Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - I Truly Believed I Was Born to Kill—But This Is the Story of How I Fought It and Survived #21

Episode Date: August 1, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #psychologicalhorror #survivorstory #innerbattle #darkmind #redemptionarc  From an early age, I believed I was destined to be a killer. The urges, the voices, the shadows in my mind convinced me I was born for violence. But this is not the story of a monster—it’s the story of the battle I waged against those impulses, the darkness I fought to overcome, and how I survived against all odds. It’s a journey through mental torment, the fragility of the human mind, and ultimately, hope and redemption. This story proves that even when you feel born to destroy, the fight for your soul is never lost.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, psychologicalbattle, survivalstory, mentalhealthhorror, darkdestiny, innerdemonfight, redemptionstory, mindstruggle, traumaandrecovery, horrorofviolence, overcomingdarkness, hauntingmind, personalhorror, hopeandfear, twistedmind

When I tell people that I was once convinced I would become a serial killer, they either laugh awkwardly or get really quiet. I can't blame them. It's not exactly your everyday small talk. But yeah, that was my reality for a long, terrifying chunk of my life. I've been diagnosed with harm OCD, generalized anxiety disorder, antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and depersonalization slash derealization linked to PTSD. Heavy stuff, I know.

But for about five years, I had no clue about any of this. Those five years? That's where most of this story takes place. PTSD has basically always been with me, a nasty shadow that followed me around since childhood. But things really started to unravel when I got released from a mental institution at 16. Let's rewind a little, though. I was 15 when I downed a bunch of zanning. ax, mixed it with alcohol, and climbed to the top of a football stadium fully ready to jump.

My home life? A mix of abuse and neglect. I never thought I'd see 18, and honestly, I didn't want to. Not back then. It's hard to put into words what exactly changed in my head during my time locked up, but something definitely did. My sadness started warping into this cold, calculated, emotionless hate. That's when I got diagnosed with ASPD. I hit 16 and deep down, I was convinced that one day I was going to kill someone. I had spent a year in isolation, festering in pain and rage, and these mental illnesses started unfolding just in time to pretend like they were giving me purpose. I didn't understand that the thoughts weren't me.

I just thought, well, this must be who I really am. Getting out didn't mean things got better. Nope. I was put on probation for a year and dumped back into my mom's house. One of the first things I told her was, if you yell at me or lay a finger on me again, I'll kill you. I wasn't bluffing. She knew it, too. She stopped.

But even though I never acted on it, I fantasized about killing her. A lot. I never did it because I knew if I did, I'd be caught. So my brain decided to evolve, why just kill one? Why not develop a plan to do it forever and never get caught? Here's the thing, thinking about murder didn't feel right. It scared me, deeply. But there was this other voice, this version of me that got actual joy from the idea.

It felt like my only shot at happiness. I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't ask for help. What if they locked me away again? What if they thought I was too dangerous to ever be free? I felt trapped. And this other me kept whispering, kept nudging, and I kept listening. I stretched the planning out over two and a half years.

I told myself, I'm not ready yet. When I'm done planning, then I'll act. Then I turned 18, moved out, got my own place. And the plan? Finished. Suddenly, it was a lot harder to say no. The homicidal thoughts. Non-stop.

Literally every person I saw, my mind calculated how to end them. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe. Nothing helped. I tried every stress management technique out there. Nata. So, I turned to psychedelics. I needed ego death.

At least that's what people online said might help. So I dosed myself with L.S. not just once. Seven tabs. Often. For a year, I danced on the edge of madness. Sometimes it helped me understand myself better. Sometimes it made everything worse. But in the end, it gave me enough clarity to realize, I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to become a monster. That realization cracked open a door to therapy. And all this time, I looked normal. If you saw me on the street, I just looked like any other dude.

But inside, I was fighting this brutal, non-stop war against myself. When it felt like I was close to acting, I started practicing. I told myself it was just dry runs. Just prep. I'd pack a bag with spare clothes, change my look, and head out at midnight. First, I just walked. Studied routes. Noted camera placements. Tracked police routines. Then it escalated, picking locks. Breaking in. I was on the edge. Any more and I probably would have crossed a line I could never uncross. Then one night, someone saw me sneaking around an alley. They followed me. I changed clothes, ditched them, and walked home. That scared me straight. Not because I had a change of heart, because I didn't want

people in my town recognizing me before the real time came. Sick logic, I know. But that's how twisted my brain was back then. My coping mechanisms were toxic. I smoked three to four packs of cigarettes a day. Burned through an ounce of wheat a week. Went through two THC vape carts a month. Drink constantly. When that wasn't enough, I developed a short-lived but terrifying obsession with genocide. Yeah. I know. Horrific. But that's where my brain went. To maintain my illusion of normalcy, I made up three personas. My real name didn't exist. At work, I was chef, because I worked in a kitchen. And then there was he, hatred embodied. Whenever I felt the rage boil up, I chant to myself, you're not him right now.

You're not him. It wasn't working. So I added meth to the mix. That addiction lasted three months, but it changed everything. I was doing an eight ball a week before I finally snapped and threatened to kill my best friend of 14 years just because he told me I needed help. Then came the heart attack. I was 19. lying there, heart racing, I was still hoping for death.

I remember being in the hospital, begging the universe for cancer, just so I could finally check out without pulling the trigger myself. That was my rock bottom. But it was also the beginning. After that, I got sober. Started therapy, told the whole damn truth. And slowly, I got better. Not perfect, but better.

The thoughts did. didn't vanish overnight, but they stopped being constant. Instead of every few minutes, they hit maybe a couple times a day. Then at 20, I had a sudden psychotic break. I didn't mess around. I called the crisis hotline immediately. Got escorted by cops to the ER. Then sent to another mental hospital. This one was better, the staff actually cared. I got proper diagnoses. Started meds. 1,800 milligrams of gabapentin daily. And for the first time ever, I could feel it, peace. The meds helped a ton.

I could go to the store without panicking. Be around people without wanting to hurt them. Sometimes I went days, even weeks, without a single violent thought. But more importantly, I finally understood. Those thoughts. They weren't me. They were misfires. A glitch.

A loop my brain was stuck in. I could live a normal life. I could actually be happy. My trauma, my conditions, they didn't define me. I escaped. Not by magic. But by psychedelics that cracked open the steel vault in my head. By therapy that helped me piece myself back together.

And by meds that kept the shadows at bay. Oh, and if you're wondering why I kept leaning into those dark thoughts. Simple. Fear. As messed up as it sounds, the idea of killing felt less scary than the idea of not killing. I was terrified that if I didn't give in, I'd snap and end my own life. That this other me would finally win. I genuinely believed those were my only two options, murder or self-destruction.

Asking for help didn't feel like a third off. Not with the way I was raised. Not with the way I saw the world. But now I'm alive. I'm healing. I'm writing what feels like an autobiography for a psychological study. Trying to help researchers figure out how to treat people like me before it's too late. I'm also going to school to become a forensic psychologist. Yeah, the guy who once thought about mass murder is now trying to save lives. Irony's a funny thing. This whole post is kind of my trial run. If it resonates, maybe I'll keep going. Maybe I'll finally turn this mess into something that helps someone else. So there it is. My not-so short story of almost becoming a killer and how I fought my way back to the light.

If you're still reading, thank you. Really? The end. Or maybe just the beginning.