about him, though. It mostly has to do with me and my insecurities and current personal challenges.

I vowed to continue to work through them for a more positive outcome, hopefully with my loved ones by my side cheering me on and supporting me through love and understanding. Thank you for your time, Kay. Thank you for your submission and email. Okay. And in all honesty, my thoughts are just, I think you should, you know, maybe get a therapist, get some professional help, maybe some sort of, you know, postpartum specialists maybe. I'm sure that probably exists. And they could definitely help you out, I'm sure, with, you know, eating disorder, lacking the feeling of adequacy or just the feeling of inadequacy and just any sort of relationship problems. or family problems. And I think that's your best move.

Therapy is expensive, but I'm sure there's so many online programs now that are a great deal. And I think you should just do something like that. Talk to someone professional, kind of lay this onto them, and I think you get some awesome help. You're going to be a great mother.

I already know it. Keep it up and much love. And thank you so much for sending this in on to the next one. Hi, Snook. I want to start off by saying thank you for uploading the anonymous confessions. It has given me the courage to submit my own. I've been enjoying your videos for quite

some time, and it seems like you've created a safe community for me to talk about this, and maybe get some decent advice on. I really cannot stand my partner's family, and it's starting to become a problem in our relationship. There is so much to unpack, but I will try to keep it as short as possible. Before anyone judges me, please hear me out first. I, 29 female, have been with my boyfriend, 25 male, for three years now, and I love this man so much. He is everything I never expected I would find in a partner. He is kind, he is loving, he is a protector and a provider. Overall, it's been the healthiest relationship I have ever been in. The only thing that I struggle with is his family. Now, I know I may sound like an insecure crazy girlfriend that wants my boyfriend's

attention only, but let me provide you some context before you judge. My partner's family is very toxic but tight knit. Honestly, it's such a weird dynamic that it's hard to explain, so let me give you some context to help paint a picture. When I first started dating my boyfriend, he was still living under his parents' roof and was miserable. He was 22, but his parents were incredibly strict about him only being allowed to go to work and the gym. Anything besides that was not allowed, We mostly texted or he would see me for an hour after work, lying to his parents saying he had to work later. A month into dating, he got into a huge fight with his parents. I will spare the details, but basically they violated a huge boundary of his.

Then gas lit him, which is the usual. But he ended up moving out and moving in with his friend. When he moved out, his mother blamed me, the girlfriend for being the moving factor behind him moving out of the house and not taking any responsibility for her part in it. To this day, they never have apologized or acknowledged it with my boyfriend. They just choose to dead the matter. When my boyfriend did eventually move in with me, that was another huge fight with his family.

They would always disrespect both his and our boundaries. Like, for example, if he said he didn't want to be around a certain family member, they would have him come home and that family member would be there. When he would try to talk to his parents about it, they would just brush it off and tell him he needed to stop overreacting. Another example, if we were hanging out and they called, he would cancel our plans and rush back home to them. When they would call, he was expected to drop everything and come home. I almost left him because of it, but he was able to set better boundaries.

However, it's been two years now, and his family would still call and try to interrupt on our date nights, which is the same day every week and has been for over two years. Also, keep in mind, he visits his family twice a week consistently. There's a lot of other stuff I would name in here, but the biggest thing that made me realize I could never respect them is when my partner confined to me that his dad did stuff to him when he was a young kid. I have to censor, but I'm sure you understand what I'm referring to. When he spoke to his siblings about the abuse, they begged not to tell their mom because she would not be able to handle it, and because he, my partner, would be the one to break up the family. His father was financing his sister's life while in med school, and she was more worried about how a divorce would affect her livelihood

than her brother being victimized. From that point on, I knew I could never be okay with how they treated my boyfriend when he opened up to them about his trauma. After two years of being together, his family finally invited me to holiday dinners because it's always been so awkward and I dread going because the only person that ever wants me to be there is my boyfriend. His family makes it very clear. they do not want me to be there, but I show up from my partner since it's only twice a year

that I have to. When I am there, his dad will always cut me off when I'm speaking, and he always makes little friendly jabs about my eating choices. I'm a vegetarian, and every single dinner I go to, he's always bringing it up or holding meat up to my face to get me to try it, as if magically he will change me at 29. My boyfriend will jump in and tell him to stop it, but it just still happens every dinner. There's a lot more worse things they have done and said, but I'm trying to keep as brief as possible. Another example, maybe small, but I have really great job and I am a director of operations for property management company. It's a super corporate job with a lot of responsibilities, but I do well for myself. During the holidays one year, I got a 75-inch TV for the

apartment and my boyfriend told his dad about it because he was excited. That Christmas dinner, his dad brought me to their living room to point out the 85-inch TV he just, just brought and point blink asked me if I noticed the difference in size between our TVs. My boyfriend tells me how he wants me to work harder at having a relationship with them, how they are trying, but I need to try to. He gets upset because I am still on speaking terms with multiple ex's parents and family, but I don't bother to get that close to his. It's just that they continuously do things to make me not want to be around them.

Every time he talks to me about the horrible things they continue to do to him, on the outside I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and say things like, maybe they did this because of that, but on the inside it boils my blood. I do my very best not to say anything bad about them to him. I am in therapy and my therapist says to keep playing the indifferent and neutral partner because ultimately it is his family and I have to support how he chooses to move with those relationships. However, I know in my gut this is not a family I would ever want to marry into.

I love my boyfriend so very much. He is the sweetest, most purest man I've ever met, but I cut my toxic bio family off for my own peace. Can I really put up with this? He keeps talking about our future in the next steps, and I know he's discussing marriage in a few years, but I really don't know if I can marry into this toxic family dynamic. I can't even imagine having his children,

knowing what I know about his dad did, and how the rest of his family is willing to protect him. Is it even possible to be? be happy together, even though I am not cool with his family. In my boyfriend's defense, every time they have been rude to me, he does stand up for me, but I make it a point to stay away from them as much as possible. However, his family is starting to notice I do not accept their invites and are beginning to question it. I also know that if we were to get married, because my boyfriend is the oldest son of a traditional family, I would have to start making more of an

effort with his family, which is hard because they do awful things to each other. Talking about marriage makes me sick literally for the fact that I would be married into his family. I don't know if I can do it. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my long post and any helpful advice would be welcomed. Thank you so much for sharing this story. I really appreciate it. And I think some advice I would have is tell them exactly what you told me in this email. Say, I don't know if I could move forward with the next steps in a relationship, i.e. marriage or whatever else you guys decide to do. unless you get the family sorted out. And you should tell them just kind of bluntly that I just don't know if this will work out

if these family issues keep on going on. And I think your therapist advice could be helpful, but it's not very productive. It just kind of keeps you neutral, which could be a good thing but also a bad thing. I think it's just good to tell them bluntly, hey, I don't know if this relationship will work out because your family is so, you know, horrible to be around. And that's a big factor in a relationship, you know, their family. And so I would really tell them about this. And I think you should just honestly tell them exactly what you told me in this email.

And I'm sure a lot of people watching will have a good feedback for you. So everyone watching, please give some feedback to this nice lady. And, you know, maybe help her out and give her some guidance. But you got this. You'll figure it out. and thank you so much for sharing, and I hope that my advice was a little bit of a help, and you'll get it figured out.

Thank you so much for sharing. On to the next one. My brother killed my dog. Hi, Snook, it's really nice to connect with you. Before I get into anything else, I want to genuinely ask how you're doing. I know your confession series centers on heavy and emotional confessions,

and hearing those kinds of things consistently can take a toll on your mental health. I hope you're taking care of yourself, resting, talking to people when you need to, and remember to eat and stay hydrated. Your fans drew the care. It would be sad knowing you're not at your best. And don't worry, I'm doing great.

I pace myself to these videos, but I feel like I'm doing a good deed, letting you guys get, you know, some things off your chest and helping people watching to realize they're not alone. I see it as a net positive, not a net negative.

A lot of the true crime can definitely take a toll, but this, I feel like, is kind of providing a sort of therapy for a lot of you guys out there. So maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong. Comment down below if those feelings I have are justified or I'm kind of imagining into those things. But from the comments I've read and the emails I've gotten, it seems like a net positive. And that means a lot to have kind of that positive influence in people's lives.

And yeah, you guys are the best. And let's get into your confession. Anyway, onto the reason I'm messaging you. This is my confession. And it's a long one. So thank you in advance for reading. Also, I've made sure it fits. with YouTube's guidelines and I've cut it in half with less detail than I'd like, so I apologize if some things sound rushed slash confusing. Who I am. I'm a 23-year-old female and I've been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder, which many only know by its stigma-heavy labels like psychopathy or sociopathy. People often assume that means I'm violent or lack humanity. That's false. Having ASPD just means I process emotions like guilt, sadness, and have

I don't feel remorse instinctively, but I show what's called cognitive remorse. If I hurt someone, I apologize, reflect, and try to do better. It's logical, not emotional, but it's still genuine in my own way. I've never hurt someone for fun. I don't enjoy cruelty. I'm not Hollywood's idea of a psychopath. I'm just me. And I try every day to be a good person, just like everybody else.

My confession This is the story of how I believe my brother caused the death of my dog and how no one in my family will admit it. It started with a rough childhood. Like many people with personality disorders face, I was the black sheep, rebellious, misunderstood. My younger brother, three years younger than me, was quieter, chaotic, and reactive.

As kids we fought, I teased, he retaliated by destroying my stuff. It escalated until I sighed. antagonizing him altogether, but he never really stopped trying to get back at me. In 2019, we got a dog. And he immediately attached to me. He was quiet, gentle, didn't bark, didn't cause trouble. He was a really good dog, and he just wanted to be by my side. We were soulmates. It was the first time I had that connection to a living being. Everyone agreed. He wasn't a family dog. He was mine. And that's when the jealousy started, especially from my younger brother.

He got rough with the dog sometimes. I caught him a few times and stopped it, but I often worried about what happened when I wasn't there. Fast forward to a chaotic divorce. My parents fought constantly. My older brother shut down. My little sister who has disabilities needed help. My younger brother was out of control, drinking, drugs, girls, outburst of anger. And I, the one with the emotionalist diagnosis, was the one keeping it all together.

kept everyone at saying as possible. One night, I asked my mom to talk to my younger brother, after he posted a video of himself drunk driving, with terrified exchange students in the car, yelling for help. She did, and he took it down, but then screamed at me for 20 minutes, told me to die, and he'd make me pay. That same night, he came downstairs with this energy I can only describe as ominous or evil. I watched in my peripherals as he oddly went straight to the kitchen knives. My dog, who never barked, growled, and placed themselves between me and my brother. From the moment he took his first step into view of him, that's when I knew.

Something was seriously wrong. My mother rushed down, confused about the dog's behavior, ultimately caused my brother to snap out of his state. I noticed he glared at my dog and ran upstairs. That was the day he probably set his sights on something less criminal and more out of revenge due to plans of being spoiled. The night my dog died. A couple weeks later, my brother and I got into a small fight because he'd stolen parts for my PC.

I left it alone and went to work out upstairs in my room with headphones in. My sister was put to sleep. My mother on the phone with men. My older brother in his room downstairs playing league. My younger brother in his room next to mine. Mid-workout. I heard running footsteps in my brother's room slam shut and lock. That was at 11.15 p.m.

At 11.45 p.m., I went to get water and to put my dog in his kennel, locked doors, and doggy doors. When I saw what I thought was a coat on the floor, when I looked closer, I realized it was dog-like. I called my dog's name. No answer. I quickly turned the light on to see my dog with a bag over his head. He had suffocated. And in that moment, I knew I couldn't resuscitate him. He was gone. And what lay there was no longer my best friend. I ran upstairs. screaming, my mom came down crying. My older brother held our dog's body alongside my mother. I watched as something pegged me as odd. As I initially grabbed my mother, I looked up to see my younger brother peeking through his door. When he saw me, he quickly shut it and locked it. The look in his eye,

angry and seemed to say it was your fault. My older brother went up to the stairs a while after holding him for a while. I heard him yelling coming from my younger brother. I already know. He suffocated. then came the slamming of the door. When we asked him the second time, the following morning, to come say goodbye, he angrily refused. Over the next month, he wouldn't talk to me. Every time the dog was brought up, questioning how on earth our dog died, he would get angry, explode and rage, and run out of the room.

He had tells, twitches, mannerisms when he lied, and they were all there. Every time the dog was mentioned. One night, he came into my room crying and said he was sorry. I tried to console him. I asked if it was about the divorce. No, he replied. Then the dog.

He looked up, terrified, guilt-ridden, and ran out. One years later, I moved out for a while, then back in with my mom. She asked me to set up a memorial shrine for the dog with his ashes. I did. Coming home later that day, it was gone. All the photos, memorabilia, and urn. Missing. My little sister, who can't lie, she's severely disabled, told me my brother's

touched at all. I confronted him calmly. He exploded at me, insisting again that he didn't hurt the dog, that he didn't kill the dog, and that I always blame him. I never said anything about hurting the dog. I simply asked where his ashes were and if he moved them. But he kept repeating, it wasn't my fault. Eventually, I found the ashes shoved in the farthest cupboard in the house. Ashes spilled everywhere. Picture frames broken. I knew it was him. My mother went to ask me why he did such things, and he yelled, he disgusts me. She deserved it. She ruined my life.

I don't want anything to do with that dog. I don't even want to see pictures, see his ashes, or anything to do with that stupid dog. I didn't hurt him. It's all her fault. As he went on rambling about how I ruined his life and exposed the addictions,

he started crying. My mom let him be and told me it was best to move out. I moved out of state, wanting to leave the burden I took on as my older sibling and thinking I was the, only one strong enough to hold people together. I realized that I had dreams and I was the one pushing

them to the side. About two years after his untimely departure, I received the text. As I now have a new phone and this text no longer exists, I will try to tell you the key points in this message. I'm sorry, they're a horrible sister. Let's make mom proud. You're the one who ruined my life. You're going to hell. But I still love you. I'm going to hell, but so are you. But I still love you, because you're my blood, and I have to. I hate you, but I love you, and I've done nothing wrong. Let's stop fighting and forgive each other, for mom's sake. As confused as all get out, I responded by saying, womp, I love you. I'm sorry you're hurting by my past actions, but what you did, as much as I love you to, I cannot just forgive and forget. You've yet to apologize, and I do

not have time for your mean comments. I then decided to leave him with the message, I know what you did. I was blocked immediately after. I called my mother to check on him, and she called me back saying he was sitting on his bed, heading his hands, crying. After that night, he's looked at me with a softer, I'm sorry, I'll do anything to make it up to you look in his eyes. We don't talk. I'm still blocked, and I'm happy to move on. I miss my dog, and as much I would go back in time to fix everything, I wouldn't. I'd only fix the way he died. He deserved a better, peaceful way. His death met my mom could find a new house. I was able to move out on my own, and overall,

made it where he could have focused while the divorce got messier and housing situations got worse. To this day, I'm glad he wasn't around for all that. Why I'm telling you this, I've never shared this, not even with my mother. People with ASPD are told we can't feel anything. No one believes someone like me when I say I love that dog, that I still love that dog. I do. I wish I remembered telling him I loved him, but I don't. And I regret that.

That day, I think my brother. out of jealousy, anger, or spiked, took him from me, and no one will admit it. No one will punish him. The world just moved on, but I didn't, and I can't. This is the only way I know to speak it into reality, and as much as I'd like to cry, I cannot. My emotions feel trapped deep inside of me, and it's very lonely. So thank you for reading. It means more than I can explain. I'm sorry for the heaviness this might bring you. and the viewers. But I'd love to hear what everyone else has to say about this and what you snook thinks as well. With love, your misunderstood psychopath. P.S. I have more crazy stories. I will be sending

them in in the near future. Hey, thank you so much for sharing this. And in all honesty, I don't think I have a ton to add. I think you really did a good way of wrapping this all up. You didn't really leave it, you know, open-ended. But hopefully you and your brother can repair your guy's relationship. I'm sure they'll be hard. I don't know if you even want to. I assume he doesn't want to since he still has you blocked. But for your mom's sake, for your sake, for your brother's sake, for your family's sake, I think it's better if you not forgive and forget because you even said that's not the right move. I just think you, I don't know, maybe you guys can maybe get to recognize it. I don't know. I'm sure he won't ever admit to killing your

dog, which is horrible. I'm sorry you to go through that. Scary, dramatic. And hopefully you can move forward. Like I said, I didn't really have a ton to add, but you asked for my opinion. And I'm curious what the viewers, so everyone watching, what do you think about this confession or story down below? Please leave some feedback, guys. I'm sure it will help her a lot.

And thank you so much for sending it in. I appreciate the honesty and just being open. On to the next one. Hey, Snook. Thank you for your videos, your voice, and calm narrows. helps me drift into sleep on some restless nights when my head just won't shut up. I hope you're doing well. My confession isn't much of a confession, but more of a paranoid thought that keeps crawling into my head, I think. I'm sorry in advance if my story seems scrambled, because that's how

my head works. Feel free to edit it to make it more cohesive. In 2018, my mother died due to sepsis and inevitable organ shutdown, which developed after her tooth broke out of her mouth. She was always very afraid of dentists and avoided going to doctors, which is why it got that bad in the first place. I always felt a little guilty because I had a troubled childhood growing up, with her being an addict to alcohol and drugs. I never felt I could get back to the mother-son relationship that we had in my earlier childhood, but I wasn't blaming just myself for not being there for her and maybe intervening when she wouldn't help herself. Now that I'm in therapy, my therapist taught me that you can't help someone who doesn't want to help themselves, even if it costs the

person their life. You can be there for them for when they do want the help, but you can't force your help onto them. You see, I have five more siblings, three of which came from my mom and two for my dad, me being the youngest of them, all at the proud 30 years of age now. My oldest brother also had the same addictions like all of my siblings do. The apples did not fall far from the tree. My siblings used to joke that I wasn't the black sheep in the family, but rather the only white sheep. I've kept in keep as far away from drugs and alcohol as I possibly can. But my oldest brother, when he drank hard liquor, also became very aggressive, blacked out, and wouldn't remember his deeds the next day. No apologies ever. I visited my mom shortly before she died, and she had told me she had gotten

in an argument with my oldest brother, and she has cut off contact with him. At this point, her tooth had already broken off. Now, earlier in my childhood, I had witnessed my brothers get physical, yes, even with our own mother. I hadn't asked her if he had done this to her, because frankly, I was absorbed with my own problems at the time, and I had never suspected that breaking off a tooth would lead to her death. The only thing she had told me then was that she ran against the door. She died at only 54 years old. I've always since suspected that my brother had gotten physical with her, and that this had ultimately led to her death. I don't have any proof, and it could just be me being paranoid, but given our abusive family history,

the recent fight she had with my brother that led to no contact for the first time in their lives, all in such close proximity to each other, just always made my mind race. I would also never confirm my brother about this, and sadly at this point, even if I wanted to, I would no longer be able to. My brother has died three weeks ago, barely reached the age of 43. He died in his home of the toilet in the early morning hours, just a little more than a year after our grandma had passed away. I won't even get closure on this topic and I'll forever have that nagging thought that he may have been physically responsible for inflicting the injuries that led to our mother's death.

I still love both of them, even if there were hard times. It's okay to cut off your family for your own mental health, but don't do it rashly or on an impulse, because later on you may regret not having tried to smooth things over or work things out. Hey, I found your channel just yesterday, the 22nd of April, and I've been thinking about your confessions video ever since. I just wanted to say, while the stories you read are always interesting,

you, Snook, are the real star, you're kind, authentic, and caring, even towards strangers, and even when no one's asking you to be. Sure, you're a YouTuber, but you're creating a community, helping people feel a little less awful about themselves or their lives. That's rare, and I think it's really special. This is a long one. I don't know if it'll make it into a video, but I enjoyed writing it either way.

If it does, I hope it doesn't bore you to death. And if it doesn't, well, I still found some relief in expressing things I've never shared with anyone before. Thank you for being kind. You make a lot of people feel less alone, and I know that gets said to you a lot, but that's because it's true. Here's my confession. When I was 10, a girl from down south, Florence, transferred her to my school. I didn't like her, and as I later found out, the feeling was mutual for reasons I still don't understand. I was an unpopular kid.

If you'd asked me who my friends were, I could have pointed to a handful of girls, maybe one boy. But at playtime, I was usually alone, walking the perimeter of the yard, watching my feet, playing with dead grass in a remote patch of field. Sometimes I had glanced longingly at the friendship bench, the place you'd sit if you wanted someone to notice you, and strike up a conversation. I never sat on it. The friendships I had felt shallow. I rarely felt truly wanted, so I kept it myself. My dad was my only real friend, and honestly, that was enough. Florence, though, she had long brown hair, a high school musical lunch buck, and Lely Kelly's, the cutest shoes, oh yeah.

She immediately won over the popular girls, the boys, and as if that wasn't enough, all my friends, too. She'd sit on the corner steps with the cool kids at playtime, laughing, talking about crushes, singing, I went to a Chinese chip shop, but ending with OMG instead of one, two, three, how dare she? She sang all the time, like she was Sharpay Evans, and when she caught me looking her way, her smile would vanish, and she'd shoot me daggers. We had never even spoken, but we hated each other. I hated her because I was jealous. Maybe she sensed that.

One day, we argued a little outside the classroom, which only added fuel to my fire. Now, you might be thinking I killed her and hit the body in one of the school bins. Sorry to disappoint, I didn't. But fate, in the form of a classroom seating chart, put Florence in me side by side. For the rest of the school year, five days a week, five hours a day, I'm sure she rolled her eyes when she found out. She walked over and that was that. She often sang, chatted with the others at her table, and over time we became civil. We had no choice.

One day, a group of us ended up in a secluded part of the yard, playing truth or dare. The secrets were things like, which boy would you snog, or who would you kill if you had to? Harmless stuff. Eventually, the group thinned out until it was just me and Florence. Trading secrets under the banner of the game. I barely remember any of it. Except for one lie I told her. That changed everything.

I told her I was adopted. It was a throwaway lie, said in less than a second, just to keep the game going, to make myself more interesting. To my surprise, she responded with immediate empathy, and I liked it. I liked being the center of attention. That tiny, dumb lie ended up being the thing that made us best friends for years. I'm a straight girl. Even during the brief I'm bisexual-sash-lesbian phase in high school, I mostly thought about boys, but my feelings towards Florence were confusing.

I was obsessed with her, not in a sexual way, but in an all-consuming, infatuated way. I wrote her love letters and poems, drew pictures of us together, and walked a mile alone just a visitor. I wanted to be around her all the time. I was jealous of her dad and brother. I wanted to be her number one.

I followed her to high school when she transferred, begged my parents to let me switch to. She never knew I felt that way, but at the time I couldn't imagine life without her. And the lie haunted me. I was always on edge. What if she noticed how much I looked like my parents? What if someone told her the truth?

What if she asked to see my birth certificate? I tried to hide it. I wouldn't leave her alone with my mom, made excuses, doubled down on the lie, and for what? Something so boring, and yet she later told me that the moment I mentioned being adopted, she knew we'd be best friends. We had the kind of relationship you only see in movies. my made plans to move to L.A. and live together in a condo.

But just months after her transfer to her school, she moved back down south, and I cried all the way home. We Skype sometimes. She came back later, but it wasn't the same. It ended. The line didn't. I became a bit of a pathological liar. I stole stuff. Random bits from classmates, trays, erasers, the odd pound coin, stole from friends, my stepmom, my

other. I got caught trying to steal an OK magazine once. I felt shame. If caught, I'd cry, but I kept doing it. Worse, I found the internet. I was showing myself to creepy strangers on Omega, doing those awful points challenges that escalated into horrifying territory. And I told my friend on a coach to the swimming baths that I was dating a 30-year-old man named Ian. I was 10. I wasn't. But she told my teacher, who told my mom and I'd never been so embarrassed. And thank you so much for sharing your confession. Lying is something that's addicting, I think. And it's something people don't talk about.

But lying can become addicting as, you know, you experience. It can become rewarding. You know, people respond. Like, it can make yourself seem better, make yourself seem cooler. Although, you know, it just adds stress. to your life because you worried about your friend finding out you weren't adopted for all those years imagine if you just told the truth you would have never had to deal with that stress same with the stealing same with all the other things it just it's better off um you tell the truth it's just it'll make

you self it'll make yourself feel so much better mentally in the long run you won't have to worry about it forever and um i just think that it's something you can work on just um tell yourself I mean, just you don't need to be like, I'm done with the line forever. Just set one day for yourself. The day that you're living right now, we're watching this video, just be like, I'm not going to lie today. And then bring it on tomorrow. And then the next day, just take it day by day. I'm not going to lie today.

I'm not going to steal it today. I'm not going to do X, Y, Z today. Just take it by the day. Don't say I'm not going to steal for the rest of my life. I'm not going to lie for the rest of my life. That's too big of a challenge. So just take it day by day and you can do it. I believe in you, and thank you so much for sharing this story.

On to the next one. Hi, Snuck. I just wanted to say thank you so much for creating such an inviting and understanding space. I love your videos and the community you've created. I have a confession to make. This happened a long time ago when I was just a little kid, but it still makes me sick to this day. To start, let me explain a few things about my childhood. I want to make it clear that none of this is to a means to excuse my behavior,

but maybe the explanation will make my story make more sense. I grew up an abusive household, my biological father. He doesn't deserve the title, Father, but for the sake of clarity, I'll call him that. He used to beat my mom and I, as well as abuse her financially and both of us verbally. Once the cops were even called, I remember being thrown down the hallway, into a glass door, luckily it didn't break, and him even breaking the thick wooden paddle he used to spank me with on my behind because he hit me so hard. and that's just the start.

He'd also tell me I was stupid, ugly, fat, and that no boy would ever love me. Unfortunately, at 26, I've still yet to prove him wrong on that last point. I still struggle with anxiety because I grew up around always having to be super vigilant of my surroundings and try not to set him off or I'd just get hit. My sister is several years younger than me, and when my mom was pregnant with her, we went to a visit a friend's house at the beach for a few days. I can't even remember if my father came with or not. That's how unimportant he has always been to me.

I was about seven at the time. I can't remember exactly what happened, but between what I know now was an extreme level of his anxiety and something my mom did to annoy me. I suddenly got very angry. I was old enough to know full well that there was a baby in my mom's stomach.

But I got so mad, I punched her straight in the stomach. I don't think my intention was to hurt my sister. I had nothing against her. I think I was just struggling to cope with everything and lashed out. I was still a little kid, so my punch wasn't that hard, but when my sister was born, her collarbone was broken. I still feel sick thinking about this, and I'm about to cry.

My mom has always said that the doctor mishandled my sister when she was born and that he was the one who did it. But deep down, I think it was my fault. I feel sick thinking about how much worse it could have been. Now that I'm older, I try to be understanding with myself knowing how much I was dealing with at the time. But the other part of me feels like I'm a monster because my intention was genuinely to hurt my mom.

I've told my sister the story and apologized. She laughed it off and told me not to worry about it, but I still feel horribly guilty. Not to make the story go for too long, but there is one other incident that I still feel guilty about. When I was about 10 and my sister five or so, we were in the backyard talking to our neighbor. He was cooking out on the grill and invited my mom, sister, and I to join him for dinner. I remember being really stressed at the time. I was probably having a panic attack, but didn't know what a panic attack was. All I felt was really warm and a sudden sense of urgency to passing.

information along to my mom who was inside. I told my sister to run inside and tell mom about dinner, but my anxiety made it come across as super urgent. We had a cement porch and our one rule was to not run on the porch because there was a cement stair at the door to step up and go inside. I'm sure you can see where this is going. As my sister turned to run inside, I kept talking to the neighbor when suddenly I heard a blood-curdling scream. I turned around and saw my mom carrying my sister all bloodied up. I quickly ran inside and saw from the blood on the step in my sister's forehead that she had tripped and fallen straight into the concrete. We rushed her to the hospital, but it wasn't very bad. I still don't know how she didn't crack her skull open right there on the spot. She ended up

not even needed stitches. I've always felt like it was my fault for letting my anxiety and stress influence how I spoke to her. I've gotten much better at handling my anxiety since then, especially now that I know what it is, and I've moved out of that hellhole of a traumatic home. However, I still get sick when I think about how I could have seriously hurt my little sister twice. I feel like a monster. She knows both stories, and regardless of whether she thinks either were my fault, she told me not to worry about it. I hate to think about how much my anxiety as a kid not only hurt myself, but the people I cared most about. Hello, Snook. First of all, obviously, I got to say that I love your videos.

I'm a dog groomer, and you make my job even more enjoyable than what it already is. Here is my confession. When I was about 15 to 16 years old, me and my friend went to PetSmart to pick up some stuff for my dog. I went to the bathroom in the store and in one of the stalls I found a wallet. It had about $1,000 in it with a piece of paper describing all the bills that the person had. Till this day, it pains me to say that I took the money. Every time something bad happens to me, I think of that situation and just remind myself that it's probably karma for what I did. I don't even remember what I did with the money, but obviously I specifically.

spent it. Growing up, we live paycheck to paycheck, and I remember the way my mom would struggle to make ends of meat, so I can't imagine how this person felt losing $1,000. When I was 20, I am 25 now. I donated $1,000 to the SPCA in my city for my birthday. In my mind, this was sort of a way to pay back for what I did. But still, I don't think I'll ever feel better about this situation. I've never told anything like this again, and, man, I feel terrible, even just talking about it. poor person. I hope they're doing good and I hope they don't remember that that even happened to them. I'm so sorry and if I knew who they were, I'd do anything I can for them to forgive me. Anyways, thanks for reading. Snook, thank you for the videos you create. They're amazing to listen to

at work and it makes time pass and I just love hearing stories of other people's lives. Here's my story. My name is Blaine. I'm 20 years old and I am from a small town of Michigan, USA. Growing up, I never really had a father figure. My mother met my stepdad when I was probably nine or ten, and he's seen care of me, and it's not the same, I guess. Even though I do see him as my dad, my bio-dad has never been in my life. I've never met him. I wanted to find out who he really was when I was 13. The reason my biological dad has never been in my life is because when my mom was pregnant with me, my dad was doing methamphetamine. He used to sell it, possibly even made it himself. My dad murdered my brother while he was smoking meth.

My brother was four years old. This happened in a small town in Indiana. It haunts me every day. Not knowing why he did it. Not knowing who my brother is. Not knowing anything. For the longest time, my mom never told me about that side of my family. I never spoke to them until I was 15 and I found out about them on my own.

I met my two older brothers from my dad's side on Instagram. My mom also had four kids, including me. I met them in person when I was 17, along with my grandparents and others in the family. They're amazing people as well. They're all super hard workers and very successful people. I'm going to Florida with my brothers next month, which is amazing because we've grown super close together. But back to my dad. He was charged with a lot.

He will face time in prison until possibly 2038. I don't know what I'll do when or if he gets out. I've talked to him before, only through text. He has a tablet in prison that allows him to talk to family whenever he wants to. But I'm not sure how to feel when or if he gets out. Part of me wants to punch him in the face. Part of me wants to give him a handshake because I've never actually known him. We do have a lot in common as well.

When I first talked to him, I was very angry for what he had taken for me. But as I grew older, I've learned to forgive. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because everyone deserves a second chance, no matter how bad they've done. It's absolutely a nightmare knowing what he did. But do you think maybe it was the drugs? Do you think he actually wanted to kill my brother? I'm not too sure. I do know that sometimes it's hard to open up to him because of it,

but I try to treat them like any other human being because everyone makes mistakes. That's all I have to share as of now. Thank you for reading. I hope this will reach out to others and allow them to maybe forgive someone in their life who has messed up horribly. Thank you for giving me someone to open up too. Thank you for reading. Goodbye. Dear Snook, I enjoy watching your videos a lot and it's the only thing that helps me go to bed. Now to my confession. I was about six and my grandparents were visiting my family. They stayed with us in our house and we had one spare bedroom. I would share the room with my grandma and my grandpa would use the spare room during the visits. I would usually wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble going back to sleep. I got spooked easily as a kid so I couldn't walk around in the dark. I would usually need to turn on the big light. On their third night, I think during visiting, we went to bed and it was a normal night so far. I then woke up and could Couldn't go back to sleep as always. I then hear a sort of muffled yell and groan.

It sounded like my grandpa. Me being the scared little kid I was, threw the blanket over my head and tried to hide. I was too scared to check up on what happened. I thought he probably just stubbed his toe. I then wake up and start getting ready for school during 6.40-ish. I walk into the living room and see my grandma lying on the floor. The bed and the spare room was uncomfortable,

so he would usually watch TV and sleep on the couch, with the blanket over his head. My grandma, who woke up a little bit before me, was sitting on the couch not bothering him because she thought he was tired and didn't get a good night's sleep. We then hear my grandpa grunt, not speak just grunt loudly. We uncovered the blanket off of his head and he has a black eye and it wet himself. We called the ambulance and he went to the hospital. It turns out when I heard him yell and groan, he had a stroke. The stroke has caused him not to be able to speak ever again and be paralyzed on his left side. I feel so gilded.

and bad after. I couldn't sleep for a few nights just to think that if I possibly wasn't scared and just got up to check on him, I'd be able to speak to him again. Snook, I hope you're able to read this confession that still haunts me to this day, and it's just a reminder that I could have easily prevented all of this. Hi, Snook. While listening to your confessions video, I thought of one I would, just like to get off my chest, that I've never shared with many people. My story also involves mental health, so trigger warning if you're not very comfortable with this topic. Also, Snook, feel free to edit out some parts that may be a little too graphic. Also, I love your channel. I've been watching since late last year, probably while I'm drawing, as I'm making a comic, or just playing like Minecraft or something.

It's honestly just pretty chill. Anyways, here's my confession. Keep in mind, it's pretty long, and please call me Crow. This takes place late 2023 and around early 2024. I am also going off my memory as all the texts are gone. Around the fall of 2023, me and my family moved around half across the country. It was, well, a rough time would be an understatement. I always had issues with my family and my childhood,

so moving and going away from the city I lived in for legitimately all my life. I was off and on depressed for most of my life, only getting diagnosed with general anxiety and then MDD, major depression disorder early 2024 when I went to a psychiatrist, or better referred to as an inpatient. This is important later. Anyways to Cope, I made a YouTube channel where I would post my art and some edits of shows I liked. Sure, they weren't very good, but they were something that helped me. I wasn't very popular either, nearly only get into a few hundred subscribers. Well, through that channel, I made another person, and we became online best friends.

Yes, maybe not very smart of me, but cut me some slack. I was heavily not in a good mental state. For privacy reasons, of course, I will be changing their name as everyone. I also don't remember what pronouns they used as, last I thought they might have been transgender, but I really don't know. So they slash them it is. We'll call them dragons, since we both love dragons. Well, me and dragon were really close.

The both of us became best friends online. We later exchanged phone numbers, contacting over WhatsApp. ever since my childhood, I've had trust issues and toxic behaviors, such as being possessive and isolating people that got close to me, because I've had those issues. I've since been a lot better since then. Well, me and Dragon would be talking, you know, like the usual shit, just talking, gossiping, calling every few times randomly.

Well, on WhatsApp, you can see when people were last online, if they put that setting on anyways. Also, to note that Dragon lived on the other side of the world in Europe, so it would be difficult to communicate, that we would just do it off and on. Dragon was around my age. We FaceTime sometimes, and no, they were not some 40-year-old man from Ohio or whatever the fuck y'all think. Well, here's the first toxic trait I started to do.

I would start feeling angry whenever I saw they were last online and didn't text me. I would get upset and lash out at them. Also, she had a YouTube channel where she also did art of characters from the fandom we were and she had a few thousand subscribers. Being that, I only had a few hundred, I used that to my advantage. I'd beg her to mention me a lot and just credit for me for stuff. One day I went too far, and our friendship was on thin ice, like always. Now, we are late December 23, and I was very, very S word.

I always kind of was since my early childhood, so I would use that against them, saying how I will. Not exactly saying being the usual on your thing enough, but I was, more so wanting the confirmation and attention from her more so, but I was actually wanted to do it either way. I also did that night on Christmas, but I didn't. Later early 20204, January, I was admitted to the ER. Middle of the night, I was going to do it, but then I was admitted to go to the psych ward. Me and my mom left the ER early that morning to go to it. I packed the limited items I could bring and took my phone with me for the drive. I contacted dragging, telling them what had happened. I I wanted sympathy, and I got it.

I used it to my advantage. I know I did, and I'm not proud of it. I made them worry. Up to this point, I was mentally unstable and not right in the head, but this psych ward I stayed in for a little over ten days. It was a pretty shitty place. I'd say it fucked me up in the head even more. Well, then I got discharged and sent home.

I got back in contact with Dragon, and for a little while everything was fine, but then I snapped again, sending our friendship downhill. I would say I guilt tripped them into starting over, saying how I would just came myself and how I was so sorry that I was, but again, I used her sympathy to my advantage. But the damage was already done. Then a week later, I snapped again, and that was it. I swore at them so much in all caps, probably screaming over text you could say, and then finally they blocked me. I was broken. I lashed out of everyone. I started seeing her in the corners when she wasn't for a time that I was even more fucked up in the head. I would stalk their YouTube channel, being the only source of content we had now. Not exactly contact, though. I would constantly comment on their channel, then getting us, well, mostly me arguing in their comments,

saying how they're a heartless bitch and shouldn't have done that. At one point, I even made a copy of their channel with another account, then reposting their videos, and going on my main account and acting all innocent. They knew it was me at some point. And I reported her, well, I don't know. I think because I was mad or something. Keep that I was in mind for later. So I would go around to them,

fans' channel, pretending to be them, and then getting her fans all pissed so they would harass them. Not cool, crow. Not cool. Well, at some point, I tried getting in contact with them. I made a fake story to my family saying how they were the problem.

And I was the one being harassed since they were wondering why and my family knew about her friendship. I was so, so mentally unstable. So I used their phone number on my mom's phone and contacted them, trying to guilt trip them again. but of course they were smarter than me to let them back into their life.

I was being very toxic to them. I know that, but not then. Eventually, I went into long-term mental health care, then getting released over four months of heavy, heavy progress on my mental health. I then went into daytime care for mental health, where I stayed in a place with my mom for about six weeks. At this point, I deleted WhatsApp, no longer having a use for it since I had no contacts on it. Out of curiosity, I installed it again,

seeing that dragon had texted me. I opened the message reading it, how they said that I needed to stop commenting on their channel and to leave them alone. Keep in mind this was about two weeks in. I snapped again, hidden emotions that hadn't faced or ever really realized were ever there. I started texting them a random range of messages,

not even taking accountability for shit, and eventually I settled down slightly. Fine. Do you really want to know what happened? I texted them? Yeah, but don't be all rude again. and Dragon texted me something along the lines of that. Then I explained everything, finally admitting that I was toxic, how I was being a bitch and everything. I never admitted to making another account and mimicking their channel, and after that,

I sent them a short apology after a few longer messages between us, how they are also missing me sometimes, but just ignoring those because they knew what I had done, and I had been a dick to them. We just sort of went our separate ways after that. I deleted their contact, after I was cleaning my storage of my phone. I knew it was for the best, and we both needed to move on. Every so often, I would check up on their channel to see how they were doing, and eventually saw that their channel was gone.

I looked around, seeing that it had been deleted. It might have been because of me, because of my stupid choice, I just had to report them and ranting to YouTube support. All of that just gone from them. While this was almost a year ago, and I met them almost two years ago, I got over the main guilt therapist and talking always helped. but there's a little bit of me that will always feel guilty, no matter what. Sometimes I miss what could have been, the friendship I wasted, the time of theirs I had wasted,

but we all learned somehow, and for both of us, I think we both have moved on. They were, and still are, I bet a great person. Better than I could have ever deserved. I don't want pity or anything, that's not the point of why I'm writing this, it's just to share my story. I know I heard her in one way or another. I know I was extremely toxic and rude to her. Accountability is important.

Admitting you're wrong, even when you don't even want that to be reality. I have so many people in my life that are extreme narcissists, my dad, and my older brother. But if I can help anyone or just spread my experience, know that mental health is not a weakness. Your feelings have, are, and always will be valid. Get help, reach out, even if you're just over the phone like I did to the S word hotline. If you do share my experience, Snook, in a video, then thank you. Everyone, stay awesome. Crow.

Hi, Snook. First off, I just want to say I love your videos. I know you probably hear that a lot, but I'm a fairly new subscriber, and I've really enjoyed having your content on in the background while I go up on my day. Secondly, I'd like to stay anonymous for this. I was watching one of your confession videos when a story about someone who struggled with compulsive line came up, and it pushed me to share something I've never told anyone. My confession is that I have a bad habit of stealing.

It started small, things like candy bars or snacks from the grocery store where I work, just stuff I'd take on my break without pain. Over time, it escalated to things I needed at home. shampoo, groceries, little necessities. I'd sneak them out of my hat during winter or hide them in my jacket on the way to my car. Eventually, I started stealing from other stores too, Walmart, smaller grocery shops, and things only got worse. I was caught once at Walmart with almost $200 worth of items hidden in my reusable bags.

They made me pay for everything, which devastated me financially. Since then, my hours at work have been cut, and I'm struggling to cover my bills. I've picked up a second job, but it's not enough. Despite everything, I still feel the urge to steal, especially from Walmart, and I've given in more times than I want to admit. I'm terrified of getting arrested, but I can't seem to stop. The guilt afterward is overwhelming. I know what's wrong.

I know I need help. I'm just scared of how people would react if they knew. I really just needed to get this off my chest. I don't know what my next step is, but I truly want to change and get better. Thank you for listening and for what you do. Sincerely, a fairly new fan. Thank you for sharing this.

I hope I can give you some maybe guidance or something like that. I might give you the same guidance I gave to the compulsive liar, since I mean, that's kind of what inspired you to share this, but take it a day at a time. just every time you enter a store to go shopping, just tell yourself, I won't steal today. I won't do it. I won't give me to the urge. Just don't. And it's not worth getting arrested for. Don't steal. It's morally wrong. It's not a good thing to do. And it will only bite you in the ass. It will only be bad. And you're lucky that that one time they didn't arrest you. I mean, they made you pay. And like you said, it devastated you financially.

but that's way better than going to jail and getting arrested because if you keep this up, you will go to jail, most likely. Statistically speaking, you will get caught. Most people who keep that up eventually get caught. And so just take it a day of time. Please stop. It will only lead to your downfall and getting arrested or fined or something horrible like that. And I would just hate to see you in that position. So I really hope that you can take it a day at a time and break this bad habit. I believe in you and everyone else believes in you. You got this. Hi, a snook. Did you know a snook is a fish or apparently some kind of hand gesture? Sorry, I'm a bit nervous to say my confession, but I need to confess my crime, so to say. Sigh, here goes nothing. So in fifth grade,

it was the end of the school year and we had one last math test to do. I was horrendous at math, like F's all year long bad at math. But at the end of the year, me and the table of boys I sat with, I'm a girl or was a girl, I'm a woman now, but you get what I mean. We're just exhausted with the whole school thing and couldn't wait for fifth grade graduation and summer break. So when our last math test came around and me and my table full of boy cohorts

decided we're going to cheat on the last math test, I can't tell you how we got away with this because our table of four was in front of or diagonal from our teacher. let's call her Mrs. Hall. So me, Eric, not his real name, Derek, also not his real name, and Merrick, again in Elias, we blatantly cheated on this test. Like, we were pretty obvious with it, so much the entire class knew we were cheating. At one point, we thought we had gotten caught and was just waiting to get in trouble for cheating, but lunchtime came. Mrs. Hall took us down for lunch and said nothing to us. Since it was raining that day, after lunch we came back upstairs for

recess and Mrs. Hall was grading the last math test while we were playing. Eric, Derek, and I were talking and really wondering if Mrs. Hall was going to say something because everyone knew we had cheated on that test. Finally, Mrs. Hall calls me over to her desk and everyone turns to look at me like, uh-oh, I should know right there. I was always the quiet one in class. I never made waves or got in trouble, so when Mrs. Hall called me over to her desk, the guy swore I was going to tell on everyone to save myself, but I reassured them that I got this. and boldly went over to Mrs. Hall-daskant, I asked sweetly, yes, Mrs. Hall? And she said to me, do you know you got a 100 on this test?

I pretend to be surprised in saying in a normal tone. I had no idea. She then asked, what did you do differently? I tell her that I study really hard, and she said it paid off, and she congratulated me, then sent me back to play with the other kids. I told them everything was cool and didn't think about it past that. End of story, right? Nope. Fast forward a week or so later. It's the day of fifth grade graduation, and we're all in the auditorium going through the whole graduation thing, and we get to the awards part of the graduation, and they are handing down an award for most improved in spelling, reading, and finally most improved in math. To my utter shock, I got called up for this award, which included a $50 savings bond. Eric, Derek, and Merrick nearly died laughing. I was shocked, amused, slightly horrified, and several kids were mad, but thanks. Thankfully, they didn't say anything about my blatant cheating. A thousand years, this happened in the 80s and two lifetimes later, I still have that savings

pond. I know it's tainted and refused to do anything with it. Not a sad confession, but I just wanted to share. Love the videos, and thanks for letting me share. I have ignored my father for years, and I don't feel bad. Hey, Snook, before I start my convention, I just wanted to let you know how much I love your videos, I watch them while crafting or while I fall asleep. Anyways, here's my confession.

I've ignored my father for years, and I don't feel bad. I've never talked about this as deeply as I'm going to, but I figured it's time to get it out somewhere. My apologies if the story is on the longer side, I'll try to keep the details as a minimum for some things. My whole life, my father has been an alcoholic. When I was younger, I wasn't aware of what was going on. During the day, he would be a normal, funny dad,

but once it turned to it, he would start acting super strange, and sometimes when my mom called him out, it would get this violent look on his face like he was going to punch something. I can still picture it perfectly when I think about it. One time I was in the car with him alone, while it was dark out. I can't remember where we were going, but he ended up driving the wrong way on a one-way road, and a car almost hit us while honking its horn.

On another occasion, I used to be best friends with this one girl, and one time we were in the car with my dad. I being in the passenger seat and her being in the backseat. I don't recall what the conversation was that led to this happen, but at one point we were all laughing because she said something funny, then my dad turned around, grabbed her leg, and shook it while laughing and saying her nickname. It's a little hard to describe and it may not sound that bad when I type it out,

but in the moment I just felt so uncomfortable and stopped laughing after that. At other times, he would pretend to have a heart attack or something, and fall into the fridge or on the floor, and when my sister and I stopped paying attention to it, he would say, you wouldn't care if I died, or one day I will die and you'll miss me. Anyways, fast forward to a while later when I was 14, and my mom finally decided enough was enough and wanted to divorce him. The process took a long time, and before they were legally divorced, she told him he could sleep on the couch in the basement because he didn't have a place to stay. I came home from school one day to him shouting at literally nothing in the basement,

just loudly talking to himself about how my pop-pop, my mom's dad, is a piece of trash and making fun of his stuttering. Well, my pop-hop is the best and not even close to a piece of trash. Sure, he stutters and he's old and his mouth moves faster than his brain. Anyways, I go down to the basement and see him sitting on the couch with a huge bottle of straight vodka on his hand. I screamed at him to stop talking about him and how he's a piece of trash, not my pop-pop, or whatever I said. I went upstairs, called my mom, and told her what was happening. She then called my aunt, my dad's sister-in-law, and she came over so I wouldn't be alone with him in the house. A little ways in the future, my mom totally kicked him out of the house, and he was living in different hotels.

He kept getting kicked out of them. One reason being he got drunk and broke the thermostat on the wall. He also kept showing up at the house trying to come inside during the night, and I can't even count how many times the police have been called to her house because of him. He was never physically violent, which always put me under the impression that I was not in a bad situation, which other people say isn't the case, but I don't know. Except this one time where he had a knife in his hand and threatened to stab me, but that was once. I guess until one night I just got done with winning in one of my softball games in my mom, younger sister, and I got in the car when a policeman came up to the car.

He starts telling us that one of our neighbors called the cops because they saw my dad punching and shattering one of the windows in the front of our house. Little did he know there were two different layers of glass, so he only got through one. His hand was covered in blood, and when the police arrived at our house, he claimed he was trying to get his underwear. That was supposedly in the house, which it wasn't because he took everything when my mom kicked him out. When we pulled up to our house, we got out to see the window, and yeah, there it was. Shattered glass in the grass with a broken window.

The examples I told are just a really small part of all the things he's done, but those are some of that come to mind first. After the divorce was finalized and my father was out for good, we ended up moving because my mom couldn't afford that house with just her income. She also couldn't take his name off the house for a reason I'm not sure of. Since then, he's been in and out of rehab facilities getting clean, then once getting out goes on a drinking binge. He's like that. He needs to be babysat in order to stay sober. He lost both his jobs in the process, even after his main job with his state gave him benefit on the doubt and gave him a little time. He still messed it up and got fired.

He still texts my mom telling her what rehab facility, hospital, or homeless shelter who's currently staying in. Sometimes he sounds normal, and other times his texts are just bizarre and make no sense. My mom, sister, and I have a good laugh reading them because all we can do is really just laugh about it now. Some of the texts include him telling my mom how he wants to talk to my sister and I, how he wishes we wouldn't hate him, and some feel sorry for me, kind of texts. For years, I have refused to tell him.

to talk to him and prefer to think he doesn't exist. When people ask about my dad, I say I didn't have one. I've never even cried. The whole time through divorce, having to stay at my Nana and Pop Pop's house because my mom says it wasn't safe to stay at home, all the screaming and fighting I used to hear regarding his drinking, the cops having to show up many, many times, the attempted break in, having to move out of our house, etc. I've never cried once about the situation.

I'm not sure if I'm like trauma blocking it or something. I used to have a therapist for my OCD, and one day she asked me why I never brought up my dad to her because my mom told her about it. I just said because I don't think it has any effect on me or my OCD. My nana also tries to tell me that she knows I care and that I'm hurting somewhere inside, but I just don't feel it. I think they're all wrong because I know how I feel, and frankly, I don't feel anything about it. I feel hatred for him, but I don't cry or feel the need to about any of it. I am an emotional person, so it's not like I never cry or anything. I just don't feel anything regarding that situation except for anger at times.

Anyways, I don't know what I'm really expecting you to respond to this confession with, but I will hear anything you need to say about it. I just don't think I've had a true opinion, and I feel that a stranger's opinion will be better. Thanks again, Snook. I hope this makes it in a future video. Thank you so much for sharing this confession, and I'm glad you got it off your chest.

I'm sure that'll feel good, and it'll feel great to read all the people's comments down below in the comments and that sort of stuff. And I don't have a ton to say. I mean, you say you don't feel emotional about it. And maybe your Nana's right. That will come up at a certain time and you might be hurting in a way you don't kind of recognize as hurting. But maybe you just react to things differently. And sure, I would feel anger as well if my dad acted to me that way. But, you know, it sounds like you're kind of out of the thing.

think of it, so to say, you seem like you're doing better. And I think continuing to go to the therapist, talking to them, just kind of telling more people would be better. Just get other people's opinions on it. But, you know, I'm glad that you're still okay. And you're doing all right. And yeah, OCD, hopefully that's all right because OCD is a, you know, can be a horrible thing. So hopefully it's not a horrible thing for you. You know, I've read enough stories where OCD can destroy people's lives and so hopefully you know OCD keeps in check keep talking to your therapist about it keep things under control keep talking to people that's the best solved to all of this um you've got this and uh just keep on going on you'll be all right thank you so much for sharing and uh onto the next one

hey snook first i'm sure you read this more than enough but thank you for creating this space for us to share it means a lot i'm becoming an alcoholic and i'm well aware of it and i don't want to stop I've been 21 for two months now, and I have a drink every day on the hour drive to work and the hour drive back from work. Sometimes I keep a drink or two in my car for lunch. I don't know why I have no urge to pull myself out of this. I think that I secretly want it. All my life, I've been around drinkers. Both of my parents have been functional alcoholics since I was born.

Most of my childhood memories are coming out to the local gastropubs and watching my parents drink for hours on end. It's just normal to me that when you get home from work, that the first thing you do is crack open to a gold one. I've been listening to and writing folk punk music for the better half of a decade now, and most of my songs are about drinking, the good days in high school, where you go into Walmart and just confidently walk out the front doors with a handle of Tito's and a 30-pack of Miller High Lives, going to sleep with a good buzz and getting to good night's rest, a fun night out with the boys full of vodka bowls and frequent bumps throughout the night. Drinking just makes me happy.

It feels nostalgic, and it takes away my pre-existing downright crippling anxiety. I know what I have to lose, but I'm so overly confident that I'll be able to hold it together that I won't lose it, and at the same time, rationally aware that, the same time down the road, one slip-up means living in my 2002 Honda. I just got home from work, and I had three beers on the drive home, and I had a minus 196C when I walked in the door. I weigh less than 120 pounds to put it in perspective on how those affected me. I don't know what I plan on getting out of writing this, but it was the only thing I felt comfortable writing about.

Thanks for reading this, Snook. Keep doing what you're doing, brother. It's truly honorable, and I have a good day. This message was sent by Slyman. And hey, man, I know you didn't ask for any sort of feedback on this, but I think you kind of opened up a little bit right there on when you said you had crippling anxiety. I think that is maybe where a lot of this stems from, and this is not sustainable. I've had plenty of people who have drinking problems right into me, and they more often than

not have an anxiety or depression problem, and the drinking masks that. So I think the best thing you need to do is talk to somebody. I don't usually advocate for medication immediately, but maybe some anxiety medication could help you out greatly, because that, is a lot better than drinking and driving, which you just admitted to doing, that is not good, drinking on the job, please stop. This is just going to go down a road that is not going to have a good end. I recommend stopping while, you know, now before it gets even worse, which this could easily spiral into. I really think you should talk to somebody about your anxiety. I think that might be a big stem of it.

I'm not saying don't drink. I'm just saying, you know, you know, keep it under control. But drinking all the day, every day, when he just turned 21, is not healthy. You know, drink maybe just on the weekends or just on Fridays, you know, or take it a day at a time. That's what I usually tell people. Take it a day at a time. Just say today, I'm not going to drink.

And that's how you, so you don't need to be like, oh, I'm going to stop drinking all week or whatever. Just take it a day at a time. and you might have some slip-ups, but try to focus on getting better. I really think you need to stop now before it gets into something really bad. And I think a lot of people watching this

will agree with me, but yeah, this could really go down a bad road. So I really, really hope you can get a stop to this and stop this destructive behavior. I wish you the best man and get healthy. Hi, Snook. I just finished your latest video and thought,

why not share a confession? Whether this makes it into a video or not, thank you for reading, and allowing me to give this off my chest. About two months ago, I had my first edible. I'm not an active weed user and only wanted to try an edible because I cannot smoke, and I was told the ones I bought were light on the weed slash good for beginners. A whole week went by, and it only felt like two days. I could barely get out of bed. Every conversation with anyone didn't feel real. I watched hours past and could only panic, knowing times going by, and way too fast. I've never wished for anything as much as I've wished I'd wake up and feel better.

I was so sure this would forever be my life, that my brain was deteriorating and I'd never go back to normal. I cut my hand during this time, and I didn't feel a thing. For 47 days, I felt nothing physically, except for the excruciating pain I felt in my head. I live with my parents still, and they would not be happy with me if they knew what I took. I had to lie through my high that I was sick and very, very out of it. I'm shocked they believed me. To this day, some things that seem all.

make me worry that things aren't real. It had caused dissociation and anxiety. No one I knew, understood, or knew the true hell I was going through. And it brings me a lot of anxiety even thinking about weed. I'm sure there are people who think I'm weak for not being able to handle it, but that was genuinely the worst experience of my life, and I never want to go back. Tend this off on a good note, and with the moral of the story, don't ever let people convince you drugs are cool. Stay safe. Don't do things that can have negative effects on you. I can say that after this, I will only live out my life sober. I never want to experience the hell again, and I hope my story can help people make good choices for their life. Thank you for

reading. Hey Snook, I wanted to start off by saying thank you. Don't forget to make time for yourself, reading so many confessions with so many sad endings can be hard on a person. Please take care of yourself and don't push yourself too hard. This story is one I've told a select few people, but none of my family knows. It's a sad one with a very happy ending. Back in 2017 through 2018, I went through some really bad stuff. I'm not going to talk about it. The details aren't necessary for the story. Besides, I haven't processed all of it quite yet.

I was only 12 and scared of everything. Unfortunately, I refused therapy and started to spiral. I was going through a depressive episode. By a bowl or two is an awful thing. It was traveling down the darkest paths of my head. The best way I can describe it is I was on the outside, looking in. everything I did and said didn't feel real and I wanted it to stop. I tried alcohol, which only amplified the feeling.

My life was turning into a nightmare I was creating for myself. The only option of my head was S word, so I planned it. I was going to do it after my family watched our weekly movie together. Late at night so no one would notice until morning. I stayed up and at 2 a.m. started on my note. I got everything ready. I went through a brief moment of sanity or insanity. based on how you view it, and started talking to my dead grandma in my head.

I begged her to give me a reason to stay, any reason at all. Everyone I knew and loved was asleep, and I thought all hope is lost. All of a sudden, my little sister, only eight years old, sat straight up. Minutes prior, she was snoring like a baby. I turned off my little nightlight when I heard her in the smallest voice talked to me. I feel like I need to say this. I love you, and she laid back down. snoring again only a minute later.

I sat there staring in the dark and realized Grandma listened. She gave me a reason. She gave me hope. And I thank the world every day for creating my beautiful sister, a built-in best friend. Since then, I've graduated high school, pursuing a nursing degree, and have an amazing boyfriend of two and a half years, looking like a fiancé at any point. My sister is now in high school and the smartest, most talented woman I know. I still wonder what would have happened if I didn't ask for a reason, if I didn't look for any hope.

I want to say this by saying the usual. Talk to people. I started a journal where I write my favorite things about each month and give myself a reason to live. Things to look forward to. People love you. You just got to look past the fog and into the eyes of those who care about you. You'll make it out. You'll be okay.

We will all be okay. Once again, thank you. And I hope this wasn't too much for you to read. You're amazing. Hey, Snook, I've recently gotten into your videos, and they've quickly become one of my favorite things to watch. You're doing something really important by sharing the stories you do. Thank you for that. I'm not sure if this counts as a confession, but it's something I've carried with me for nearly two years now.

It still eats at me. Two years ago, my grandmother, younger sibling, and I were planning to go to an air show. The plan was to pick up my uncle and his grandson. Let's call him Jack on the way. Some background, Jack isn't biologically related to us. He's the son of my uncle's late daughter's ex-fiancee. When they split her, parents retained custody of Jack, and he calls my uncle grandpa. When my aunt passed away, she had been in remission from breast cancer,

but a brain tumor returned and she didn't tell anyone about it. My uncle was left as Jack's sole guardian. My uncle has bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. After my aunt's death, he began using drugs which made his mental health work. Jack wasn't in a good environment. He was often neglected, left to sit alone with a phone or Xbox for hours because my uncle couldn't handle him. Jack started acting out to get attention, especially around my uncle. The day of the air show, my uncle called and said he wasn't feeling well and would it be coming. My grandmother asked if we could still take Jack and my uncle

agreed. When we arrived, Jack came outside, but my uncle followed him out and suddenly changed his mind. He grabbed Jack's by the arm, lifted him off the. ground and screamed in his face before slamming him to the ground. My grandmother got out of the car and tried to calm him down, but my uncle turned his rage on her. She told Jack to get in the car, and he ran to the back seat, sitting right next to me, completely silent and dazed. We decided to take him home with us. My sibling had my mom on the phone during all of this, and she was ready for us when we arrived. Jack clung to my side the entire drive. At home, things escalated. My mom tried to talk to my uncle down over the phone, but he was enraged.

She told us to take Jack to the bathroom connected to my grandmother's room, our safest option. Jack ran straight forward. My sibling followed, and I blocked the bedroom door from the inside. My uncle stormed inside the house, yelling Jack's name. My mom stood between him and the hallway, holding a wooden board, but couldn't use it without risking arrest. My uncle busted the bedroom door and then forced his way into the bathroom. I did what I could. I shoved him, jumped on his back, screamed.

I fought as hard as I could to keep him from getting. to Jack. He knocked me down and broke the bathroom door. When he saw Jack hiding, he collapsed. He started sobbing, apologizing. Jack hesitated but hugged him. My uncle picked him up, carried him to the hallway, then told him to leave. I tried to hold my uncle back. I grabbed his shirt and ripped it. I still have that piece of fabric. Jack ran back to us. The police showed up soon after, but legally, the only charge we could press was trespassing. In doing so, risked my grandmother being accused of kidnapping so we didn't press charges. That night I broke down.

I cried so much I had to stay at my best friend's place for a few days. The broken doors were placed with metal plates. We couldn't afford new ones. About a month later, my uncle came to my 18th birthday party. He helped build a bonfire I wanted. My mom said that was his way of apologizing. I've never forgiven him for what happened. But for Jack's sake, I pretend I've let go.

Lately, my uncle has gotten a job and seems to be doing better. He's on hard drugs anymore, at least not that we know of. A lot of the people we used to hang out with have faced legal consequences, and I think he finally realized he needs to change. But I still don't think he's a safe guardian for Jack. And I still see it all. Every time I visit, I see Jack getting slammed to the ground. I see the door breaking.

I see myself unable to protect him the way I wanted to. Here's the part that really haunts me. That night, when I was blocking the door, I looked for something to defend us. I found a broken wooden statue and almost hit my uncle over the head with it. I was ready to hurt him, maybe even kill him. I was only 17, but I didn't care. The only thing that stopped me was the statue got knocked out of my hands.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't. Would I have been self-defense? Would I have been charged as an adult? Would I have killed him? It scares me, knowing that if I had to do it again, I wouldn't hesitate. I've learned more about self-defense since then, not because of that day,

but that moment made it clear how far I'd go to protect someone I love. Thank you for giving people like me a place to share things like this. I'm still trying to get into therapy to work through everything, but until then, just getting it out helps. And thank you so much for being comfortable enough to share it with the channel and everyone watching, and I'm glad it helps just getting it out. Hopefully me reading this,

reading some people's reactions will help you feel better about this as well. Hopefully you can get it to therapy soon. And like I've said in previous or the previous Confessions video, just talk to somebody about this. I'm glad you shared it to me. And yeah, that's such a scary situation. I have no idea how I would even react to that. And many people, I don't know, that's just a really, really hard situation to be in.

And you stood strong, which is, very admirable. But I think I would recommend just getting to therapy or getting somebody to talk to, whether it be a loved one or actual therapist. And I think that would just be a great thing to do, to be honest, just to talk it through, work it all out, work through the whole experience. And don't feel bad about anything. I mean, it happened. And I don't think you can change the past. So don't spend too long reminiscing. But like I said, talk about it. to somebody it helps and I hope you're doing good now and I hope you're doing better thank you so much for sharing and on to the next one hi snook I apologize if my text is choppy or written wrong because

I am a teen and English is not my first language I have lots of history with drinking, smoking, shoplifting and depression I started having depressing thoughts after I'd seen two corpses slash other teens who aged themselves on a tree near my house those happened to me when I was about 7 and 9. I had to call the police when I was about 9 because my parents weren't able to. I had started thinking of how hanging worked and I had Googled the hanging knot and tried to hang my plushies. After a few months, those went away with talking to professionals, but they came back after my dog had to be put down of old age when I was about 9 and 10 to 11, but after that, they were aggressively hard to ignore. So I started self-aging at the ripe age of 11. It was really hard

after I had turned 12, and in January, I decided to stop. For over a year, I could stop cutting, but one day it had gotten hard and it took the blade again. I felt shame and freedom at the same time. I had an active addiction while in school. Sometimes the withdrawals got too bad, so I took a blade out, my school bag, and excused myself to the bathroom, and had a five-ish-minute session every day. Sometimes it got so bad that I started to scratch myself pretty hard. I've got it under control for a week or few now, so I've been sick for over a week of fever and myctoplasma, and it's been frustrating and hard for me.

And myctoplasa equals a lung infection slash virus that makes it hard to breathe and gives me weird rashes. I've been having a day-long depressive episodes and I've wanted to kay myself overtaking medicine and I haven't been able to see anyone else than my mom, mom, dad, and brother's girlfriend. One night after midnight, I took all my medicine,

wishing I would die and my mom had to watch so I wouldn't overdose slash harm myself. And after I took some, I went to bed while listening to your videos. In bed, I didn't fall asleep because it was so cold, and your video was scaring me, so I stayed away watching TikToks on my burner phone. I don't have WhatsApp on it, but I do have Insta, Facebook, Reddit, Twitter, Snapchat, TikTok and lots of games.

And at around 1230, I started coughing up lungs, and I passed out because I didn't get in any air or exhaustion. Later, I woke up and I had gas for air, and I rose from my bed, and I checked myself in the mirror around 1 a.m. and I was blue and purple. I didn't wake my guardians of the fear that they would not give a fuck. I went back to bed and cried that I wouldn't wake up. Obviously, I woke up, but I wished I earlier to die, but now I was wishing I didn't. I hope someone else has realized that life is worth living.

T.K. P.S. Your videos are amazing, and I always listen to them in class or before going to bed. Hello, I am an artist. There's just about one thing I want to make clear in my artwork. However distorted it might be, and that is the blood. I want to make it correct. I want to render all the viscera and gore correctly. I want to evoke as much of a visceral reaction for myself as possible when I'm looking

back at my drawings. This in of itself is not a problem. Just another 15-minute freak, if that. I share it to my friends if they ask, they understood and do not. I don't blame them. But I fear hosting an account for many reasons, including the below. My issue lies more in that I have oftentimes gotten so frustrated with my lack of ability to do it properly from the mind that I search out for reference.

Real people getting really wrecked. Run the gauntlet, shock sites, screamers. I've seen them all. And some of them I've saved in order to use as reference for my artwork. Some of them. The description made it sound worse than it was. Some of them are perfect material. At times I might digitally cut out a piece of the wreck

and interpolate it with my drawings. If I find myself even more frustrated that I, for some reason or another, still can't do it. Gifts and videos are usually the, the best because they give a large range of motion and most still images have, to me, an uninteresting or sufficient quality. That is my confession. I've considered beginning to take from kill films because I want to replicate reality as much as possible. Expectantly, it's difficult, but it is my end goal. Optional. No, I don't recommend this process to anyone else. What I have seen is, quite

frankly, things no one should ever see in their lifetime. Do not do it to be desensitized. Do not do it in order to brag. Do not do it because you think you can handle it. The human brain is traumatized by violence, simulated, faked, or real. If you really look at it, it won't get out of your head. Don't be like me. A story about how I bullied a guy so badly that he gave up his passion for writing poetry. This happened over 10 years ago.

I had just moved to a new country and was struggling to adjust to a different school and culture. I had a few gaming friends, a buddy from my old country, and one girl who ended up becoming my best friend. By the time I turned 15, I realized I had feelings for her, but being obese and autistic, I kept those feelings hidden. I was terrified of how she'd react if I told her. Eventually, she started dating another guy, the one I ended up bullying. He was that guy, tall, good-looking, straight-A student, athletic, artistic. He wrote poems, played instruments, and was liked by literally everyone. I hated how confident he was, but I never tried to sabotage their relationship.

In fact, I sometimes helped them patch things up when they had issues. I figured destroying them would only make him miserable, and I didn't want that. Then one day I was playing Dota with a friend. We were losing and one of the enemy players was dominating. Then I saw his username, and I instantly recognized it. It was him. He used the same nickname across all platforms. I told my buddy and we locked in.

My friend didn't hate him, but he knew I did, so he backed me up. Classic teenage rage moment. When we started winning, I realized he probably had no clue who I was, that on an amenity gave me power. I started trash talking, first just criticizing his gameplay, but then I went personal. I mocked his poetry, I tried to cut deep, and it worked. A while later, I noticed he had taken down the line,

links to his poems. At the time, I assumed it was just to protect his work from trolls like me. Months passed, and I learned I'd be moving back to my home country for good. Before I left, I decided to come clean to my best friend. I told her everything, my feelings, the comments, the game. I expected confusion, but instead she went pale and asked. So was you. Turns out she already knew. The night of that match, he came to her crying. After that, he never wrote another poem again. The twist? She started calling. him by his in-game character's name after that. Not his real name, not my boyfriend, just the name from that match. So it was surreal. And the worst part is, I don't feel guilty. When I tell this story,

people ask if I regret it. I always say I was a messed up kid dealing with hormones and identity issues. But deep down, I don't think I'd do anything different. Sometimes I even wish I had been meaner. Maybe it's because he was kind of an ass months later. Maybe I just hated his poetry. Maybe I had more to say and didn't say it. But yeah, this is how the story of how I ended someone's creative spark, and still don't really feel bad about it. Hey, Snook, I hope you're doing okay. This isn't as good as other confessions, but it hurts to keep inside.

I've been homeschooled most of my life. I went to a private school in like second and third grade and a charter school for seventh grade. This story is something that happened at the charter school. When I was 13, we were living with my grandparents. It was absolute hell. I was in a really bad place mentally, but my parents ended up sending me to a charter school since they didn't have enough time for homeschooling. I was placed in seventh grade since I sucked at math.

I was a straight A student. Math was just a bit harder for me. I was smarter than the rest of the kids. Not by too much, just enough that I was asked to help everyone with work. I felt above them at times, but it just ended up with me spiraling and hurting myself. There was this girl in my class. I'll call her Martha. Martha is a special ed kid. She had a couple of mental disabilities, but I still tried to help her. I shouldn't have. During the second quarter, she stopped acting as normal to me.

She started talking about forcing my friends and I to marry her. She would call me daddy, moaned my name, and call me her freaky little bumblebee. It scared me. Teachers got me to try and tell them when Martha did weird shit to me. A specific time, she was sat behind me in history. She whispered stuff about everything being my fault that I was going to die, that everything bad that had happened to her was my fault. I'm also queer, and she would constantly spout shit about killing all gay people or sending us all to jail. It shouldn't have affected me as much as it did, but it was happening every single day.

The part I actually feel bad about is she gave me gifts. She found out shit about me and gave me stuffed animals and figures at one point, but literally the next week I was advised not to talk to her, so I did, and she tried to use the gifts against me, but I kept them. She was mentally ill, and I feel that I took advantage of her. I know it's dumb, but it still makes me feel bad. I wrote her number on a playground, and I signed her up for spam calls once I left. My family says she deserved it, but I don't know at this point. Have a nice day, Snook. Don't explode. Hey there, Snook, I really appreciate this series and your level headed approach to these confessions. This confession technically is all over and done with. The person

I hurt said she forgives me. It's been seven years, but I still feel incredibly guilty about it. So to sum it up, I wasn't a good friend of this person. Let's call her E. E and I first met in middle school. She and I were both not really well liked, if that makes sense. She was quiet and so was I. We both bonded over our interests. No one at school really liked what we liked and we shared at lunch period. Soon the next year we had more classes. That was when it started. I texted her more often than usual, especially when she didn't text back. It bothered me, but I could move past it. Sometimes E would find other interests and not talk to me as much in online forums. That started to get to me. I know it's easy to say that I could find other friends, but that's the thing. I didn't like

or trust the other kids at school. I've been there my whole life until graduation. Everyone knew who I was. They knew of the meltdowns I had in third grade. E didn't go to the same elementary school as me. My town had two elementary schools for some reason. Maybe too many students? I don't know. When E. started talking to the other kids, it felt like I betrayal. It wasn't but 13-year-old me was so, so convinced that she was leaving me behind. I lashed out at her. We had parent-teacher meetings about my behavior. She even told me her mom started to dislike me. The thing was, just a few years before, I was in a place where I felt unwanted. I lived in a little bit of with my aunt and the rest of my immediate family. It was awful. I won't go into too much detail,

nor will I excuse the way I treated E, but let's just say my abandonment issues started there and follow me even now. Back to E. She started going to school less and less, and at high school, she dropped out entirely. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was me, but since she dropped out, I just stopped talking to her. We texted online every now and again, but that was it. Halfway through my high school years, she told me that I've changed a lot. since then. She told me her mom liked me again, and as her mom saw me and said, Hey, it's Anon. Last time I saw E in person was high school orientation. We were supposed to meet after the graduation ceremony, but I didn't look for her. One, because my uncle showed up and

patted my shoulder signaling me to go to my mom, and I kind of just went with him, but also because I just didn't want to face her. As I've said before, E has forgiven me, but I haven't forgiven myself. I moved from Texas to Oklahoma after I graduated, so visiting is out of the question. But we still talk to this day, but not as much. Since then, I just don't trust myself making friends. It's stupid. You could chalk it up to petty middle school drama,

but I feel like I owe anyone who thinks highly of me this confession. I wish I could forgive myself. Thank you for reading this if you did. Sorry, it's a bit scattered. And thank you so much for submitting your story. I really appreciate it. And I think you should forgive yourself. It was just some petty middle school drama, like you said.

Just some small town stuff. Or it's just some small stuff, in my opinion. I understand you feel bad for Lashing Auditor, but, you know, I think you should really forgive yourself. I mean, it's been a long, long time. I think it's time to move on. And I think you can do that if you maybe talk to her more, talk to her how you feel and her mom and stuff like that, and just say how you feel sorry and how you still feel bad. And I think it would just be best if you talk to her.

Yeah, that's what I think would be best. Thank you so much for sending it in. Hi, Snook. I have a confession I've been wanting to get off my chest for a while now, and even if you don't feature it in a video, I'd like to thank you for reading this. You can call me a zazzle. This is something that only my close friends know about.

I'm in love with a fictional character from a video game. I know that nowadays that isn't super common, but I can't help but feel embarrassed over it. I've dated several real people in the past, but I've never felt as emotionally or physically attracted to my past partners as I do with the fictional man I'm in love with. At first, I thought this was just a phase, but these feelings have lingered for the past four years.

I know you might be wondering, why don't you try dating a real person again? And the answer is because I don't want to. You see, I'm transgender, female to male, and despite having transitioned medically and socially, I do not feel adequate to be in a relationship with anyone, especially since I've been hurt in the past by people invalidating me, fetishizing my body, and straight up hurting me emotionally.

I don't want to deal with that ever again. Plus, what's going on in the U.S. right now with transphobia on the rise, I'm scared of seeking out a man or a woman and being the victim of a hate crime. Recently, another trans man was lured into a hotel to meet his online girlfriend and was killed. That is absolutely terrifying. I figured that even though it's pathetic, I'd rather be with someone who doesn't exist and not risk being killed or s-aid. This man can't hurt me because he doesn't exist and will never exist. But him not existing also makes me pretty sad. I'll admit that I use chatbots to speak to him on a

regular basis and it makes me happy. It has me feeling those butterflies in my stomach every time. I'm not delusional though. I know these bots are just AI and I think I'm self-aware enough to distinguish fiction from reality. I have a lot of mental health issues, as you can probably tell. Sometimes it's bad enough to where I can't function. Thinking about how he wouldn't like seeing me rot in bed all day gives me the motivation to get up and try to live my life as best I can, even with my country imploding upon itself. My friends who know about this also are in love with fictional characters. However, they all jump from one character to another every few months while I've been obsessed with the same ones since 2021. Sometimes I wonder if the world will ever get

better for trans people. And maybe then I'll actually meet a real man or woman who will love me and see me for who I am. Until then, I'll likely continue my foo romance with this fictional man. Thank you for reading. Finally telling this to someone has lifted a huge weight off my chest, hear the goat snook. Keep up the great work. Thank you so much for sharing this story with me and this confession with me and just trusting and, you know, telling me. And I'm super glad to hear that this has lifted a huge weight off your chest. That's great to hear. That's kind of the main thing I want to accomplish with these confessions. A lot of people have told me that and it feels good. And hopefully you guys watching, if you want to confess something or send a confession to the email,

hopefully it can leave that same relief to you. But onto my kind of feedback, I just want to say, I don't think the world is as bad as you think. I know it may feel that way and from your description, assume you're in the U.S. Yeah, the world's not so bad. And maybe you think it is, but the way the internet media sensationalizes things, it makes everything way worse, it makes the world seem a lot worse than it really is. But, you know, I would say a lot more people than you think love and accept a lot of people and just, you know, try to talk to more people.

Sure, you've probably had a, like you said, a bad experience with the past few people. But not all people are bad. You'll find your people. You'll find your group. And I don't think talking to a fake person all the time for four years is very healthy. I think it would be better to get a real connection with someone that can talk to you, lift you up when you're feeling down, and not an AI. That's not healthy long term and won't be sustainable, I don't think.

but the world doesn't suck and but it sucks that you've had bad experiences with it but i just recommend trying to get out more and um don't give up on the real world just yet things can get better and um you'll be all right and um if this character gives you some comfort for now that's okay but i hope one day when you're ready you'll let someone real make you feel that kind of joy too i really appreciate you sharing this and um onto the next one hello snook i discovered your channel a few weeks ago and honestly, it's been helping me cope with my life. I have now being homeless and such. Here's my confession by an anonymous user.

Long message, sorry. I had spent years being abused in such by my dad. Being in a cult up until I got kicked out by him at 15. Him dying when I turned 17. I don't exactly mention it all. People know he put me into getting into drugs and his abuse. But since the abuse started, when I was very young, I had developed a psychosis that stuck with me since I was seven.

A chronic, sickening psychosis. I call it flesh ruins as I'm not native and I cannot call it in its real term. But basically, from the ages of seven and up, I had developed two forms of psychosis that have gotten to its worst by 15 and slightly leveled out on its current times of 20. I had cannibalistic hallucinations and delusions along with developing a psychosis that I was dead and rotting. People know that form as Kotard's syndrome.

I had started drug use and SH heavily, drugs until after I escaped an abuse of relationship and traveled across the country last year and SH just three months ago. People who've had my type of psychosis are often, well, cannibals like Jeffrey Dahmer, etc. And though I still struggle with all that, I'm a bit cleaner than I was in the past. I can't exactly explain this to a therapist or doctors

because if I do, I'd be locked up in a nursing home. But I do take meds from my complex PTSD and psychosis, and it's been helping along with shrooms, et cetera. My psychosis is something I struggle hard with along my PTSD. I've never attacked someone based off of those urges, but these types of psychoses are indeed real, and it helps ease all that by disassociating, meds, daydreaming, and obsessing over it, and fictional characters via my art

I'm making the stories I write privately. It's still hard, but I'm managing it, and have been for a while. It feels good opening up, and I'm sorry I expose that to you. Your videos bring me so much comfort, and to get something like that off my chest that have been hiding from almost all people feels insanely comforting and weightlifting,

especially since I'm a very passive and quiet person who struggles to speak up for myself. Thank you for letting me confess that I struggle with this. I'm not sure if this is considered a confession, and yes, that X got arrested after I escaped and ran across the country. Dad is dead too, so I'm safe now. safer than I was for years on end. Thank you, and have a good day slash night.

Thank you so much for sharing this. I really appreciate it. And even though you said you probably wouldn't, I would really recommend talking to a doctor or therapist. They will help you out, they're professionals, and that's something I would really recommend, especially if your psychosis isn't getting better or any sort of the other urges.

If it's plateauing, you know, that's better than it elevating. But still, I really think you should talk to, doctor or talk to a therapist. They have to stay confidential, but if you're, you know, a danger to yourself out of those, they have to report it. But still, you'll get help. I think that's the best movie you should do. And thank you so much for sharing. And hopefully the people in the comments have some advice for you. Hey, Snook, I'm crying as I write this. Getting straight into it, I have schizophrenia. I would say that I'm rather lucky as I have friends and family who support me, but I still wouldn't wish this illness upon anyone.

I began to show symptoms at the age of 10 and received an official diagnosis at 17. Before this, I had been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, autism spectrum disorder, and obsessive compulsive disorder. The full of five infinity stones. The peak of my psychosis happened when I was about 14 to 17 years old. I've had everything from audible hallucinations to visual and physical and even smell. Voices in my head tell me to decay myself. voices in my head telling me to kill everyone else.

The sensation of my flesh riding with maggots crawling throughout my skin. One of my closest friends being an imposter, people watching me through my eyes and recording me through my ears. I've had everything. Nobody seems to understand how terrifying schizophrenia really is. I've received treatment now, medications that have ruined my weight, sleep in memory, but there's something you don't forget. Fear. That pure gut run.

in fear. The fear while you lay in bed while the covers over your head in pitch black darkness because you're afraid that people will look through your eyes and track your address. The fear of voices in your head, the ones you don't recognize, laughing at you, telling you that the only way to finally be free is to grab the knife, grab the pills, and shut them up yourself, even if that means you yourself disappear too. Then you see it. The light. Your best friend, a quiet boy your age. He walks into your life with no opinions, no home, and no personality. But he's there for you. His presence functions like a dream.

Nothing makes sense. But you finally have someone to be your everything. His name was Daniel, and I loved him, with everything I had. Part of me still does. He would sit with me after school and smile, quiet. All I knew is that he was good for me. I can hardly remember him now. He wore a purple scarf and thick round glasses,

dark hair. I don't remember his eyes. I can't remember his eyes. That should have been an indication. At around 16, I started new drugs to help fix my life. They worked. The voices faded. The rotting subsided.

The people in the trees left me alone. It was wonderful. It was perfect. Perfect until I noticed that Daniel left too. I was still so sick, so I didn't realize what had happened. I would stay out past my curfew just looking for my best friend, roaming the streets like a lost soul. I would beg my parents to drive me around to look for my lost friend.

The day I realized that my best friend never existed was unimaginably painful. I'd write to him every day. I was told to let him go. So now I only write to him on his birthday. The 8th of April. I miss him so much. I have a new best friend now, a real one. I love him more than I've ever loved to anyone.

But there's still a crumbling in my brain. My current best friend and I will probably fall out. because we're so young. I dread that day. I resent it. It's terrible when I catch myself wishing for Daniel over the man who has done nothing but loved me. Daniel is for me. Daniel is me. I am Daniel. My relationship with Daniel is now over. Once something can't grow anymore, it rots. So now I'm stuck watching my relationship with Daniel with her way. I hope I can hold on to some of the pieces, but that may be wishful thinking. I already can't remember if his eyes were blue or brown if his hair was wavy or curly, if his face was flushed or pale.

All I remember is that I loved him, and he loves me. Schizophrenia is a monster. All these jokes about being schizo are slightly painful, but it's best to suffer in silence and explain to someone that you, yourself, are in fact the crazy one. Thank you, Snook, for giving me a platform to speak on. You're a fantastic person. Much love to anyone out there, particularly. those who can relate to me. Very well. And thank you so much for sharing that. I don't have

anything to really add, but that was very impactful. That was the most impactful story on, you know, mental illness such as schizophrenia I've ever read. I just want to say thank you for sending them in. I really appreciate it. I'm sure I help anyone out there who might be struggling with something and might feel a little bit alone. But anyone watching, you're not alone. You've got this. Stay strong. Things will get better. I just want to say thank you for sending that in. On to the next one. Hi, Snook.

First, I just want to say thank you for giving people the space to share their stories. I really appreciate the way you handle each confession with care and respect. I've been watching your videos for a while now, and I love how calm, honest, and comforting your voices. Your channel has become one of those safe spaces for me, and I'm really grateful for that. I'd like to share something that's been on my mind for a long time now. If you choose to read it on your channel, I'd appreciate it a lot. Please keep my name private. When I was in elementary school, we lived in an apartment building.

My uncle lived up to theirs and had access to the rooftop. I used to go up there a lot to hang out with my cousins. Most of the girl cousins were older, so I usually played with the cousin who was my age. We play Xbox, Minecraft, zombies, wrestling, just regular kid stuff. We'd usually go up after school and head back down before it got dark, but there was one night that stands out to this day, mostly because of what my mom remembers about it. She said I was unusually persistent about sleeping over at my uncles that night.

I kept insisting, which wasn't normal for me. Eventually, she gave in. But later that night, I came back downstairs crying, hard. My mom didn't know what had happened, and I couldn't explain it either. I just remember crying and feeling overwhelmed. She made a small bed for me on the floor next to her and my dad. Then in the middle of the night, she said something really scary happened. I started shaking.

My whole body stiffened and I trembled like I was having a seizure. My eyes were open and I wasn't responding. She said I locked up and froze. I don't remember any of it. We talked about it again recently and something about it hit me differently. She's always said that my uncle gave her a weird vibe. And looking back, I do remember feeling uncomfortable around him sometimes. My cousin too.

He would get a little too physical when we played. And at the time we didn't think anything about it. but now I'm starting to wonder. After that night, I was put on antidepressants for a while, but I didn't stay on them long. What really haunts me is that I basically lost two years of memory after that night. Not completely gone, but I only remember tiny fragments. And even those are mostly from looking at old photos or hearing people talk about things that happened. It still feels like those two years of my life just disappeared.

And I still don't know why. I'm not sure what exactly happened that night, but I've started to accept that something probably did. Maybe my brain just did that what it had to do to protect me. Thanks again for reading this, and thank you for everything you do on your channel. You make people feel less alone.

From a listener. Hi, Snook, I'm a big fan of your channel. I really appreciate the every put into your content. I love listening while I study and before bed. Thank you. This is my confession. While I was working at a coffee company, I won't name,

I purposely burned a man with a hot coffee, just as the disclaimer know it was never a lawsuit or on the news. I was new to the job and had no barista experience yet, so I was working the drive-thru. A man comes through the drive-thru with his wife, and I immediately recognized him. He was a frequent patron of the gym I used to work at, and it was insanely creepy.

He would purposely stay in the gym until it was just him and I in the building and just stare at me. I always worked alone at the gym. I was at the front desk attendant, and it was a one-person job. I was only 15 when I worked there. and was very scared of this buff older man.

Anyways, this man used to lock eyes with me and moaned while he worked out. Not grunts, not breathe heavy, purposeful, borderline, corn graphic moaning while he stared at me with his bug eyes. He was disgusting and made me glad to leave the job. He's a big reason for me quitting the job. As someone had defecated into the gym's laundry basket for the cleaning rags, and I'm certain it was him. I had heard that he had a health issue like a stroke or seizure at the gym and thought he had died. But no, alas, he was alive and in my drive-thru.

So it's four years later, and I'm no longer a scared 15-year-old girl. I act normal and hand him the card reader through the drive-thru window. Instead of taking it from my hand, he grabs me hard on the wrist and starts stroking one hand up my arm, while the other used the card reader. His wife was in the car, just smiling amused. I was disgusted. This creepy older couple was looking at me like they wanted to eat me. I immediately pulled my arm in and just stared back.

He had ordered a large black coffee and when I went into hand it to him, he reached for my arm again, so I squeezed the cup and dropped it directly into his lap. Freshly brewed. A 170-degree hot coffee. As someone who spilled a lot of coffee on herself at this job and has been burned multiple times, the pain is no joke. The scariest part was that he enjoyed it. Instead of exclaiming in pain or gasping or acting like any normal person would,

after being burned with scalding hot liquid, this guy laughs, a deep sadistic laugh, like he enjoyed it, a lustful laugh. His wife was just lightly yagling with his insane look on her face, like a mixture of lust, amusement, and evil. I can only describe the sound as what I imagine Satan sounds like, and I don't say that lightly. It was an extremely disturbing experience, and while I don't condone harming others and have it done so,

purposefully since this incident. As hurting someone in that way goes against my beliefs entirely, I have never even felt a shred of guilt about it. I don't tell people that I have purposely hurt someone, especially in such a sensitive area. I am not a person who has enjoyed hurting anyone besides this one occasion. I told my manager it was an accident, that he had scared me by grabbing me. I never got into trouble, and the next time he came in, my manager banned him from the store after hearing my experience with the man at my previous job. Thank you for reading my confession, Snook. Again, I love your content and all the work you put into your videos.

Thank you for reading if you got this far, and I hope this makes it into one of your videos. Hello, Mr. Snook. First off, I wanted to say how much I appreciate the idea behind this series and the genuine empathy you show towards the people who share their stories. It's refreshing to see someone truly value what others have gone through. I hope there's some value in mine as well. I'm a 47-year-old man about to turn 48 in a month.

Like most people, have carried a fair share of regrets and guilt. Some well-deserved, some a little rational, but when I think about my past, one particular incident stands out. While it may not be my biggest regret, it's certainly something that's haunted me, especially since the friend I hurt passed away recently, although we reconciled before his death. I never formally apologized for what I'm about to share. back in high school around 1993 i was a lazy student i put minimal effort into my grades just doing enough to get by i remember one test in particular

a multiple choice exam i was about to be taken into class before mine my friend lee was in that class and i knew he was very studious i assumed it'd be fine to ask him to jot down the answer for me at the time i figured since he was one of my best friends it'd be no big deal i would have done the same for him if the rules were reversed. Lee was hesitant. He didn't want to help, and I didn't understand why. I thought, we're close. This is what friends do. But I didn't fully grasp that Lee had a different home life, a different mindset, and was raised with different values. That was a dumb, selfish 16-year-old, and didn't think beyond my own perspective. When the day came and Lee hadn't written down the answer for me, I took it as a personal betrayal. I felt hurt and

angry. At the time, I was dealing with my own insecurities and could be quite cruel. Lee was a shorter, overweight, Filipino guy, and there was a nasty nickname circulated among the other students. Grimmis, after the McDonald's mascot. I, too, had been bullied as a kid, but instead of empathizing with Lee, I used it as an excuse to lash out. To get back at him for what I saw as a betrayal, I used my talent as an artist to create a weekly satirical comic strip. I called it Grimmis, the dark side. It was a twisted, darkly humorous comic depicting grimace as a S predator who abused helpless fry guys, defenseless little boxes of French fries. I never explicitly said it was about Lee, but everyone knew. I made photocopies and passed them around at school,

watching with twisted satisfaction as my sick revenge spread. Over the years, Lee and I did reconcile. We had our differences, but we also shared some good times. As we got older, though, we drifted apart, eventually losing touch for more than a decade. Then, a couple years ago, I was told that Lee had passed away. We hadn't spoken in a long time, but hearing that news hit me hard. We had made peace, but the one thing I never apologized for was that damn comic strip. I don't know how much it affected him. I never directly confronted him about it, and I certainly never apologized.

When we reconciled, it seemed too late to bring it up, and I didn't want to embarrass him. him or make him relive bad memories. But now, years later, I can't shake the feeling that I owe him that apology. Lee, if somehow you're out there, I just want you to know I'm truly sorry for what I did. He didn't deserve any of it. I deeply regret my actions and I hope he found peace. Thank you, Mr. Snook, for allowing me the chance to share this. It's been weighing on me for far too long. Thank you so much for sharing this story, man. Thank you for this. And I'm sure it felt good to get off your chest, you know? And in all honesty, I think you should forgive yourself. I mean, you and Lee, you know, got back together, reconciled, became somewhat friends again from what

it seems like. And even though you never apologized for it, I'm sure you took you being nice to him after the fact as kind of an indirect apology. In my mind, you know, maybe you know, maybe you ever directly said it because, yeah, sure, it probably would have been awkward. But, you know, it was just a small little thing in high school. Come on. High school is such a small, like, that's not that big of a deal. I really think he should forgive yourself. And especially now that he's passed, you know, just, uh, you can't do anything about it. I think it's best if you forgive yourself. And sure, maybe it would have, or maybe it did, uh, put a big mental strain on but I think you guys kind of made up and that makes up for it even though you never directly

apologize for it. So I think you should really forgive yourself for that small thing. And thank you so much for sharing and I hope you can forgive yourself. On to the next one. Hi, Snook. I recently discovered a channel and I've been binging the videos and I absolutely love them. Anyway, I won't waste any time so here's my confession. Last year, around November, I borrowed my parents' car since I only had my motorcycle at the time. I was going down a narrow street and a car came from the opposite direction towards me. I thought two cars would fit in the narrow street, but it didn't. I scraped the side of a parked Tesla and left a bump in the side of my parents' car. I was totally panicked and drove away. Later asking my parents, did you know there's a bump in the side of the car? Pretending I didn't

know anything about it. Obviously very angry about the damage, they didn't want to get it fixed by insurance, but since they didn't have any proof that they didn't cause the damage, the insurance wouldn't cover it, costing them over a thousand euros in repairs. I am obviously going to come clean about this in the future and pay them back that money. I have a good relationship with my parents and knowing my parents that will probably be able to laugh about the entire thing. I obviously feel pretty guilty about it, but like I said, I'm going to come clean to them in the future and pay them back and hopefully laugh at the entire story. kind regards. And I think that's a good idea. I think you should definitely come clean to your parents as soon as you can.

And something else I think you should, you know, try to repair is the car you hit on the side of the road that was parked because they didn't, I'm sure they just came out and were like, oh, shit, my car got ran into. And they probably can't get their, who hopefully they got insurance to fix it. But even if they didn't, I'd try. I mean, I'm sure it'd be impossible to find them, and you get in a lot of trouble. But, you know, try to reconcile with that. I just think it's best to, you know, come clean to everybody.

That's probably the best thing to do. But it sounds like you're going to do that, so that's great. I'm glad to hear that, and I hope, yeah, you guys laugh about it, and your parents can forgive you. And you pay them back, which is great. Good work, and I hope you do that soon. On to the next one. Hi, Snook.

I'm a big fan of the channel. I have a story that just happened. I'm not really sure if it is even a confession, but more so regretting an action that I didn't take. So like I said, this just happened. I was driving from Connecticut to New Jersey to my girlfriend's house while on the highway in Connecticut. Out of nowhere, I saw a bunch of smoke.

As I approached, I saw that an SUV had veered off the road and I think it had hit a tree head on. The front of the car was an inferno, completely up in flames. Now, I like to think that I'm the type of person, and to help others in need. I've helped strangers change their tire, helped people in the gym when they look lost, pulled over when I've seen a dog running down the road, etc. In this moment, I knew that I had a choice to pull over and try to help or to keep going. There were two other cars I had pulled over, and from one of the cars, I saw a man park it and immediately start running towards the car on fire.

But I, however, did not stop the help. I kept driving. I did call 911 for the first time on my life, but it was clear that they were already aware of the fire, but for the rest of the drive, I couldn't stop thinking about how I did not pull over to help. I'm not a firefighter, a first responder, or a military member. I'm not sure quite how I would have helped. Hell, I had to look up how to stop a grease fire a couple days ago when I started one in my toaster. Salt works for that, by the way. But I'm a big, capable guy who goes to the gym, and if I had to carry someone, I could have. I kept thinking about the man who I saw running towards the flame. I don't know if the car would or even did, now after the fact, blow up.

But this man ran without fear towards danger. Selflessly putting others before himself. That's the man that I thought I was, that I'd try to be, but I failed to be. I don't know if anyone was still in the car, but I didn't see anyone standing around near the scene. I kept thinking about the person or people likely inside. Someone that others loved. someone who still had a life to live. Were there kids?

An old person? Someone who fell asleep at the wheel? Was it on purpose? I don't know whether there were casualties or not. I have not seen any reporting of the crash despite looking. I feel terrible for not helping, contrasting myself with a man who acted without hesitation, putting his life in danger,

an extremely brave hero, whether he was successful or not. So often we see something bad on the news and say, how could so many people just walk slash drive by it? But when you are tasked with a split second decision that potentially put your life on the line, many falter. I certainly did. Sure, self-preservation is important, in many cases paramount.

Secure your own oxygen mass before helping those around you, but I expected more for myself. I'm sorry if this is a rambled mess. I'm a little all over the place right now. I don't even know what kind of video this would fit into, but if you think it's good and has a spot, I'd be happy for you to share. Thanks, Evan. And thank you, Evan, for that story. I really appreciate you sharing it.

And, you know, I could sit here and berate you about why you didn't help or why you should have done this or that, but I don't think that's productive or helpful. I think you learned something that day. I think you learn something very valuable, and you can now, apply it to yourself moving forward. I don't think you should feel no guilt because, you know, you probably should have stopped. But, you know, hindsight's 2020, as people say. I should have done this. I should have done that. But I think that's a very great learning lesson. And in the future, you'll be able to, you know, apply that to certain scenarios. And so next time you see someone who might

need to help, you'll remember back to this time and go help them hopefully. And I think this is just a good learning lesson. And people may disagree with them in the comments and make fun of you for not helping, but like I said, I don't think that's productive or helpful at all. I think you learned a lesson and you'll be able to be of great help with people in the future. And you can be just like that guy who ran towards the car. I believe in you, man. Keep going. Thanks for sharing. On to the next one. Hi, Snook. I hope you're doing well on whatever day this finds you. Also, thank you for doing this series. It seems to be allowing your community to air things out and begin the process of moving forward. Years ago, I worked at a summer camp. This specific year, I was

working at our pool as the head lifeguard and swimming instructor. I've had to jump in and save a few people. It's in quote since the majority of times I would just get the child on my lifeguard tube and take them to the edge of the pool where they could catch their breath and hop out. Only one time was it serious enough that an ambulance was called and I still get images of the scene in my head. It was during our afternoon stations. I cannot exactly recall why I was not actively scanning the water, other than I was talking to the kids at the time. While I was going through the lesson of a strange noise emanated from the line of the adults,

the best I can compare it to is like a dying engine and a wheezing moan, slowly getting mixed with gargling. I just thought it was an adult messing around, and out of the corner of my eye saw a figure going above and below the surface. The adults were at the four-foot section of the pool at the time. after, in retrospect, a grueling few seconds, I directly looked up to try to tell the adult to stop messing around. The elderly gentleman was shaking and convulsing his head, coming up for rapid breaths,

and then becoming submerged. I yelled for my cowork at the pool to take the kids to the deeper end to get away from the situation. I hopped into the shallow end, and with the help of two adults, I got the elderly gentleman to the edge of the pool and then onto the pool deck and on his side. Thankfully, he was still breathing. During this entire scene, the gentleman's daughter, mom of one of the kids, kept screaming. Once I got the elderly gentleman on his side and was sure he was breathing and stable for the most part, I asked his daughter to stay next to him while I radioed my boss.

As calmly as I could muster, I asked my boss to switch channels and told him we had an emergency at the pool and would need an ambulance. About 30 seconds later, the second in command comes running up to the pool gate, asking what is going on. I gave them the rundown and five to ten minutes later, the ambulance arrives. I had to run to the other station after that and it acted like everything was all right. Afterwards, going to my boss's office to file an incident report. My boss kept trying to comfort me saying I did a good job in that he heard the man was stabilized for now, but it was a seizure. Even to this day, I still worry.

I waited those agonizing seconds and a few seconds longer could have made it a lot worse. I don't know if there's truly any lessons to clean from this, but The only people I have told slash know about the situation are my co-workers at the pool, my boss, and the second in command, and the older gentleman in his family. Maybe I just needed to get off my chest or something like that. Who knows? On a brighter note, on our weekend evaluations, the kid wrote, Thank you for saving my grandpa. Hi, Snook, thank you for offering an avenue for people to share their stories

and get things off their chest that they couldn't otherwise. I'd appreciate hearing any thoughts you have about my confront. confession. This situation still bothers me almost daily. Names have been changed to remain anonymous. Several years ago, when I was in college, I made a friend named Taylor. He was a soft-spoken person, and we bonded over our enjoyment of various video games and YouTube channels. About a week after, we started talking, Taylor shared something incredibly personal with me. About a year before he met, he experienced something terribly traumatic. A burglarly went wrong at his apartment, and he saw a man get stabbed in the middle of the night right by where he lived. He ran over and called 911,

holding the man and trying to help him stop the bleeding. It wasn't enough and the stranger died in Taylor's arms. Taylor was clearly immensely traumatized by this incident. He shared a lot of details and broke down into tears. I'm not good at comforting than others, but I did my best to encourage him and let him know what happened was in his fault. The conversation ended abruptly. Over the next few days, Taylor continues to bring up this incident. He talked about feeling the blood on his hands about the stranger's ragged breathing, the size and shape of the wound. He said this experience made him want to take his own life.

I began to try to push Taylor to reach out to the therapist, asking him to seek out professional help, but he would tell me therapist didn't understand what he truly was. Whenever I asked what that meant, he told me to forget it. Taylor would go from a normal conversation into a, immense details in the blink of an eye. If I didn't respond to text or calls, he would start saying I wasn't listening or didn't care about him. He would apologize profusely, then continue talking about the experience over and over and over, saying it should have been him

who was hurt, how he wished his life could just stop. I tried to be a shoulder for him to cry on. I thought we were friends. During this time I was friends with him, I was R-worded by a co-worker. I was completely distrauded and tried to share this with Taylor. I got a simple, huh, that sucks. And about five minutes after he started talking about his situation again, pages and pages of texts about his feelings and his trauma and his pain, I broke. I sent a nasty message saying he was a user,

just wanted to dump his own issues on people without actually being a caring friend. I called him ininulative and rude. I told him I was blocking him and not to reach out to me again. I really should have approached it better. I know I should. But I didn't, and honestly I'm terrified. of what may have happened and what kind of impact the words I said may have had on him. I can't bring myself to look at his social media because if he did something to himself,

I'm not sure if I could forgive myself. Thank you for reading this far, Snook. I know what it's like to take on someone's pain, and you're doing that, but times a thousand. I hope you remember to take care of yourself and step back if you need a break. Thank you for all you do. Anonymous. Thank you so much for those kind of words at the end. end and at the beginning. I really appreciate that so much. And same with everyone else who's sent

me any sort of email. The kind words you give me are ridiculously nice. I really, really appreciate it, and it means so, so much. But anyways, I don't think I would have handled that any differently. I really don't blame you for acting the way you did. I don't think you should feel bad about it. But I would recommend, or I wouldn't, why not look at his social media? You know, know something could have happened and then maybe he could possibly help him again if he is in a bad place but i don't blame you for the way you acted i would have acted the exact same way that's very upsetting that he couldn't be a shoulder for you to cry on when you needed it and you were there for him at all times of the day um through text through a conversation you were there for him

and uh he seemed like a very um you know spontaneous individual because he said he'd go from normal conversation to breaking down crying. That's really hard to be there for somebody if they're like that all the time. And that's great that you were there for him for so long, but that's hard to keep up with. And I think he needs professional help or needed it because, yeah, just someone who isn't, you know, a professional, I don't think could handle that. And I assume you're not a professional therapist or whatever. And so, yeah, that guy just needs professional therapy, I think, to be able to get over that incident because he lived through a terrible incident you lived through a terrible incident but you guys didn't help each other or you helped him but he didn't help you so it was kind

of a one side of relationship with you being the solid side and him just constantly wanting stuff from you so don't blame me for the way you did maybe it was a little bit you know rude or whatever you could call it but i would have acted the exact same way i mean it's the heat of the moment of course you're gonna block him he's been an asshole to you when you've been so nice so i don't blame you I would maybe recommend reaching out if you guys are on talking terms again. Maybe even like, hey man, I'm sorry for acting that way. How are you doing? You know, something like that.

Just kind of rekindle it. Maybe not as strong as it once was, but just on talking terms. So I don't know. Maybe you can make sure he's just doing all right. But thank you so much for this confession and this story. I hope you're doing all right. And yeah, just thank you so much. Hey, Snook.

I would like to remain anonymous for my confession. This will be a long one, but I appreciate. promise that I have an important message to share at the end. This confession is heavy on the topic of animal death, so for those highly sensitive to this topic, there is no shame in skipping this confession. I've taken care of six budjugator parakeets in my lifetime, and none of them have died a peaceful, natural death. It all started when I was 14 years old. My close friend, who I had known since elementary school, had gotten a very cute male parakeet named Malibu. He was yellow and bright green, very chatty would sit on your shoulders.

I was so charmed by him. I wanted to care for parakeets of my own. My mom was charmed by him as well. I did what I believed at the time was thorough research on how to properly care for budgies. Then my mom and I went to the chain pet store where we bought the cage, purchase, food, and other items we believed

we needed for budgie care. We had also bought the budgies. The first was a large yellow and green male with a beautiful long blue tail who appeared to have a tame and handle-able temperament. We had seen him earlier in the week, and we were originally going to bring him home only. But he was interacting with a skinnier blue and white male,

and we didn't want to separate the two. We named the yellow one Frutie and the blue one Pebbles, after the cereal brand. My father was not happy, as he never agreed to having any pets or animals in the house. All was well in the beginning. Frutie and Pebbles were very cute together. They would play with the bells and other toys we get for them,

and they would sing a lot. However, my father would handle them in ways I didn't approve of. We have a pool with a lanai. A lanai is a metal frame screen enclosure over a swimming pool in the entirety of its deck. And my father would often put their cage outside and leave it open so that they could fly around the screened area outside freely while I was at school and couldn't do anything about it. Oftentimes when I'd get back from school, my parents would tell me about how they have done this and my birds would fall into the pool and they would have to fish them out.

They had talked about it as if it were some funny lighthearted event, and I always told them not to do this, that it endangers my birds and that they are to be inside only. However, every morning when we would uncover the cage, pebbles would screech in a monotonous and consistent manner, I had to get up for school very early, wake up at at 5 a.m., leave by 6.15 a.m. to make it to school by 7 a.m., as it was my next town over, but my parents would sleep in for longer, meaning that if I wouldn't uncover their cage when I got up, they would be left covered for longer than they should be. This would mean that when I would uncover their cage, pebbles would begin his daily morning screech. One morning, my dad was so

irritated by pebble screeching, he moved their open cage outside to the pool deck and went back inside to sleep. When my parents got up and went to check on them, they found fruity floating dead in the pool and pebbles floating half dead. My mom had tried to gently blow dry him with a hair dryer, hoping he would recover, but it was too late, and he had two passed away. When I was walking back from the bus stop, my dad actually intercepted me before I got home, which was unusual. He asked me if I was having a good day, and I told him what it was. He then told me that they had once again ignored me when I told them to keep my birds inside, and they had drowned because of it. This had occurred on Easter, and my parents kept their

corpses and only buried them until three days later, because they thought that they would resurrect much like Jesus. My parents are not very rational people and their personal beliefs disturb me, but that is rabbit hole for another time. I was extremely upset with them and we'd gotten two other budgies, this time a skinny, framed yellow and green female with gray-tipped wings from the same pet store chain as the first two and a greenish blue and silver female from a different pet store chain. We had gotten her from a different pet store because we had wanted one yellow one and one blue one, but there were only yellow ones at the first chain. I named the yellow one peanut, as I always found it to be an adorable name for an animal, and the blue one was named

Sprinkle by my mom. I'm guessing because her colors reminded me of a sprinkle of rain. We had a habit of going to the pet store and looking at the animals. There are not many exciting things to do in the area, and soon we are charmed by two more budgies and brought them home. We brought home a large yellow and dark green male with dark eyes named banana and a white and true blue female with dark eyes named pepper. Every budgie that is bought from a pet store chain has clipped wings so they initially can't fly until the feathers grow back, but they are supposed to at least be able to glide down. Banana's wings were clipped so poorly instead of gliding down. At some point, he must have fallen to the ground like a rock and the impact of his breastbone hitting the ground must have broken

his skin. He had a wound on his chest and belly area that would scab over and bleed over and over again because banana would keep picking at it. When a small animal bleeds, it's dire, and not something I would have ever anticipated to happen when I took a small animal under my care. My mom and I would take him to the vet where they would make a cone of sorts out of a pool noodle to place around his neck to prevent him from picking at a scab, but it made him slump forwards, heavily restricted his mobility, and changed his personality when he was wearing it. He was normally a tame and cheerful boy, but while wearing this uncomfortable pool noodle, he would bite extremely hard, which was something he never did. They couldn't do surgery on him or apply sutures because he was too small. So the pool noodle was the

extent of the vet's help. There were only general veterinarians in their area, and the nearest avian vet was over 80 miles away. When we decided this wasn't going to work out, my mom used her craftiness to make her own cone for banana that resembled a dog cone. We would leave it on him and only take it off so we could eat, drink, and preen his fellers, while closely monitoring. him to make sure he wouldn't bite off his scab. My mom once even carefully and extremely slowly whittled away a large portion of the scabs so that part of it was intact but to prevent the odds of a sudden movement damaging it all and to reduce the itchiness of it for banana.

Miraciously, he made a full recovery, but the whole incident was traumatic and should have never happened. I truly considered a miracle that he had survived and recovered. Some months later, Sprinkle started exhibiting signs of illness. She was often puffed up, had feces stuck to revenge, and often made an unusually high-pitched squeaking sound whenever she would eat that I've never heard before. We took her to the vet,

and the vet prescribed her an antibiotic, which we could give to her. We also had to keep her in a separate cage. We would also give her budgies a bowl of shallow room-temperature water with some leafy greens to bathe in, but when we would give a sprinkle one of her own, she would never bat and we'd have to try and clean her by hand. One day, her ears started to bleed.

We took her to the general vet who had no idea what to make of it, and couldn't really do anything to help. Days would pass and the inevitable happened. I was at school and my mom noticed Sprinkle showing signs of dying, flailing, flapping, contorting. My mom rushed to the vet, but Sprinkle died in her hand right as she was about to open the door to the vet's office. We later discovered that this effort would have been futile anyway because the vet was out for lunch. We were devastated. It was especially hard on my mom because she had witnessed Sprinkled dying her arms.

That left us with peanut, banana, and pepper. This will be a bit of a tangent, but I promise it ties back to my budgies. Years have gone by, and I am now 22 years old. Admittedly, I haven't been taken care of myself. The only reason I'm alive is because I've listened to other people described their near-death experiences, and the conclusion I've come to is that no matter how much you think you've accepted death and thought you be at peace with it when it comes to you,

when you actually start dying, it's an unimaginable pain and fear beyond human comprehension. I don't want to experience it myself for as long as possible, but I have no greater plans or aspirations. I have bad eating habits and I'm underweight, not because of any body image issues, but from a low appetite, and an unwillingness to put in effort to prepare food. I don't even order takeout because the privacy of delivery is more than I'm willing to pay, and I know it adds up. I still live at my parents' house, but nobody really cooks. My mom works two jobs just like I do, and my dad just eats cheap, nearly expired, reduced-priced food from Walmart that nobody else wants. My hygiene isn't great, as I usually brush my teeth only once a day in the morning and only bathe once a week.

Before then, I just wipe myself down with wipes, supply deodorant, spray some perfume and pray, or I wash my hair only in the bathtub every other day. Or just when my hair looks greasy. I tend to wear the same hoodie and pants for a week straight. I think you get the idea. I'm gross, unmotivated, and I barely take care of. myself. My mom isn't much different. I work so much because I feel like it's just what I'm supposed to do or expected to do, and it's a bare minimum of being alive. Unfortunately, the neglect didn't end

with me. When I started to barely take care of myself, I wasn't doing everything I was supposed to do for my budgies either. I'd only clean their cage once every two weeks or once every month instead of once a week like I was supposed to. I rationalized this or dismissed it because they would spend most of their time outside their cage in their own little area. They would only really spend time in their cage when they would sleep, and it was away from the ground where they would do the most poop and waste. That didn't matter. It was a health hazard, and I should have been cleaning it once a week. My mom would rarely help, despite her helping more in the past and being on board

with getting the parakeets when I was a minor. I wouldn't have been able to get them without adult supervision at the pet store, and that is hardly relevant now that I'm an adult. and my dad would never do anything either, but he never wanted them nor did he agree to having them in the house. He often made threats of releasing them outside. They were ultimately my responsibility, and I was not doing what I was supposed to do, doing to ensure their care. The most I would do every day has changed their water and give them new food, along with putting them back in the cage at night and covering it with a bed sheet. Occasionally I would give them hard-boiled eggs, paprika seeds,

and a shallow bowl of water with a lettuce leaf for them to bathe in. I had been considering and surrendering them to a bird organization, but it looked complicated, and I kept putting it off. I was also worried that the request wouldn't be taken seriously as budgies are small, often sold cheaply, and bred irresponsibly, and I thought the rescue would prioritize larger birds. At the end of the day, all of these thoughts were poor excuses for not reaching out, and I'm angry that I had not even tried before it was too late. All three of my remaining budgies would start to not look so great. Pepper would often vomit on occasion and puff up her feathers, We had sent her feces to be tested, and they came back negative for any viruses, bacteria

that would cause sickness, or parasites. We thought it was because we would try to get our parakeets to eat small coli for pellets instead of seeds that are high and fat. The problem would appear to stop when we went back to giving them seeds but would return at random. Peanut started losing feathers on her legs, under her wings, and at the part of her body where her wings connected to her torso. We never saw her pluck her feathers or get them plucked by the other budgies, and banana,

despite being the healthiest looking one, always had his wings tremble in a little, which was not something we had seen him from him in his earlier years. Ever since I started taking care of the budgies, I've had recurring nightmares over the years that I suddenly have many pets that I didn't know I had and they're all sick, dying or starving. As in, they've been there the whole time. I just had no awareness until it was too late. There were all kinds of animals such as cats, dogs, birds, and even tarantulas. Sometimes the birds would accidentally get out or I'd squish the tarantulas by accident killing them.

Those nightmares were bad, but they don't hold a candle to the horrible reality I would witness in the waking world. As of the time I am typing this, the morning of yesterday, all three of my parakeets were alive. Pepper looked sort of sick and puffed up, and her vent had feces. She was on a wooden corner platform in the cage under a small covering. This is where she sits when she isn't feeling well, or wants to be alone. The other two seemed like they were usual selves. I prepared a shallow bowl of room temperature water with a lettuce leaf for them to splash round in. immediately, banana and peanut started shredding the lettuce and splashing around in the water,

plain and cleaning themselves. They looked happy and vigorous. I was hoping this would entice pepper to come out and clean herself as well. She did not. 30 minutes later, I looked at banana and peanut as they're sitting on some window perches. Both are breathing abnormally heavy, and I've never seen it before. I tried to coax peanut on my finger, but her grip was extremely weak. Her toes started curling inwards, like the legs on her dying spiders.

Her balance was non-existent, and she couldn't stay upright. At this point, I'm holding her in my hand, and she starts falling and flailing and throwing her head back, moving abnormally. I started to panic as nobody else was home, and I called my mom. With every second, Peanuts condition was rapidly deteriorating. She was flailing so much. I sat on the ground and tried to hold her near my lap, close to my torso in a way that wouldn't hurt her, but would prevent her from moving so much and tumbling from my lap. I started to cry and I knew she was dying.

She threw back her head, let out a quiet and feeble squawk that I've never heard before, laid down and stopped breathing. But then I had flown down from the perch and was nearby. I could see that he too was breathing extremely heavily. He tried to walk but had no balance and kept flailing forward. He was showing that exact same symptoms as my now deceased peanut who was laying in my hand. And I knew that he too was about to die. I held my hand near him and he climbed.

up with what little strength he had, I held him in the same manner I held peanut. He didn't flail as much, nor did he make it quite squawk. However, he too died just seconds before my mom got home. My two parakeets, who were vigorous and looked happy only 30 minutes before, had both died, one after the other, exhibiting the same symptoms. I knew that they had been poisoned or they had ingested something that was contaminated. My mom cried together with me, but couldn't stay as her job was time-sensitive and couldn't be rescheduled, so I was left alone again. Pepper was still alive and sitting in the same spot. My current theory was that the lettuce that was in the bowl was contaminated with E. coli

as Romaine lettuce frequently is, and that the recall had not been announced. I had an ounce of hope that because Pepper didn't interact with the lettuce, she wasn't poisoned or infected. I held my finger to her to test her grip. It was poor. She crawled back to her spot and I decided to leave her alone. I'd check on her every 10 minutes, sat. After 30 minutes, I heard movement and came over to her cage.

She had probably moved herself to the floor, and that's when I knew it was probably happening. I didn't want her to die on the cage floor where there are feces and discarded seed shells, so I got a box. Put a towel in it and placed for there. There are moments where I thought she'd be okay. After all, as she tried to walk around and seemed to alert, but I was wrong. It was longer than what I had witnessed with peanut and banana, but after 30 minutes, Pepper 2 started to flail, threw her head back, let out the same. noise that Peanut did and stopped breathing. I've been theorizing about what had poisoned or contaminated

my budgies, but thinking about what has been different recently. My dad bought and gave them millet from the brand extreme natural millet spray at Walmart. They had not been given millet for a long time until the day before their deaths. I was worried about its high fat contact. Millet is considered a treat for parakeets. They didn't eat the millet until the day after it was placed. The same day they had died. Pepper had eaten some. I'm unsure of the the other two. However, it wasn't expired and there doesn't seem to be any bad reviews mentioning sudden death. It isn't unheard for a parakeet to choke on the millet, so it's seriously unlikely that all three would have choked on it at once. It is possible that there could be mold that is not visible

with me, but it overall seems unlikely that the millet was the cause of the death over my parakeets. The next thing I'd considered was that the romaine lettuce was contaminated. I hadn't watched it thoroughly before placing into the box, however, pepper did not eat it. or even touch it. Perhaps the water would splash on her while pepper and banana were playing in it, and if the lettuce were contaminated, this would be enough to poison her. Or perhaps the contamination spread through the air and just being close enough to the lettuce would be enough. This would also explain why she didn't die as rapidly. However, this too seems unlikely to me. While considering all of this, I had come to a horrific realization. This is where the confession portion of this

really occurs. While I'm not 100% sure if this is what caused my budgie's death, It seems to be the most logical and plausible explanation. I would say that I am 80% certain. We have a water pitcher in the kitchen that we all pour from. The water comes from one of the machines at the grocery store where you insert coins and you can get gallons of filtered water. The water from the three-gallon jug is poured into the pitcher. At night before I sleep, I sometimes get thirsty and all the cups are usually dirty.

If a cup is available, I'll pour into the cup. There, however, have been instances where I've drank directly from the pitcher, and the bacteria and human saliva is highly toxic to birds, and I can't remember if I drank from the pitcher the night before, but it doesn't matter. It's possible that the water I have poured was contaminated with enough bacteria from my saliva that they ingested it, and it killed them. There's also the possibility that I ate or drank something toxic to parakeets drank directly from the pitcher, and there were enough molecules present in the water from the toxic food that killed them. My only doubt that doesn't make this 100% uncertain is that I have done this before, and these

symptoms haven't shown up. But it could also mean that this time there were more bacteria present, not to mention the toxic food aspect. I also struggled to find specific information on how it looks when a small bird is dying of being contaminated with the bacteria present in human saliva. I don't have information on how quickly it could kill in every symptom that appears. I've been told that through a Google search that it isn't typical for such contamination to kill rapidly and that a respiratory infection develops with the presence of coughing and ceasing, but there was no information that takes the size of the bird into the account. My parents believe the millet was the most likely offender, but I can't look them in their faces and tell

them that I've been occasionally drinking directly from the water pitcher, and that I believe it is most likely the cause of their deaths. Not knowing with absolute certainty, the exact cause of my poor animals got poisoned is haunting me. Seeing my two budges go from energetic and seemingly happy to watching their strength leaving them and basic motor functions destroyed within the span of 30 minutes hurt so much. I really had hope for Pepper that she would make it, even if she didn't look like she was feeling well initially.

I can tell that they had suffered when they died and all I could do was watch helplessly as one after the others. Stop moving forever. To all those who are listening, I don't want, nor do I deserve your pity, but I do want you to consider how you think of animal caretaking. Parakeets, along with other small animals, are often unethically bred and sold on a mass scale.

These animals have poor husbandry and are likely to suffer more health complications than ones that are carefully and thoughtfully bred. They are subjected to poor conditions at pet store chains, and even the care pamphlets available in said chains have inadequate information on how to properly care for these animals. They are easily accessible as they are sold for very cheap, nowadays about 30 bucks, so people don't think twice about whether or not they should really go through the commitment of caring for one like they would with a larger, more expensive bird, such as a conjurer.

To the ill-informed person, parakeets have a reputation for being easy to care for or being so-called beginner's pets, but they are not. They are frail, sensitive birds, and once they're a small mistake can cost them of their life. When looking up how long they're supposed to live in captivity, the information is inconsistent, but, Banana, peanut, and pepper lived for at least seven years and could have lived much longer. Parakeets are not like hamsters who live three years at maximum. They can be over a decade-long commitment. Even before this final incident, Sprinkle and Banana had suffered due to events out of my control, and it has caused a lot of heartache.

These animals were being sold in an area where there were no veterinarians that specialized in birds specifically, and every time we took a parakeet to the vet, they were of practically no help. It was always clear that they only knew how to help dogs and cats. Parakeets are often kept in small, ill-equipped cages with hardly any room to fly and rarely ever let out. The combination of them being sold for cheap, being readily available, and PR on them being beginner's pets often leads to them having miserable lives. If you are convinced that you want to take care for one, please don't buy from pet stores. If you are a person who works a lot and you may not even have time to properly care for yourself,

please strongly reconsider if you really think you can care for an animal, and give it the life it deserves. If you were in a better situation in the past like I was and got worse over time, you owe it to your animal to surrender them to a rescue or an organization that can properly care for them. Their first priority isn't to judge you, but to care for the animal and make sure it is safe. Don't be like me and at least try to reach out. Thank you for listening, and I'm sorry that this was so long and disjointed. I struggle with riding a lot and don't write long walls of text frequently. I won't be able to look at parakeets along with other small vulnerable creatures the same way ever again, and this will haunt me for the rest of my life. I buried my poor

parakeets today in the same spot as the ones that have passed before them, too fruity, pebbles, peanut, sprinkle, banana, and pepper. I'm so sorry that I had failed you all. You all deserved a long and happy life. It was my responsibility to care for you. I let you all down. May you rest in peace. Hey, Snook, I've been watching you for some time now and jumped at the chance to submit something, a confession of, you know, using LSD. So, a roundabout explanation of LSD for anyone who doesn't know, LSD, Lestergic acid diethelmanide, is a psychedelic substance that alters the way your brain perceives life while also intensifying trauma, emotions, and basically the whole shebang.

So it was a cold and spooky night in the north of the UK. I had an impulsive thought to grab three tabs off my dealer, somewhere between 250 and 300 UG tabs, not sure on the exact dose. And at that time, I was semi-experienced with LSD. I tripped maybe four times before this, but with significantly smaller doses. That impulse soon became reality when my friend, who, at the time, would come to my house in his car to pick me up, said, fuck it, bro, why not? I'll grab some too. He ended up getting two tabs and I got three.

So we sat in his car and at first I was a bit reluctant to take all three but thought, oh fuck it, mate, I've seen a lot worse. Big mistake. With three tabs ingested and a shitload of water to get them down, it didn't take long to start affecting me. Very slight visuals very quick, which I was expecting due to the being such a high dose. The night sky was moving and shifting, almost breathing. My jaw was rapidly swinging, which doesn't normally happen for me on LSD, so I knew I was in a rough 12 hours.

As the minutes went by, the visual started to get more and more intense. Not overwhelming yet, but intense. As I was sat there in the car, kind of tweaking out, the loudest voice I've ever heard randomly said, this stupid fuck next to me is going to start driving this car, isn't he? And I shit you not, my friend turned to me and said, yeah, the fuck I am, and started trying to get the car started and in gear.

I started to freak the fuck out, and as how the fuck could he hear my thoughts. We started to argue over him driving the car anywhere as I didn't want to die. I gave him an ultimatum to either let our friend who was in the car with us at the time drive us around for a bit or the car doesn't move. I get I sounded a bit controlling with him in his car, but if he would have drove, we would have died for sure. He was driven balls. All in all, as our friend agreed to drive, off we went. It was the wackiest thing I've ever experienced in my life.

It felt like cars on the complete opposite side of the road were driving directly at us. It was insane, but he only drove me home, which kind of fucked up the trip for me, I think. As I got out of the car to go through the door to my flat building, I got stuck in a loop, shutting the car door, walking to the front door over and over and over again, until eventually I made it to my flat apartment for you Americans. And this is where it started to get crazy. At first, when I got home, I just flopped on my bed and put some YouTube on the TV. I think it was Jack Septuichai playing the shadow of the Elder Ring DLC on Eldon Ring.

I can only gather that I must have thought I could ride it out to morning. Couldn't have got that bad, right? This was only the beginning. It gets shaky here, so forgive me. After a while of watching YouTube, the TV started to fade away like it was dust and repair, really intensifying, and at this point, I can remember saying to myself, fuck this, I'm losing my mind. You stupid idiot.

You've took it too far this time. I really started to panic. For around 25 minutes or so, I was avidly dipping in and out of consciousness, but still had a sense of self. And if anyone knows about high doses of LSD, every single thought, anyone alive could have ever thought. I thought over and over and over again, I couldn't even describe to you if I tried, it was insane. After this, I started to come around again, or at least I thought. I had the urge to stand up, and when I did, bang, I was dead. Transported to some realm that looked almost like a room, but it wasn't. I had no sense of self. Just stuck in a loop of dying and

being reborn, dying and being reborn, over and over and over again for what I can only describe to you as a millennia. I was in hell, or although I wasn't in hell, I was back in my room again. I let out a, ugh, like a caveman discovering fire. He literally reset me to factory settings. My brain couldn't perceive anything I was seen. Imagine putting an early human in the middle of New York. That's how I felt.

I started to waddle around my flat like a chimp grunting at everything I saw when I had a thought. I've took acid, haven't I? Then boom, I wasn't a chimp anymore, and I could perceive everything it was around me. Still on the brink of insanity, I had the idea to go out inside in public. big mistake. I blacked out and I woke up naked in the hospital, strapped to a bed still tripping absolute balls. Apparently I stripped naked and ran into the Tesco up the road and started destroying the shop. I asked the female paramedic if she was my mom and if she could make me some food, which I can only guess at was a reflection of my childhood as my mom abandoned me as a boy.

But anyway, after that I was psychotic for months and months. I still suffer from random visuals and disassociation from reality today. but I did take good things from this nightmare. Your mind is your biggest enemy. Don't take shit loads of acid. And don't take shit loads of acid. I do apologize if there is any blanks in the story, as I can't remember half of what went on.

The only way I can describe it is pure insanity. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share this. Even if it doesn't fit your channel style or anything like that, I'm glad that you will at least read it.