Snook - Horrifying Reddit Confession Threads

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

From a horrifying account of a man descending into madness after one night of partying, to a depressing story of what a man will do before he passes, these are some Horrifying Reddit Confession Threads. I hope every OP in this video is doing better now. Would you like to see me make similar videos in the future? Leave your thoughts down below in the comment section, and make sure to like and subscribe!Join the Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/SnookYTFollow me on instagram and Spotify!If your story or post was included in today's video and you wish for it to be taken down, please reach out to this email. [e-mail] And yes, I'm a human voice.NEXT SUB GOAL - 1,000,000 SUBSCRIBERS! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to the channel. And today we're getting into some horrifying Reddit confession threads. You guys really like the last one. So here I am making another one. Comment down below if you'd like to see another Reddit confession threads video in the future. And yeah, today's confession threads are scary, horrifying, sinister, and downright disturbing. So you'll want to stick around. I appreciate you stopping by means the world.

Please like the video and subscribe to the channel. The channel's goal is 1 million subscribers. So please subscribe and I'd love for you to join the community. Follow me on Instagram and Spotify and yeah, comment down below if you'd like to see more videos like this in the future. But all right, this video will be long enough already. So without further ado, let's get into some horrifying Reddit confession threads. One drug-fueled night killed me. January 12th, 2024 will forever live in infamy.

That Friday night, irreversibly turned my happy, healthy, successful. life upside down. This is a tale of party drugs. It's also a life and death journey I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams. Call it a heroin dive into extremes of the human condition or a case study at the intersection of medicine, pharma, policy, and brain science. As the one who lived it, writing this 11 months later is my confession, assembling these shards of a shattered world into one broken mosaic. Here it goes. At my brother's 50th birthday in Cabo,

bugger sugar fueled the festivities, and by no means a user. I'm also not a novice. I'm a typical millennial who never looked for drugs, but is not afraid to try something passed by friends. For context, I've lived a drama-free life, successful by any metric.

I have a bunch of advanced degrees and manage a small but thriving, an international company. I'm also an understated middle child by nature, so making noise or having weird stuff happen is not my deal. Until that night, I'd coasted without anything major ever going wrong. Being in my early 40s, my partying days are in the past, and January was the first time in probably a decade since business school touching party drugs. Over several hours at a place called Bagatell, where the opening dinner of a day. of the three-day bash took place.

I had a dozen plus lines and bumps of booger sugar, sipping rum. It was a festive, if over-the-top scene as our group of 40 danced atop the long birthday table, stepping over plates while champagne magnums carried between waiters were poured directly into mouths like parishioners taking communion. It was not a typical Friday night,

but all were having fun celebrating my bro. So chemically speaking, Booger sugar and alcohol were the first ingredients in my blood. As midnight approached, I was handed by a banker. What I was told was a pill brought from San Francisco. I'd taken pills twice, once at a wedding in Prague, before that at a club in Aruba, and had good experiences. I didn't particularly want to roll that night in Cabo, being late and tired from flying out of D.C. at the crack of dawn. having just gone back from Columbia days before, so I nearly said, no thanks.

But your brother only turns half a century once, and I didn't overthink it. I split the cap and half with my fingers, swallowed what I figured was a light dose, and kept on with the party. The biggest mistake of my life. Across all years. The one that changed everything. When added to Booger Sugar, pills instantly had a negative effect. In previous roles, I hadn't mixed it. This time, I felt an overwhelming anxiety.

An hour into that state, I had to leave the party. I was consumed by unease and unable to talk. When I got back to my room, I couldn't sleep. It was no surprise since Booger Sugar belabors the process of settling down, so I lay awake, passing out after sunrise. When I awoke that afternoon, the angst hadn't abated. I stayed in my room, skipping day two of the birthday bash, waiting for the malaise to pass. I'd never had a mood disorder or taken a psych med, so long-lasting unease was entirely new.

Day three came and went with me cooped up. My phone filled with messages as I skipped the close of the 72-hour celebration. And that's when the real problem started. On the third night, when I tried to sleep, no sleep came, none. On day four, January 16th, I flew to Mexico City for routine work meetings and events. The same pattern continued that night, and the one after, no sleep. By the end of the sixth sleepless night, having barely scraped through what would have otherwise been stress-free obligations in CDMX, I flew home to D.C., assuming,

all would return to normal in my bed. Nothing changed back home. A seventh, sleepless night became an eighth, with an hour or two of broken rest, constantly springing wide awake with churning anxiety. It was as if my brain had gotten stuck in fight or flight mode with no off switch. In my prior life, a restless sleep,

say from a red-eye flight before a big speech or a tough board meeting, would lead to sheer exhaustion the following evening, crashing hard from the lack of rest, but catch-up sleep never came with this bizarre pill insomnia. I didn't get sleepy, no matter how many nights passed. After two weeks, I knew in my gut something big was up. After seeing my family doctor, I was referred to a psychiatrist for the first time, who began to treat me with introductory sleeping pills, starting with trozodone. Those didn't put a dent in my insomnia, and I was rotated to stronger categories of prescription.

This process repeated for the next month as I worked with a growing roster of psychiatrists and sleep neurologists who wrote scripts for sequentially more heavily controlled meds. These trials included every sedative under the sun. I won't relist them, suffice to say, I left no stone unturned. Just the categories of sleeping-inducing R-Xs I cycled through. Searching with doctors for one that worked, included, and he lists a tonne, but some notable ones, just antipsychotics, anti-convulsants, anti-sublexics, meltonin modulators, z-drugs, beta-blockers, tricyclics, tetracyclics, benzo, adrogenic receptor agonists, and that's just a ton. He also says, I had every blood work panel done, a sleep study, sleeping 50 minutes across the night,

an MRI, EEG, hired a CBTI coach, etc. Nothing helped or provided doctors any insight into what happened in my brain. By the three-month mark, I'd trialed 40 plus prescriptions. Here, let me explain how so-called psych drugs work. When prescribed on-label for mood disorders like depression, anxiety, and bipolar, these drugs take weeks, if not months, to take effect. But when prescribed off-label for the sole purpose of promoted sleep, these same drugs either work or don't work on the first night,

providing diminishing returns as tolerance builds. That's how I was able, under doctor's supervision, to test every hypnotic R-X in existence over 90 days, searching for an elusive solution. The newest designer meds, like the Dora's, had to be specifically ordered by the pharmacy. As weeks passed, I became so desperate for sleep that I showed out $1,000 for one called quivided,

which has helped Matthew Perry, not knowing if it would work. It didn't. Against these sleepless nights, I tried to wear myself down, spending every day in the gym and running miles outside. My goal became to tire myself to sleep. I was like a warrior fighting this battle

and inadvertently got into the best shape of my life. People's passing compliments couldn't imagine the dark source of my transformation. Still, nothing changed at night. Piece by piece I removed as many stressors as possible, hoping that putting one on the back burner might help. So fighting a tug of war, my heart, that exhaustion eventually won. I pushed all intensity and passion from my personal life into the background in a way that's haunted

me since. At work, I'd been doing what I could do to keep up on top of a running company, masking my increasingly drained appearance and depleted mental state, reminiscent of Edward Norton's workplace struggle with insomnia and fight club. Anyone who saw me in those days will know that the giveaway of this scene being fiction is Norton's eyes aren't nearly sunken enough, as might I become. On days when I couldn't function, I couched my absence as migraines among colleagues and friends. Too embarrassed to say I wasn't sleeping, something that comes naturally to everyone, as it did me for 42 years prior.

On top of this, I was ashamed by the source, a frivolous party drug. In admission, I couldn't broadcast beyond doctors. So I gutted it out in silence. Eventually, the mental and physical toll became unsustainable. And I had to start an indefinite leave of absence from the job I loved. I cut out all travel and commitments, canceling trips, reassigning roles, and appointing surrogates. Still, nothing I did to streamline my life changed the sleeplessness. I never yawned or got tired.

All I could ever manage was an hour or two. of medicated sleep, holding out hope with each passing week that a new drug cocktail might finally bring restorative rest. Across three months, I'd invested tens of thousands of dollars, seeing all experts in a four-hour radius of D.C., most of whom don't take insurance. Yet, I was no closer to a solution, let alone a basic understanding of what medically I was facing. I went to hospital ERs, begging to be put into a coma for just one night of rest, as Jordan Peterson, who I'd met once, had done for eight days in Russia. But not being S-word, despite insomnia as its biggest risk factor.

I could never get past triage. I reduced my daily routine to the calmest activities. Sushi diet, textbook sleep hygiene. No matter what I did to Lulu lemanify my life, I couldn't sleep. It was a hell you can't imagine without relief, not one night. By mid-April, month four, encouraged by my doctors and the few people I led into my struggle, I took the next step. I checked myself into the first of a series of private hospital residences

to treat this mysterious condition with 24-hour care. Across the past two decades, I might have taken four sick days. So flying to a clinic, let alone, leaving work for weeks was out of character to say the least. In late April and early May, I traveled to Texas, going inpatient at one of the top health facilities in the country. It's the kind of private hospital oasis set among manicured gardens and quiet walking paths that takes away your phone on arrival, so nothing can distract getting well. While there, I was placed on a different kind of med, an SSRI, with no apparent relation to sleep. It was prescribed to treat the

increasing anxiety surrounding me as I shut my life down. Lexapro, a serotonin re-uptake inhibitor, affects 5HT, the same neurotransmitter as the pill I took. Miraculously and unexpectedly for doctors, Lexapro put me to sleep. For two weeks, my life went back to normal. I flew home, filled with gratitude, energized to restart where I left off with more passion than ever. I jumped into work and rebuilt the personal connections I'd so missed. After what I'd been through, life had handed back in a way that's impossible to describe unless you lose yours for a while. I was beaming.

No one second guessed the positive results. After all, Lexer Pro targets the same protein as the pill I took. Serotonin. A signal fire as to what had gone wrong back in January. I felt like I'd beaten the scariest thing I'd ever faced, and for two weeks, Lexer Pro was my lifeline. but in a cruel twist of fate, so hard to look back on now. As I adjusted to the SSRI, the insomnia, came back. I stuck with the trial for seven weeks in the hope it would pass,

but my sleeplessness only got worse than ever. I switched to another serotonin modulators like Trinalex, but nothing put me back to sleep. The honeymoon of Lexapro became a bittersweet memory of rest that disappeared as unexpectedly as it arrived. A few weeks later in June, I finally saw the chief sleep neurologist at Johns Hopkins Medicine, Dr. Early,

who I've been trying to get in with for months but is booked a year in advance as the National Authority of Sleep Science in the Brain. A family friend on the Hopkins board helped me get up on the list. On hearing my story after examining my chart in consulting with his colleague at Hopkins, neurologist George Riccarte, a leading researcher on amphetamine and the pill I took neurotoxity since the 90s.

Dr. Early told me what I'd taken in Mexico caused a one in a million reaction in my brain. When combined with the volatile punch of dopamine from the booger sugar, the pill created a serotonin syndrome that fried my 5HT system through toxicity. Cerotonin controls sleep in a way that requires a delicate balance. This is why a few days of insomnia after taking a pill is typical, just not permanent. For most people, down-regulated receptors restore, but in rare cases, irreversible neurosis can occur. Dr. Early told me I wasn't the first he'd seen and referred to literature about a range of pathologies from even one-time pill users. With candor, I accepted.

Dr. Early couldn't say if my brain would ever recover. While Lexipro worked, then stopped, or if anything, would let me sleep again. Seeing the exhaustion in my eyes, he agreed to treat me on an experimental basis and ordered a week-long sleep study for more data. Becoming the test patient to one of America's most seasoned neurologist was both affirming, given the extremes I've been through, and terrifying for what it signaled about the road ahead. June gave way to July, and the sixth month anniversary of my insomnia was fast approaching.

As this dreary milestone neared, I became isolated and was losing hope. I hadn't been to work in months, had retreated from my inner circle, and lost precious parts of my life that meant the world to me. More than $200,000 had been spent going to the country's top clinics, ending up at the retreat, a full-service facility near Baltimore that runs $50,000 every 20 days and takes zero insurance. I lost even more in unrealized projects and ideas, but no price mattered, investing whatever it took to get better, knowing not just sleep, but increasingly everything was on the line. Still, after seeking the best of the best, no one could stop the insomnia.

Tell me how long the hell would last, or if, it would ever leave. Doctors had also run out of medications to try. The last being the anesthetic, Zyrum, aka GHB, the infamous date-R-word drug from Diddy's Parties, a Schedule I narcotic prescribed by Dr. Early as an extreme measure.

The most controlled substance in America, only one central pharmacy is authorized to dispense it. Zerum was taken forever to get approved, required passing through, like safety hoops and cost $25,000 per month. Receiving it was a month away, with no indication it would work where others failed. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture considered among the worst. Losing a single hour of rest makes Division I athletes miss twice as many shots the next day.

The most sublime music ever written, Fox Goldberg Variations, was commissioned to treat Mad King Ludwig's insomnia when sleeplessness drove him crazy. We've all experienced at some point the relentless feeling after one sleepless night from a red eye. In just three days, sleep deprivation breaks prisoners of war into giving up classified secrets. So by the time my insomnia hit this six-month mark in July,

the once unfathomable thought of cutting my life short slowly started to creep into my mind as a last resort for rest. Insomnia had become my deathbed. compounding this was a chemical catch-22. It's paradoxial, but the most effective drugs doctors use for life-saving sleep come up with black box warnings and fine print about triggering depression and S-word. So my hopelessness around not sleeping was being pharmacologically amped up by the meds I've been prescribed to sleep.

I was trapped in a damned if you do, damned if you don't loop, with no escape between crippling depression from not sleeping, or the same from sleeping pills. This snowballing downward spiral is how coming from a guy who'd in December, 2023, been the happiest in my entire life with a thriving company I was expanding, cherished waterfront in Canada, and on the Chesapeake I'd spent years developing into gardens of Eden to enjoy forever, a skylit place in the city, financial freedom, beloved mentors and colleagues surrounded me, a dream job that took me everywhere on the earth,

a full heart, in short, all I ever wanted and more. And by the time of July 2024, rolled around, the person I'd become wasn't recognizable as me. It was two lives because I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think, engage, or feel pleasure. I was a walking zombie who hadn't rested since January. It was worse than anything I could have ever imagined would happen to anyone I knew. List of all me.

So for an eternal optimist who'd never felt down for any stretch, much less considered the idea of ending it all in my wildest nightmares, even as something I'd understand in other suffering, never able to grasp what could bring someone to that state. And by July, Esward ideation had become my everyday battle. It's sometimes said that such, such a lot of my everyday battle. things are selfish. I thought that way too. But through the unending attrition, what came to feel selfish was continuing to drag the world down with me. A clean break would free us all.

Let me be clear on something. Weakness played no part in what follows. Those who've known me know I'm virtually unbreakable. No one builds the life I did without limitless resolve, nor could they endure the parts of the story still to come without iron will. But the laws of nature are fact. No man, no matter how resilient or brave can fight biology forever and win. Sleep exists for a reason. We cannot be without it. There is no alternative.

After spending the sleepless night of July 4th watching fireworks on the Baltimore skyline from my room at the retreat, remembering my old life watching fireworks the year before on the day. the Tread-Ovan River among friends, now a distant memory from my past life when all was well. Two morning later, as I gave up my last ounce of hope and never getting better. Hope was replaced by the sinking feeling of a kamikaze pilot for a one-way mission, summoned to his final test of courage. The universe had left one way to end the endlessness and get the rest I desperately sought for so long. Fighting back tears, I scribbled a short goodbye note, remembered a final

time the people in life I'd been so in love with before this all started, cursed God for cursing me and committed S-word. I've always flown under the radar, never seeking attention. So doing the unthinkable wasn't a masked plea, as it can be with those who choose other alternatives and rarely succeed by design. That wasn't me for a minute. I'd already tried every path for help. I'm a quick study and my method instead represented a decision. I made a strong noose and secured it at such a height that nothing could allow me to turn back once the process began, knowing there would be excruciating pain before blacking out. I told myself it couldn't feel worse than what I'd already endured.

So I bit my lip, prepared for that moment and the eternal unknown to follow. Against every probable outcome, I partially failed or partially succeeded, depending on the measuring stick. You could call it my first piece of good luck in six months, coming at a crucial time. On the other hand, what I did forever changed my life, I had and wanted, the people around me, and all that followed. I'm here, but not in a way that feels like me,

no matter how far I search for a cure this time. This story has a morose second act. Since the original intent was to share an advisory, not explore psychological torture, I hadn't planned to delve into the next chapter of my saga since July. But because it's all the ripple effect from January, and although it includes shameful details, I'm writing this map of uncharted territory for others who get blown off course,

so here's the rest of my tale. At the end of my third week in the retreat outside of Baltimore, in early July, with the best doctors in the world no more closer to helping me than any had been at the start of my journey six months ago, I gave up. Despite sharing with my doctors a growing belief that the end was drawing near, and petrified family members calling to warn of the despair in my voice and feared was coming.

Naively, nurses had loaned me a 14-foot charger cable. Outside in some woods nearby, out of view, I fastened the cable to a sturdy branch on, an overturned log above a stream, and doubled it twice around my neck. I've always been drawn to water, so above a trickling creek was the only spot on campus I could live with. so to speak, to say goodbye. I rolled my body off the edge. The news caught, cinched tight, and I passed out. Sometime later, no one knows how long, one of the cords snapped, then the other, and I fell.

Two bursts of orange flooded my head in flashes of the most intense pain I've ever known as consciousness returned. My eyes popped open and I jolted back to life like a scene from a movie. But the right side of my body was numb. I had twitching fingers, double vision, pulsating pupils, uncontrollable shivering, and other weird thermodynamic effects from starving my brain of oxygen long enough to shut it down. This was all later diagnosed as in brain injury to my left hemisphere. When alert enough to rise, I stumbled back to the retreat and turned myself in.

I was escorted to the emergency room in delirium, coping with the effects of the brain injury I just suffered, compounded by the insomnia that broke me down in the first place. Nothing would let me escape. I was trapped in an episode of Black Mirror or the Twilight Zone. Then, in a twist of dark humor from the universe that even made Dr. Early laugh when he heard it, I became sleepy in the ER for the first time in six months. Somehow, restarted my brain, brought intense fatigue, which none of the 40-plus medications could ever do,

so I dosed in and out of my consciousness for three days as MRIs, echocardiograms, and other tests were done to look for necrosis or a heart attack. Despite my self-induced asphyxiation, I was being kept on the hospital stroke unit rather than its protected psych floor. My well-groomed appearance and polished manner may have deceived doctors into not seen the risk, ignoring what had just brought me in. That's how, shortly before I was scheduled to be transferred to a trauma unit, on the afternoon of July 9th, still in anoxic delirium.

I darted from the sitter watching me, when distracted to the sixth floor exit down the hall. Without pause, I dove head first down the stairwell center, figuring a six-story drop would end the suffering once and for all. But the sitter chased as I went over the edge, catching my foot for a split second, long enough before my socks slipped through her hand, that I flipped as I free fell down the stairwell center.

In mid-air somersaults, I bounced off a railing, zigzagging my trajectory to land headfirst three floors down instead of free falling six stories. Cries above, sound of the alarm as doctors from every floor rush to the stairwell, peering down in disbelief through my motionless, glazed eyes. Against all odds, the Red Sea parted. I had a pulse still. Somehow, going three floors didn't kill me, as it did fellow musical soul Liam Payne recently. But when the back of my head, hit the concrete, it deviated my eyes in a way that makes 3D vision hard, called Strabisimus, and gave me acquired Aphentasia, which means losing your mind's eye. When I close my eyes now,

I'm blind. Every image for my life was a race on impact, so I can't picture what anyone looks like, envision the future, lock onto my eyes in the mirror, read without saying words in my head, navigate without GPS, and a myriad of ways just shutting off your imagination reshapes you. I was told I'm a visual person my whole life, so losing this feels like losing me. In more dark humor from fate, acquired aphantasia like the pill insomnia, is exceedingly where because rear ocepical brain damage happens less frequently than to frontal lobes, like head-on car crashes. So I'm navigating this new condition again in the dark, flying blind.

After my fall, the scent of liability attracted hospital lawyers like sharks to blood, who threw the book at me to cover up her errors. I was strapped to a gurney, sent to a ward, and locked away for 40 days. Most of the time on one-on-one, which is like solitary confinements, but with someone standing at arm's length, 24-7, even in the shower, even in bed. Still in a trance from my head colliding with cement, I thought about Noah in the flood, and Moses in the desert. I began to talk to my shadow, this alter ego beside me,

like the voice in the burning bush on the mountain. Her name was Sam. When I was strong enough to walk, I walked in circles, endlessly through that wilderness, a stranger and strange land. Sam's voice beside me brought periodic news of the outside, beyond the walls. An assassin shot Trump at a rally, but the bullet grates his ear,

a giant bridge across the Chesapea collapsed nearby, cars dropping into the water as stones into a pond. My world inside and out had become a magical, realism. 100 years of solitude. Fiction morphed in fact in this Borgesian labyrinth. My sleepless life was the recrium for a dream. Given my apparent pension for transforming supposedly secure campuses into death traps, ward leadership was terrified of a lawsuit. So that meant all eyes on me, day and night, a never-ending watch. My world was paper scrubs, paper spoons, rubber mattress, plastic pillow, no sheets, metal toilet, no lid, sock home shower,

no curtain. Strip searches at sunup and sundown. The pattern repeated day after day, I'd become their Al Capone, Hannibal Lecter, without the Goldberg variations as company, the Kirk Cobain of insomnia. But their overzealous posturing didn't matter. The moment to save me came before I arrived. I did my time and six weeks later was released in mid-August. Since then, I've survived by planting and cutting trees and long adventures with my dog, trying to keep at Bay's depressions, downward pull of gravity with a force I never knew existed, like I'm wearing lead shoes, worn out by a year without rest,

now navigating deficits of new brain trauma. I keep thinking back to my life before this all started and the dreams I had to leave behind along the way. I can't understand why any of it happened, and I still can't sleep much. Most recently, I've spent September, October, and November fighting poison with poison by doing every last-ditch brain reset known to man, including six weeks of TMS, five weeks of K, four SGB neck injections used by the military, and soon, tri-weekly ECT under general anesthesia. All that's missing for Christmas are two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. But no brain reset touches me. My mind is blank.

My heart is out. There are no more stars in the sky. When you added up, what I've lived since January is so unbelievable it couldn't be fiction. Only fact. And now the sleepless nights that started it are the prelude to an even stranger chapter

I'm still awakening in. No pun. I've never been a fan of melodrama, but I can't help feeling like I missed life's chance. derailing onto the wrong track one night out my train now headed in another direction after being the conductor my whole life i've become a passenger seeing where each day goes i don't know where this new ride leads i can still right but i'll see ability to be succinct as i have to say words in my head it's all see change the harder they come the harder they fall The happy, go-lucky me of December 20203 has become a distant character in a film I miss.

Every moment radiates from the past. Through the fog of time between then and now, it's a miracle and a curse that I made it. January 12th will permanently mark in some way the last day of my life. My night of party drugs may rank among the most life-changing neurotoxic stories of all time. I'm the exception. Not the rule, but I'm not the only one. The world is full of terrified people with lasting insomnia from taking pills. Here's one, here's another.

And the opi linked to different articles of people and people on Reddit that this exact same thing happened to them. And very scary that this isn't the only person. But the opi continues saying all variations of a theme. Most get shot down by the mob who doubt a drug they love could do so much. damage. You can't understand until it happens to you. I've since discovered so many lives broken by this chemicals dark side. If you look up NIH case reports, you'll find permanent anxiety disorders and intracable psychosis brought on by even one-time pill use and otherwise healthy people, as I was. If you search blogs for long-term come down, LTH, there are troves of devastating accounts

of roles creating neurosis lasting months, years, forever. people from around the world have contacted me to share heart-wrenching life turns. My case is exceptional, like Dr. Early said, one in a million. But if I had any idea I was playing the lottery, even at one in a billion odds, even a trillion, I would have never taken the cap handed to me. I love life too much to risk it. What hit my brain eventually took away the best parts of me. I can't make sense of it.

nor will I ever. I'll also always wonder what good was waiting just around the corner if I'd only taken the other turn that night. It's too much to think about. I don't understand fate, but I didn't deserve this. No one does. For 99,99,999 people out there, since chances are slim, you'll soon forget my story. I would have too.

Before that night, I never worried. didn't know the first thing about meds, the brain, or drugs. Never stressed. I was living a charmed life and got lucky at each turn. Everything worked. That was my world for 42 unforgettable years. But for the next one in a million maybe, my tail gives pause before plugging in chemicals

with the power to reshape a mind. We each make our own choices, but from where I now stand in its abyss, the mind is too fragile to toy with. It's our universe, so it feels permanent, like the sun because it surrounds us. But we don't understand this universe, let alone what can throw off its axis and rotation for good, I learned too late. I wish I never had this story to tell.

It's a, what if real, I've replayed so much that the film is burned. Nobody said it was easy, but nobody said it would be this hard. Oh, take me back to the start. I can't change the past, but my story can change someone else's future. Did the system fail me? No. No, in that the pill put the writing on the wall. That was my choice, and while it may soon be legal in a bunch of countries, Mexico is not one.

Ironically, the same morning, January 12th, Mexican authorities seized on arrival a CBD lip bomb for my twilightry bag, received on my birthday three days before, bought over the counter in D.C., so there's no consensus on what's safe. No, in that I was treated by countless compassionate doctors who did the best they could. Too many to name. Most importantly, no. And that no neurobiologist on earth understands the human brain. Brain science is at best presumption. So how can any doctor be faulted for not finding my silver bullet? Did the system fail?

Yes. Believe it or not, the pill was first synthesized by Merck Pharmaceuticals, owner of the same patented drugs I'd later take to fight its damage. There's a saying, you break it, you buy it. Yes, in that the very medicines prescribed to given me, life-preserving sleep gave me life-destroying depression. Yes, in that nurses, at a high-end facility, loaned me a 14-foot cable, knowing I was approaching the breaking point from no sleep.

Had that arrived in my bags, it would have been confiscated. My doctor there getting fired three days later, is a smoking gun. Yes, in that I turn myself into an ER and self-induced anoxia, only to be assigned a room beside an unlocked six-story stairwell, when an entire trap-proof floor existed for patients experiencing delirium. My story's worth telling it for no other reason than the question that intersects here across medicine, policy, pharma, drugs, health, and brain science.

But none of these questions matter to me now. I wasn't thinking about any of them as I sat on the log, rolling back the reel of time. I was remembering the people and places I love. The story's told. Now, how to move on. As a kid, my older brother was the daredevil between us. He led me down our steep driveway on a Powell Peralta skateboard. We got marooned on a jungle island in the Arabian Sea.

And he showed me how to shoot BB guns and bottled rockets, climbed 20-story cranes and draft down San Francisco Hills at high speed on a road bike. He taught me how to shotgun beer, how to chop drugs, and using rolled bills from summer lifeguarding, blow booger sugar. How did I survive so many wild nights unscathed, but not his 50th? He's done a thousand times the drugs. Why me? We still haven't spoken, but I forgave him. It's not his fault. Even Desfetsky couldn't imagine what lay ahead.

I was always loyal to my company and the people I share with. They've also been loyal for so long, flying the plane, waiting to return, and never given up hope. The last thing left to face is my heart. I've been drawn to water and rocks forever. Some of my earliest memories are collecting pebbles on the beach and moving stones in a creek near my house. Today, the two places I love most on earth, my cottage and the site of my future home, are both wrapped in rock walls and rippling waves. I learned this world from a hermit. Growing up, I spent summers at a neighborhood swim and tennis club set on woods beside the Potomac River.

Each day, I'd see a reclusive man with long gray hair enter the neighborhood forest, stark naked, and walk a path only he knew to be tucked away cove. For as long as anyone could remember, he'd been building a half-mile-long dam out of stones by hand in the rapids that across decades, single-handedly redirected the course of one of America's most famed waterways. To this day, his handiwork is visible on Google Earth, just west of the American Legion Bridge. Legend had it that that crazy old Ned was stuck in his infinite loop from a bad drug trip that broke him, like PBS's strange case of the frozen addicts. Looking back, Ned's appearance in the haze of my childhood now seems almost a biblical omen.

This Sisyphus, cursed by a pill, to push rocks against the current forever, A Haley's comment sent to me as a warning from the stars, but I never saw the sign. And now the stars, even Carl's Vagan, have gone out. There's no place left to hide from my heart in the ensuing darkness. Coming up on the anniversary of the first night that started all the sleeplessness ones to follow. I keep thinking back to this time last year, healthy and strong, chemical-free, soundly sober. My world in motion. a new moon rising,

criss-kossing, shimmering sea waves, embarking on what I thought was becoming like a lightning strike, the brightest chapter of my life. I'd always heard, from the brightest day comes the darkest night. Now I know. One tiny pill I barely remember taking broke my night's world head and heart in that order.

This December, each carol echoes a bittersweet memento to the final weeks of shining eyes one year ago, before my story began. I missed those advent nights like you can't imagine. Last year's nocturns were the shooting stars of a light-filled universe, set ablaze, then vanquished. I'll never get those starbursts back. My heart light, the shining eyes, or why they slipped away.

Here's hoping ECT erases all the memories. Like eternal sunshine of this ballast mind. meet me in Montauk. Until then, red wine and sleeping pills help me get back. Maybe I will see you in the next life. On December 15th, 2024, with my brain unchanged from the state it was left in by my fall six months before, with my mind's eye gone and my world blurry from deviated eyes and a broken mind and heart, with each passing increasingly dragged down by the weight of the January 12th anniversary fast approaching

that would mark the start of a second year in the rest of my life in hell. Remembering the health and happiness I still had the year before, a relentless sorrow kept pulling me down. Like Sebastian's gray horse sinking into the swamp of sadness in the never-ending story, eventually all of me disappeared into the quickstand. I played what I thought would be my last notes at the piano, walked out of the house and sat on a fallen tree in the adjacent woods, trying to accept what was to come.

I begged whatever power had cursed me to let the ones I was leaving behind find peace again someday. Then I swallowed four grams of some substance two times the fatal dose, washing it down with wine. Either miraculously or, like a demonic possession. Before blacking out, I unconsciously

sunbilled home through the forest. Completely blind from the chemicals, lunging into trees and walls I couldn't see and walking into windows, I ended up curled in a ball on a bathroom floor, which is where I was found and intubated, pumped full of biocarbonyates

and charcoal to try to save my blood and heart as I slipped into a coma. Three days later, I woke in the ICU, with a giant tube down my throat. I spent Christmas in that hospital and eventually managed to make it through the first anniversary of the night that launched this story.

But it hasn't gotten any easier, only harder. Because the consciousness that returned since my OD is partial. My mind is slower. My vision blurrier. My heart. More gone. If there is a lesson in my tale, it's that when you think it can't get worse, it can, because it happened three times.

There is no end to my never-ending story, only ongoing despair. I was once a well-tuned car cared for maintained, navigating the twists and turns of life's road. Today, I'm a head-on car crash passed by others on the highway, pinned, paralyzed, trapped in wreckage, I can't escape. despite all I've done to try to. If there isn't out, other than what my burnt out heart tells me, is the only way I can't see it. I can't see anything. It's all black in here. Clutching the wheel of an engine that hasn't worked in 13 months.

Hoping against hope that if I keep pricing the pedal, someday the motor will catch. In my life, we'll turn back on. and I'm back after like five minutes of sitting in silence. I was truly moved and I don't know like what word even sums up like the feelings that just radiate from that story and like that gave me. That truly was the most emotional story I've ever read. I have read thousands, hundreds, if not thousands of posts on Reddit and stuff. stories and just my own personal reading and watching movie. I've never seen a or read something that was that emotionally impacting to me. That story of having it all. I mean, they outlined

how they had it all. They had the money. They had the houses. They had the family. They had the love. They lost it all due to one freak accident of taking a pill. And I, I, I, I, I just don't know what else to say. I mean, this is truly one of the most insane stories I've ever read. And I'm sorry for just yapping, but I mean, I truly just need to speak to even begin to process the story. Because, you know, with the story most of the time, it ends with a light at the end of the tunnel.

And in this video, I will mention there is light at the, like most of the time. I've always mentioned, like, oh, don't worry. going there's a light at the end of the tunnel. But for the O.P. here, like, they literally don't have a light at the end of the tunnel because their brain is messed up to a point where it can't get better. And that is just so disheartening to me because I would like to think of myself as like a forever optimist, like the O.P. said. But to know it won't ever get better is horrifying. It truly is horrifying.

This is a long story. I mean, this story was like 40 minutes long, but like this could be like a movie almost. I mean, I don't know what else to say, but this truly was the most moving and insane and emotional story I've ever read in my life. And it all stemmed from one pill. A lot of people in the comments, you know, commend the O.P. And I have to as well. The writing was impeccable.

The O.P. is an extremely talented writer, obviously. I mean, just with how, like, the comparison. I mean, like, think back to, like, the store or, like, the example of the O.P. When they were a kid and saw the one guy that kept building the rock bridge in the river because of a drug-induced kind of psychosis almost. Like, that truly is like a biblical comparison. I mean, like, this was just such an insane story, like, from the start to the end.

Like, I just don't even know how, like, how to, this will stick with me for like, honestly, probably the rest of my life, this story. Even though it's some random person, some random person on the internet who's sharing their story, I just was so moved. I felt like I knew the O.P. by the end of it almost. I'm sure a lot of you listening right now are tired of listening to me talk, but I mean, I'm sure you feel a similar way. This truly was just a very moving story, and I was honestly just emotional by the end of it because I don't even know what to say.

But that was a insane story and confession. And I just really hope the O.P. is doing better now. The O.P. has continued posting up until three months ago, So luckily the OP is at least still roundup until three months ago. I don't know what else to say in recent times, but, you know, if somehow the OPE sees this, email me, reach out. I mean, I know you've talked to a ton of people, but I'm here to talk if you need it. But and same with anyone else who's going through something.

I mean, if you're going through anything similar, reach out. I mean, even if it can't get better, like talking to someone always helps. But yeah, insane story. On to the next one. I was attracted to young people for a number of years and to ruin my life. And I'm sorry I have to use that substitute in here, but YouTube doesn't like me saying attraction with child. This is one of those stories. Yeah.

So I will be using substitutes when necessary, but you get the gist. I'm trying to be as respectful as possible, but yeah, I just have to. Anyways, onto the post. I wanted to say from the beginning that I have never touched or hurt a young person. person. It never will. Obvious throwaway for obvious reasons. How it all began was when I was around 15 or so. I started to become attracted to girls around me. I went into puberty very late. As I grew older, instead of my attractions growing in accordance with my age, they never moved, which led me to continually be attracted to girls of that age. When I was a minor, it wasn't such a big

issue, but when I became an adult, it was. When I turned 19, I made the decision to essentially become a recluse. I did not want to hurt anyone, but there were so many emotions fighting inside of me. I had urges that I had little control of, and it was a mission every day to avoid following through on them. It came to a head one day when I was speaking to the daughter of a friend in the urges almost overwhelmed me. I almost broke. This was the point when I shut myself away. I would only go out when I knew that young people were at school or wouldn't be on the street after dark. I avoided media involving young people.

I avoided books involving young people. Most days I wouldn't go out at all, only going out after dark, if at all. I took jobs where I could work the night shift so that I didn't have to have any contact with young people. This made my life absolute hell. I became a nervous wreck. I would get anxiety if anyone came to the door in case it was a young person. I still worked, but my performance was poor. This often led to me being fired or disciplined.

No one else knew what I was going through. By necessity, it was something I had to endure alone. Around seven years ago, I found a psychologist. It had gotten to be too much and I had to speak with someone about it. Over the course of the next six months, we discovered that my feelings were brought about by me being essayed very young. When it was happening, it was frequent and often violent. As it turns out, I had repressed most of it.

I didn't know how bad it actually was. However, discovering this led to that revelation. Over the course of three years of twice weekly treatments, my feelings towards young people began to fade. Slowly but surely, I started to get better. I owe my psychologist my life, literally. I was at the point of esau. were before I started seeing him. Now, seven years later, I have no attraction towards young people.

I have a much more normal life. I can actually go out during the day without being anxious. I can talk to young people with no urges. I am mostly normal. I'm still dealing with the repercussions of my dark times, but the dark times themselves are over. I'm married and I have a baby boy on the way. The process of getting treatment is so freeing. I can't even describe it now. My psychologist is the one who suggested writing this out. He thinks it will help with my healing process. I hope it will. Thanks for listening.

And wow, that was a hell of a confession. But, I mean, props to this guy for getting help and, you know, not give it into the urges because God knows so many people do. I mean, with how many predator catching videos there is. I mean, there's a limitless amount of people like this out there that do act upon the urges. So major props to this guy for not giving into it and, you know, fixing himself because I think a lot of people kind of hide these urges and then they don't really do anything about it until something horrible happens. And yeah, most of the time, a lot of these people feeling this way or attraction towards young people were, you know, subjected to abuse when they were younger. And so I think it is

important to get help if you did experience something like that. So none of these urges come out in unhealthy ways, if that makes sense. But, you know, props to this guy for getting help. I'm glad he has a wife now. I'm glad he has a family. Hopefully, has a great job. But that could have ended really badly. But I'm super glad this guy fought the demons, literally, and got better. Major props to that guy and I hope he continues to get better. And hopefully, I mean, if anyone's watching out there and you have some sort of attraction towards whatever, then there is help out there. And yeah, very interesting confession.

On to the next one. I almost strangled my mother to death when I was 15. Reposing this here instead of an R slash off my chest because this sub seems a little bit more fitting. I've been browsing off my chest in this subred for a few hours now since I couldn't sleep. Figured I might as well chip in with my story. Since I don't often talk about this in real life for obvious reasons.

Please mind that English is not my native language. As you can guess from the title, it's not a very happy story. Buckle up, this will be a long ride. My parents broke up very early. I grew up with my mom. My dad wasn't really present throughout my childhood. My mother has had a drinking problem for as long as I can remember. She had a rough upbringing and could only vent her frustration when she was drunk.

The way things went down was always the same. Around once a month, she comes home late, waking me in the middle of the night and from then on it's a shit show she starts yelling spitting at me beating me smears her snout in my face or on my bed sheets and makes me sleep in there

one second she yells on my face that she hates me that my father and grandma hate me that it's all my fault and in the next second she starts crying and says that she loves me an emotional roller coaster this always goes on for the whole night

I don't remember too much but ironically the most prominent memories are the ones from when I was very young. Maybe around five or something. One night, I had to stand facing the wall the whole night while she screamed at me. I was so tired since I was just a little kid, but every time I tried to sit down, she would hit me. Sometimes I had to do squats while pulling out my ears, making me look really stupid.

Apart from the fact that it was humiliating, she made me do them until I collapsed from the pain. Then she shouted at me to continue. A weird thing she did was she frequently pretended to choke to death in the middle of a rant, and then she'd lay there motionless for 10 minutes straight. As a 5-year-old, I was completely in panic and had no idea what to do. I tried to wake her up, but she didn't respond at all until she suddenly jerked up and resumed shouting at me and hitting me for not helping her.

Luckily, she stopped pulling that one once she saw that I got too used to it. As I got older, she got more and more violent. But the only times I was really scared for my life was when she got the kitchen knife while fighting with her now ex-fiancee. Luckily, no one was stabbed. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I never got any help because I was so used to all this stuff. And of course, my mother told me to never tell anyone. Whenever I brought her behavior up in the next morning, she claimed that she couldn't remember, said that I'm a

over-exaggerating things or outright claimed I was making stuff up. Sometimes she apologized. I will never do it again, honey. I stopped listening after a while. School was pretty shit as well. I had no social skills because I preferred to play video games all day. I was a weird and misbehaving kid, so I was bullied a lot. Also, I was too afraid to stand up for myself because I only knew punishment.

The fact that we often moved didn't help much. All in all, I went to 10 different elementary schools across four different countries. Poland was especially shit. Not the country. You Polish folk are nice people, but living with this rich alcoholic dude whom my mother constantly fought with. Thank God that episode only lasted a few months. Anyway, I digress. Unsurprisingly, I became depressed at some point and have been ever since.

Don't know when exactly. I think it was somewhere around 10 years old. This torture went on for many years. Then it happened. She came home drunk one morning while I was getting ready for school. She didn't get much of a reaction out of me these days and didn't seem to like it. As mentioned in the title, I was 15 years old at the time and getting physically stronger than her and I was used to the shouting. Also, I was basically dead inside.

I was completely nonchalant when she started her rant. Then she said something about my ex-girlfriend. It wasn't really all that bad, but it was a weak spot for me since she recently broke up with me. It was my first relationship, and I was the one who fucked it up. It was the last straw. All these fucking years of constant abuse and neglect unloaded themselves in one moment. Humans can be animals. It was like watching a movie from a third-person perspective.

I had no control whatsoever. I screamed while grabbing her throat and squeezing with all I had. I somehow strangled her across my room onto the bed. My big and scary mother, whom I was always afraid of, wasn't able to fight back against my rage. Not one bit. Now thinking back, she even looked kind of scared. So she was on her back of my bed and I was standing above her, squeezing her throat.

I have no idea how long that went on, maybe a few seconds, maybe half a minute. Everything felt so surreal. At some point, my brain kicks in. do you really want to do that i got a hold of myself and i lick over fucking mistake she instantly grabs a chair and starts swinging at me full force i mean i mean yeah i technically tried to kill her but now i just want to get out of this alive i block it and fucks up my arm then she bites me in the very same arm jesus christ that hurt the bite later swole to the size of a ping pong ball Anyway, I managed to get the hell out of the apartment, but now I run the risk of freezing to death since we had winter, and I'm wounded with nothing on me but my pajamas.

I encounter a neighbor and ask him to call the cops. I tell them what happened, leaving out the strangling part, and after they see my wounds, they inform my mother that I'm being taken into care. My mom makes a pathetic attempt of trying to put on an act, but snaps halfway through and bites an officer, gets wrestled down and arrests. on the spot. It was honestly hilarious in hindsight. She played the victim and called me a traitor for calling the cops on her, but got out later on. She had to pay a huge fine, though, for attacking an officer. I moved out into government care. It was honestly cool. By the end of age 15, I had my own apartment for free rent, 400 euros per month to do with whatever the hell I want, in social workers that were pretty decent people. Kudos to German CPS. However, she,

caught up with me. My depression worse than badly, I started to drink a lot and later that year I tried to drown myself. That was rock bottom for me. I've had bad phases since then. There were nights where I wanted to die, nights where I wanted to pay my mother a visit and

get my revenge, and nights where I didn't want anything at all. However, all in all, life's been gradually improving for me. Slowly but steadily. The older I got, the more self-aware I became about my behavior, so I stopped getting bullied. Also, I learned to stand up for myself. That was helpful. However, I still ended up

quitting school at some point. I realized I can't force myself to do something I despise for even a second. I just stood up in the middle of the class and went, fuck it. After that, I tried a bunch of different jobs, but none of them worked for me. However, I found my true passion. I love making music, and I'm currently putting all my energy into becoming a successful musician. I no longer care if I might fail. it's really liberating. My relationship with my mother has been improving steadily as well. Boy, it was hard at first, and I made sure to let her know how much I hated her for what she did. But she finally, truly admitted her mistakes and quit drinking. It was easier after that. I could start expressing and letting go of my hatred in a healthy way. She really made an effort to better herself.

I also apologized for what I did that day, and she forgave me. I wish I could tell you a happy ending to that part of the story. but sadly, my mom was diagnosed with schizophrenia two years ago. The stress of coming to terms with that, she did, and the loneliness probably broke her. Sometimes I think about what I could have done differently. She knows that I still haven't forgiven her and I am still suffering every day because of what happened. But I can't change that. I told her it needs time. It's been only six years since the day the police took me.

She's back in her home country now with her family. they are taken care of her. Thank God for that. The last two years were a huge burden. At one point she was so thin that you could see the shape of her skull, all while having that giddy, delusional smile on her face. Horrifying.

Well, there it is. The story of how I tried to kill my mother. I apologize for the swearing. I got a bit emotional while writing this. Granted, a lot of bad stuff happened in the past, but it made me the way I am today. and I'm glad for that. I learned many things that wouldn't trade that for the world.

People become who they are based on circumstances, but it is always in our power to change our fate. Don't hate them, no matter what they did to you. Cruel people are often hurting inside. Instead, encourage them to be the best they can be. Life's too short to be unhappy. Strive towards your goals and never settle for less. It could always be your last day on earth.

You literally have nothing to lose. Life's definitely not fair. Cherish what you've been given and make the best of it. S word will prevent you from ever becoming happy. However, I realize I'm still only 21 years old and have a lot to learn. I plan on doing so. I don't want to live a life full of hatred and regret. I want to be able to love and trust somebody again.

I want to get married, have at least three children, become a successful musician, travel the world, stuff like that. Just be happy. I know I'll get there. one day at a time. I think the OP summed up that last part so well, saying life's too short to be unhappy, and I have to completely agree with that. I'm glad the OP is doing better now, it seems.

And they did give an update in the comments. The OP gave an update in the comments saying that her mother is on medication now for her schizophrenia and doing much, much better, which is just a heartwarming story. But, you know, it was horrifying that the OP had to go through that during her childhood or during the childhood. And yeah, I mean, almost killed their mother. That's terrifying. That's horrifying.

And it's so sad that the OPE had to go through that for so many years. And I think this is just a great testament to everyone watching. If you're going through something similar or, you know, just anything where you don't think there's a light at the end of the tunnel, there always is. And I think this story in Post is a great testament to that. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel. things will always get better and just try to look at everything with a positive lens over it because you know perception and the way you view things is everything so just try to make the most of

every day because like the opes said as well you never know which day might be your last and i hope you guys are doing well i hope the opi's doing well i hope the opes mother's doing well it's been seven years since that post and not a lot of updates regarding that so i just have to wish the op and their mother the best on to the next one I once pushed an elderly lady down the stairs because she noticed me and my friends do something bad. So when I was young and stupid, me and my two friends went out every day to do dumb stuff, such as knock and run and trespassing, breaking stuff that wasn't ours, disturbing the peace, etc. It was December 2017 when me and my friends went out to the local neighborhood to run around different flats and knock on people's doors or

do some other shit that basically made people go mad. And one of my friends decided to start throwing bricks at a street lamp for fun. We thought it's all good because it was dark and there was no one on the street. After he was done, we went to get something to drink and got into a flat to get warmer because it was a snowy winter. Ten minutes in, we noticed a lady two floors above us that was speaking to someone on the phone about some thugs running around and breaking stuff. We got scared that she might have noticed us and maybe even recorded the whole action. We went upstairs to make sure that she wasn't talking about us, but turned out she was on the phone with her son when she saw us come up and quickly cut our way back down off speaking to her son. Come on, come on, quicker, they're here.

We were already shooting ourselves and had no idea what to do. The lady was about 60 to 70 years old, so we didn't want to do anything that could hurt her. but before any other thoughts, I rammed her and she fell down a couple stairs shouting at us. We ran straight down and out of the building. When we started running through the flat, I looked back to see if she was okay. She looked fine at me, so we escaped. I don't know where she is today, and I hope she's alive and well. I regret it because it must have hurt her.

I'm sorry, lady. I learned from my mistakes and got some better friends now. I'm now almost 18 years old and surrounded by better people and know how to do good. And I'm a changed person, but I won't forgive myself for hurting an elder. And now let's get into some comments. And these comments are not supportive of the guy at all, which totally makes sense, but let's get into him. You know, at that age, a small injury could spiral into something life destroying. And I totally agree.

Someone else says, yep, my grandma fell down a few stairs, had to be put under for hip surgery. the anesthesia really kicks her dementia into overdrive and was never the same after being put under. Older women in general are prone to a lot of damage from a fall due to a lower bone density post menopause. Someone else says once an elderly person breaks their hip, the clock starts running. It's sad but true. Someone else replies to that saying, that's what happened to my grandma. She broke her hip and pelvis, took a sharp decline and then died. Yeah, I mean, that's a lot of the comments.

A lot of people are saying, like, they know an older person that this exact, not this exact scenario happened, but they fell and they're never really the same because, I mean, old people are very, very fragile. Someone else says, oh, fuck, she's probably so scared. And that outcome was exactly what she was scared of. That made me sad. And I just have to agree. I mean, I can't imagine that being my mom or my grandma in some asshole pushes them over. I mean, I am calling the opian asshole. Hopefully the OP has learned from his mistakes and not done anything similar to that since.

But yeah, very sad story, very, I mean, honestly horrifying story because who knows what happened to that older lady. 60 to 70 years old is not young at all. In a bad fall, especially down a few stairs, he said. That could be life ruining. I mean, literally life ruining. someone else says My grandma dropped a can on her foot and broke her foot

that was the beginning of the end for her by the time she recovered from the broken foot she'd lost a lot of independence and her mind started to go someone else says the same habit of my grandma but in her case she broke her hip she obviously could have walked her in her recovery and by the time the hip healed

she couldn't stand up anymore due to such a long time resting that was also her beginning of the end but for all of this she was totally independent. It's honestly scary how fast your quality of life and lifespan can change when you pass a certain age. And yeah, this is just reading all these comments has kind of scared me because who knows what happened to the person the OP pushed over. I mean, it literally could have ruined her life by becoming injured. And it also leads the lady to not be trusting of any strangers.

Not only does it physically hurt her, but I can't believe. I can't even imagine the mental stress she has to go through. She probably never wanted to go outside anymore because she's like, I mean, who knows? Some asshole could go push me over. You know, I feel so bad for the lady the OP pushed over. Hopefully the OP feels bad. Hopefully the OP has, you know, moved forward from this and, you know, truly learned and feels regretful because, yeah, that was just a really rough confession to read because who knows

what happened to that lady. I just hope she's doing better now. I sold drugs at university to get by and ruined my life. Before I started at university, the main thing highlighted by my parents and everyone else was the financial side. The loan I was granted for university wasn't going to be anywhere near enough to cover my expenses and my rent. But I lied to my parents to keep them from stressing that I get a job and sort it out myself. I tried finding a job online over the summer before moving to uni in a city an hour away, but four months and no luck.

I then went to a festival at the end of the summer and took my friends' advice on selling a little bit of Zaza and a few other things to people in there to start a little saving to take with me. All I was worried about was having to rely on my parents when they already supported my sister and are going through a very tough time financially. I made quite a bit, and this made me think I should do. do it more to other students to help me get by. As a lot of people I knew, did it, and paid off a lot while in uni. So I moved away, started selling, and life was good.

I always made sure people were safe. No one ever had any issues at all, so I was good. My first year at university was a success, and I was able to help my parents out too with some money and not having to ask them for anything. As the eldest son, it's my job to provide, not take, and I didn't care how. I was doing it. I wasn't hurting anyone and it wasn't bothering anyone. The second year went well. I made enough to help my friend who was also struggling and was able to do a lot more for my family with my life then. I was ever able to do before and I was happy. The summer came around and I was sick of it now. I hated always looking over my shoulder. That was the only thing that got to me.

I knew I wasn't harming anyone or causing an issue so I saw no problem besides the stress and the anxiety gave me so I decided to quit after one last time. Over the course of the last two years, I had made a lot of friends and connections through selling, but not about drugs, but more towards creative ideas and other people like myself, which in the end helped me realize what I wanted to do in my life and this summer was going to be the end of this. And I was finally going to get my shit together and do what I felt was right. So I went to this festival. I'm enjoying myself and on the second day I was caught by security through someone snitching on me. I was arrested at the festival, totally strip searched,

and then taken to a custody center an hour away with no phone, money, or ID. As they took it all away from me and kept it as evidence. After spending 28 hours in a cell with nothing but one tuna sandwich given to me, I was then given a solicitor and interviewed. From that moment, I knew my life was over. I was interviewed and made clear of what was going to happen, and I had lost everything from this when I was so close to leaving it all behind. I'm currently under investigation and free without bail, but I've been told I'm looking at six to eight years. All for this stupid mistake I should have never done.

I was caught with an ounce of booger sugar, an ounce of zaza, 150 pills, an ounce of K and one ounce of another substance, all bagged up to sell with a cash amount of just shy of three, grand in my phone with evidence. I'm not proud of any of this. I just say it all to give you an idea of what I had. Since then, my life has been ruined. Unable to go back to university because I have no idea when I'll be called to court so my life is in literal limbo. My friends are hurt, but it's shown me who my real friends are, especially in a time of need, but most of all my family are hurt more than anything. No one besides my mom, dad and sister and my family. No, and, and we intend to keep it a secret from the rest of our family, as we don't want to hurt them to,

and this kills me. Knowing I'll be gone for so long and my family will change their opinion on me from the eldest son and pride of the whole family to a failure drug dealer who's ruined his life. I would do or give anything to go back to the beginning of this year and change all of this to sort my life out early and avoid any of this. Sadly, it's not that easy, and now I have to do my time for my mistakes. I just wish it could all be so different. I hope if you're rating this, it changes your mind from doing any of this.

I thought I was never going to get caught, but one way or another, it takes one second for your whole life to be turned upside down. And now let's get into some of the top comments. Someone says, I don't think you can say no one got hurt when you're dealing booger sugar. Drugs don't have a clean supply chain and I'm pretty sure some people got hurt. That said, that's a shitty situation. sentence for someone down the food chain. And then someone replied to this saying, with the amount on him, he's exactly the person

they're looking to catch. He's not some guy just selling to his friends. Someone else replies to that saying, I was going to say exactly this. If it was just Zaza, all right, maybe you're not hurting anyone. But that's a shit ton of drugs. Even if other people brought more, OPE still brought in way too much to fall under the not hurting anybody category. Those are some hard drugs,

and I very much doubt that O.P. can guarantee the safety of those to whom he distributes. I had a friend die from H lace with fentanyl. Even if O.P. source is good, there's always a chance someone fucks up and OPE ends up responsible for the deaths of others.

And, yeah, I mean, I just, I couldn't help but feel for the OPE at the end. I mean, yes, he totally could have hurt somebody like the comments outlined, but I mean, you can just tell how remorseful he is and just how deeply he regrets it, saying, like, I never thought I was going to get caught, and I wish I could just go back. I mean, you can just hear the regrets and the, yeah, just remorse in his, like, voice or just his text. And this was posted seven years ago. So when he posted this, he said he's looking to six.

to eight years. So who knows, maybe O.P. will come back to this account sometime within the next year or so and say, hey, I just did six to eight years in prison. You know, yeah, that's crazy. O.P.'s life changed so much from when he first posted this, and I just have to assume he's been in prison this entire time, which is crazy. But that'd be very interesting if we got an update from the O.P. And, yeah, I just hope the O.P is all right. But that's a pretty crazy. crazy story, especially before sentencing. I mean, I can't imagine the anxiety he felt. I mean, he's like, I'm just stuck in a limbo. I'm not in school anymore. And I just don't know when I'm going to be called to court and boom, I'm in jail. And yeah, that's just a crazy confession.

On to the next one. I gave my friend a fatal dose of age and it still haunts me. I did time in jail. I went to therapy and I saw forgiveness from her family. I worked on myself. I went to rehab, I'm now six years sober. I warned the youth about the dangers of drugs, but I still remember that night vividly. Her birthday is coming up, and that's when the guilt intensifies. I've thought about Sward before. I took a life and I was a worthless piece of shit, so I deserve to die. I know it didn't cause her addiction. It's possible she would have OD'd without my help, but it doesn't matter because in this reality I was the one who did it

and I will never not feel guilty about it and damn that was a short heavy confession that's all that was written from the OP and after going to the OP's account the OP's account was banned so we don't know what happened to the OPI hope the OP is doing better now but there's no way to know and I just saw one of the top comments

that's good for everyone listening if you're ever in a situation and the common reason follows. Just a tip for those who might be in this situation in the future. A few states in the U.S. have a law that protects you and anybody trying to save someone who just OD'd, even if he took the drugs as well. You can be Hezekite and still be protected by the law if you took the initiative to save their life.

And I think that is a great PSA for everyone watching, so if you are ever in a situation, a horrible situation like the opi described you don't need to be worried about getting in trouble by the law because I mean number one you just shouldn't be worried about that anyways it's more worth it to save a human life but you will be you know exempt from the law if you save someone and yeah that's just a heavy confession and I hope the op he's doing better now but we haven't heard anything in a long long time and I don't know how we would so that's just a crazy dark and yeah sad confession On to the next one.

I kicked a hitchhiker out of my car in the middle of the desert. About eight months ago, I was driving alone on a trip to visit my parents. Most of this drive goes through a desolate desert with barely any vegetation. Approximately an hour into the drive, I saw a 20 to 30 year old with shorts, T-shirt, backpack, and a water bottle giving me the thumbs up on the side of the road. Considering the road is less used nowadays, I decided to help him out because it didn't seem like he would see anyone else that day. At first, he seemed quite normal at first, but after we introduced each other and had a couple conversations, he started to act strangely. He would occasionally

flick his head twice and make a face who would continue with the conversation like nothing happened. About 30 minutes after driving him, he started talking politics and was very adamant on his way of viewing things being correct. I wasn't afraid of sharing my own thoughts and opinions, so I did, as respectfully as I could. Without warning, he cut me off mid-sentence and screamed at the top of his lungs. I was shocked and really didn't know what to do. Looking back, he was obviously on drugs. He pushed me past the point of comfort in my own vehicle at that point, so I pulled over and ordered him to get out of my car. He took his stuff and once outside, I zoomed away, leaving him at least 30 kilometers away from the nearest town. Later, when I arrived at my parents' house, I looked over to the

passenger side door, and he left his water bottle. I assume he was fine, but who knows? Maybe I killed some druggy because I didn't look to my right for a couple hours. I've spent $250,000 to $350,000 on drugs in gambling. I used to make a lot of money in my early 20s as a manager of a body shop grossing $4 to $10 million a year in profit. My boss was an opioid addict. and got me into taking them from long hours in pain. Next thing you know, it's a year later, and I'm hooked. The next four years was us snorting and smoking all day, which was about $250 to $500 a day.

That's not including any gambling or any other drugs we use like booger sugar, pills, weed, psych, etc. I'd bring home $2 to $4,000 a week depending on commission, and then spend half of it at the casino, and the other half up my nose. It ended up with me Odine. I flatlined twice. Had 52 minutes of chest compressions performed to keep me alive while they narcan me three

times up my nose and then threw my intubation tube at the hospital. I spent a week in a coma, two more in the ICU, one more in recovery, and then a month after that learning to walk again. They even flew a retow-prone bed in for me alone to get breast. brain activity going the first 24 hours. The real confession is what else we did during those four or five years. We paid off a half dozen adjusters to inflate claims slash supplements. I mean thousands of dollars each time. A total of a half million dollars I know of was scammed money. We would take a hail car that had medium damage and use tools to create more dense for

more money and fix them before the customer saw and somehow never got caught. I've been clean five years and started a family. I'm doing wonderful. My boss just died last week of an OD. I haven't seen or spoke to him since. I quit when I decided to get sober after my OD, but hearing about his death brought a lot up. Honestly, it got much darker and illegal than that,

but I'm wary of posting those details online ever. And then he makes an edit saying, about 12 hours later. This post has garnered more traffic than I expected by a long shot. I wrote this because my boss died, and I found out through the grapevine. I haven't worked or spoken to him in five years, but it still brings up a lot. The last five years, my life has been 110% different. I work now in the low-volted industry. I don't make a fraction of the money I used to. But I have the greatest family in the world. I'm sober and much happier. 90% of the comments were beyond positive, which was surprising, considering I figured all would be

shitty about the fraud and prospects of much darker days than that. But thank you guys. And to those struggling with addiction, there is hope. I'd given up to my poison and decided that was going to have to do for the rest of my life, but I was wrong. I couldn't even move out of bed without H. What I recommended is to do whatever is necessary for sobriety. Suboxone, do it. Crisis lines call them. Rehab if you can afford it, go. But worst case, they have psychiatric and drug addiction places strictly in the medical field that can help speed up withdrawals through drugs and get you out faster and back to life. But above all, have someone to keep you accountable. You cannot do it alone. You need a system like NA or someone to help guide you during such a drastic change to life.

But I went from scum of the earth to dad of the year. I work 60 hours a week to make sure my kids and fiancé are cared for and loved beyond belief. Anything you all have wanted to do is possible. Best wishes and best of luck to you all. And I'm just glad the OPE is doing better now. It's a crazy story. Some people had some jokes in the comments saying he's the wolf of Body Shop Street or the Wolf of Wall Street or Car Street, which is kind of a funny reference.

But everyone is just like, wow. And I wonder what the guy did. That's more dark and too dark for him to share. But I'm glad he's doing better now. And yeah, that's just a crazy story. It's great he got out alive, unlike his boss. But, yeah, rest in peace to his boss. And hopefully this OP can stay sober and stay safe.

And I like the last words he added on saying anything is possible. you can get sober, you can put your life back together. It's never too late. My friend of 20 years was arrested for cheese pizza, and I understand how much you guys hate me using the acronym for cheese pizza, but I have to. I can't say any of the other ones. I read every single comment about it with you guys giving me suggestions,

and I understand it's not, you know, cheese pizza isn't respectful at all, but I just have to say that for the video for YouTube. I'm sorry, but anyways, let's continue. This is a super rambling mess of a post in an attempt to vent my anger. I found out that my best friend of 20 years was arrested for cheese pizza, and he fully confessed to it too. Not just that he had it, but was also distributing it. On top of that, it has been going on for years, completely unbeknownst to anyone. I'm just sitting here in complete shock and horror.

This person, and been the closest thing I have ever had to a brother in my life. He was the best man at my wedding. His parents were my support during my parents' divorce. My father would joke about how he was a bonus son, just to find out he is a monster. Needless to say, he is dead to me. I keep wishing he had just committed S-Whor. I am sick now, knowing what he was doing behind everyone's backs.

Just so he could get off to the worst possible fantasies a human could have. He was to be the uncle to my kids. Instead, he was destroying lives for his own pleasure. I've never been so angry as I am now. If given the chance, I would kill him for what he has done. I feel so stupid for not seeing this sooner. My wife says there was nothing I could have done. The only piece I have is he got caught.

I just want to rant. And now let's get into some of the top comments. Someone says, you knew and were best friends with one version of him, the version he presented to the world. You didn't know, and you couldn't have known, unless he confessed to you 20 years ago and you promised to keep a secret for him, which clearly you did not.

Then you were blameless for this. Be kind to yourself. The monster within was hidden from view. His victims can get justice now, whether they realize it or not. Every image represents a life that has been damaged and changed, and he should receive the full force of the law. And time to suffer as a tiny portion of the suffering his part in this evil industry has caused to untold innocence.

And yeah, I mean, that comment sums up exactly what I was going to say. I mean, he's blameless for this. I mean, I'm sure he still feels some sort of like blame because he's like, this guy was my best friend. I mean, you just inherently just feel so close to him and you're like, I should have done something. But at the same time, he couldn't have known. There's no way he could have known. But I just can't imagine like the betrayal he felt when he's like, you were the best man at my wedding. You were going to be my kid's uncle.

You were going, like that is just so, so sad. And I mean, luckily, he got outed now. and didn't just get away with it. Who knows if, you know, those fantasies of his could have overcame him and he could have done something, you know, to O.P.'s kids or whatever. I don't know. That's all speculative and alleged, but, you know, who knows? It's just much better that this guy got caught now and is hopefully going to be locked up for a long, long time.

Very sad post, and I can only help feel for the O.P. And hope he's doing better now. I'm dying, but haven't told anyone. I was diagnosed with cancer a little over two weeks ago after a regular checkup. Turns out, I have a tumor on my colon that has spread to other areas, liver and lungs so far, and will require extensive chemo and surgery for any chance to live longer than eight months. I'm not having any treatment,

and I haven't told my wife because she'll only pressure me to get the treatment, which will result in months of pain and suffering for a relatively small chance of survival. Instead, I'm making sure our last few months together are filled with only happy memories. I'm starting to work later and finishing earlier in the day to make her breakfast in bed and take her on dates in the evenings. My landlord, I rent my workshop from, has agreed to let me run my business rent free for the next six months, which means significantly less financial stress, and I can save a lot more. And now let's get into some comments.

Someone says, okay, real talk here, O.P. my husband's grandfather did this, didn't tell a soul, made his doctors agree to not mention it to his family if they were ever around. Him and his doctors called it a side effect of his C-O-P-D. His family accepted that, but it was cancer, and he was dying, maybe a year of tops. My kids were with their grandmother, his daughter visiting in the hospital. He was in for pneumonia, which he got quite often and always came home. Another of his daughters was there as his wife had finally gone home to take a nap. Well, he coded with my kids in the room, DNR order. His daughters are screaming because the doctors won't touch him. He's in the hospital so they're supposed to help, right? Thank God my kids were too

little to understand what was going on. He passed away with everyone in the hall watching. No warning. They thought he had come on him in a few days per usual. His wife didn't even get to say goodbye. The family didn't figure anything was going on about the cancer and him having an expiration date until they demanded to know what was going on. He knew and wanted to save them the heartache. Well, his sons hadn't bothered to come visit because it was in the middle of the week and they worked along with his hospital stays for this being very normal. They had no closure. The whole family spread his ashes over the headstone of his wife and he had made when their infant son died decades before, very solemnly, confused, angry, and lost. Please reconsider doing this to your family.

It helps no one but you. You're going to die, but your wife isn't, and we'll have to live with so many wives the rest of her life. You don't have to have treatment if you don't want to, but for the love of her, tell her. And I think that last paragraph the commenter said was perfect. If you love her, tell her. Because, I mean, yeah, if you're going to pass away in seven months or so, why not tell her? So seven months from now when you pass away, she's just wondering what the fuck happened, why you died of cancer and you never, like she would feel betrayed, to be honest. It's like, why didn't my husband tell me he was dying? And then she'd be just law. And if you tell her, then, you know, then you can really cherish the last seven months together.

if you're going to die if you know you're going to die in seven eight months then why not tell her so you guys can you know drop it all not go to work and you know I don't know spend the last eight months doing whatever I know that it sounded like they're in some financial troubles but still it's like I you could really make something work if you realize this is the last eight months I have with a person instead of just going about it as usual I mean I would feel betrayed if I was the O piece why like imagine your significant other didn't tell you and they just died keeping a secret from you, a horrible secret. And sure, you might not want to get therapy or whatever, but you don't have to.

I don't know. I just, yeah, a very emotional post. And the O.P. posted this seven years ago, and it was on a throwaway account. We haven't heard from the O.P. since. So who knows if the O.P. passed away. But if the O.P. did pass away, then rest in peace. And I hope my O.P.'s wife is doing better now. but very sad and emotional story.

Yeah, wow. On's the next one. I entered a stranger's house to avoid a DUI. I live in Australia. Not sure how it works in the rest of the world, but I was on my provisional driver's license as a teenager. We call them pea plates. And when you were on that, you cannot have any alcohol in your blood whatsoever.

I stayed at my mate's place one night, and he had some beers to drink. I had two knowing I had to drive the next day, and was going to stop, but he convinced me to have another, so I did. The next day, I got in my car to drive home, and as I was turning in a corner, there were a couple of police doing an RBT, random breath test, and I panicked. I knew full well I'd have a little bit of alcohol in me, and that's enough to lose my license for a couple months.

I had just left school and gotten a really good job, and if I got a drunk driving charge, I would have to rely my parents to drive me there, which wouldn't work out as they both had jobs. I panicked and turned right on to another street. I drove halfway down the road thinking I'd gotten away with it, but one of the cars suddenly turned around the corner and blasted the sirens. I pulled over and the cop came to my window. And then the cop says, Can you explain to me why you just avoid an RBT?

Instead of explaining to the cop, why, and just taking my punishment, I decided to lie. Me. I wasn't trying to avoid it. I live down here. Then the cop says, Whereabouts do you live? just over there. Well, you don't mind if I follow you

and watch you enter your house for proof, do you? I kind of shit myself, but agreed. He got in his car and I drove into a driveway halfway down the street and walked up to the door. My current plan was to just explain to whoever it was that the door what's going on

and hope he lets me inside. I walked up and knocked, but no one answered. Then I looked over my shoulder at the cop and turned to just open the door and it was unlocked. I walked inside and shut the door. I was really scared for

if whoever lived there was going to walk out and see me and scream, but no one did. I stayed at the door peeking out the window at the cop and he left after about 10 minutes. I waited another 10 minutes before walking down and driving off again with a big sigh of relief. Not here to condone drunk driving or anything. I made a mistake and it was wrong.

Just sharing the story. And all right, guys, that wraps up. some horrifying red a confession threads i hope you enjoyed today's video today's video was heavy man yeah there was some heavy confessions in here i mean the the the drug-fueled night one was truly one of the most honestly like life-changing stories i've ever read that story was insane i just have to wish that opi the best i hope they're doing better now and yeah that was just an insane confession and story and just roller coaster man but comment down below what was your what confession did you think was most interesting or do you have any thoughts you

want to share share them down below i read every single comment and respond to a lot of them so comment down below and like i said in the beginning please you know follow me on instagram subscribe on youtube like the video it helps more than you know join the patreon if you want early access to every single video that helps a ton as well and if you enjoy this video i'm sure you'll enjoy other videos on my channel so check out some other videos i'd love to see you around in the comment sections and uh yeah thank you so much for watching to the end of the video This was Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.