2010-10-03 13:56:00 by IaReFrEaKeeee
So, it all started this pat summer. Right before I saw the comic "High School of The Dead", I started getting very, VERY nervous about zombies. I don't really know why (albeit the comic didn't help. At all.) and I know it's stupid. They're fictional, bogus, fairytales of imaginative thought: they're not real. And yet here I am, afraid out of my wits of the whole ordeal. In June of this year, 2010, I suffered a mental breakdown over this after I saw a nightmare where I had to shoot my neighbors puppy to keep the people in my apartment alive, then I had to shoot my two cats because they make some sounds too. I've done things from immersing myself in web info on how to prepare, watched Zombie Land, and talked endlessly with my friends on how we'd find a place to hide away in the event of an apocalypse. We have great plans on how they'd come and get me and my family and we'd hide away in costco or safeway or the walgreens one of my friends works at until the whole thing blew over. I also watched cute viral videos, \ anime series like Neon Genesis Evangelion and K-On, and found way too much Hatsune Miku music to distract me from the silly slight bump in my fear set.
It's not that I'm afraid of zombies, persay. Rather, it's the dread of needing to do horrible, inhumane things in order to survive, and to watch the people you know and love be attacked and hurt, like watching a fast approaching death that you can (still) do nothing about. How are we to just pretend that they weren't our loved one, alive and well, just a minute ago? How can we take whatever blunt object to their head, full swing, knowing and remembering all the times you've shared with them, the memories you have? And how about our beloved pets, our yippy little pup who barks for affection all the time? Our meowy little cat who begs for food and to be let go of? In a zombie outbreak, unless they somehow learned "SHUT UP!" as command for "be quiet", they have to go away from you so you and whoever you're with can survive. (Also, this article didn't help.)
Since my breakdown this past summer, I've had a zombie night mare at least once a week. For a while, they were vague. They were things like running from a pack of them in the streets some where, where I knew I was still safe, weapon loaded in my hand. In my next nightmare, I lost the weapon. Then they got closer. Then the scenes became familiar. Then the scenes became closer to home. Then I had to run inside my apartment. Then I had to run to my family's car. Then I started recognizing the faces as people I knew in my neighborhood. It was all peachy until the zombies finally reached me.
In last week's nightmare, I was running with my best guy friend, who will go under the assumed name Gandalf. He has a slight paranoia of zombies as well, and it's very likely that I somehow got this from him. So here we are, the two of us, running in an abandoned parking building to try to take a shortcut to somewhere when the apocalypse hit. We had to make a quick second decision; run forward through the sparse crowd, or run up the stairs? I called the stairs but he begged to go forward. The adrenaline was rushing through my heart and in my ears, not even listening to his pleas, I bolted up the stairs. Two flights up we run into two guys, around our age, being followed. I open the doorway to see if we can get out of the stairwell to see a few right outside the door. The doom scenario: we're trapped. "What do I do?" is running through my head, and before I finish asking myself, I hear the primal scream of Gandalf from behind me. All I did was turn my back for half a second, one measly blink of an eye, and he's attacked by the one who was behind the door we were trying to shut again. More primal screams and I hear the two guys who were coming down the stairs scream this blood curdling scream. Here I am, in the middle of all this scream. Without a word or nothing, my instincts bolt my up the stairs again, through the pack now gorging off the still fighting bodies of the two guys. I woke up while ducking and crouching low, running through the pack, blood spilling down on my back, never blinking, never looking back.
I was terrified when I woke up. I felt that I lost and failed Gandalf forever, that maybe if I'd have listened to him in the first place, he would've still been with me in my dream. I was shaking, heart beating, breathing faint, like I was trying to hide quietly from the already here invasion.
I recovered from my dream in a few days, feeling better after having met Gandalf in person on campus. One of my friends even sent me a link to an article that gives reasons as to why the apocalypse can't happen. I felt jolly and great, superficially able to convince myself (again) there was no real threat to the safety of my friends and family, and that there never was any to begin with. Then I saw another nightmare that took place here at home.
My recollection of my dream starts from me hiding in the bathroom along with a few fugitives who have been injured. I couldn't exactly just kick them out into the hall way, I think my building had been sealed. Somehow they escaped from confinement and ran through my house to where my father was hiding, protecting my sisters and mother. I heard fighting, another cry of a fallen member, and then silence. My father came running to the bathroom, pale, brushing me aside, still shaking, holding a sharp opened scissor in my tightly clenched right hand. My stomach churns as I see the small graze on my father's neck, exposing his pink under flesh, with just a few drops of fresh blood starting to leak out. It was just a small graze. The fugitives weren't even zombies yet, just turning sick. I'm convincing myself over and over that there is no way in hell that my dad would be the first to go. He was invincible in my eye, always has been. Black belt in Kenpo, taught in a friend's dojo, always picking and winning fights with punk back when he first landed in the states. He's the owner of our family restaurant, where every knows him as the lovable joking chef, the icon of our restaurant. Hell, people come from as far as 500 miles away every month just to get to eat his food and talk to him. Yea, our restaurant is that good. And yet, despite all of this, all of these achievements, here he is, slumped on our bathroom floor of our tiny apartment, skin turning a sickly pale, a thick ring of dark forming around his eyes, panting getting sporadic. I sob quietly next to him, thinking this can't be real, he's my invincible father! I sobbed ever more, knowing that if he was to turn, I would have to stop him. My mother is too emotional and both of my sisters are physically weak; I was the only one who could possibly muster up enough courage and strength to end my father's misery. Still unable to find the courage, looking at my fallen father, I woke up.
As I write this entry, I have tears streaming down my face. I don't know how I can get over this paranoia that has somehow lodged itself deep in my brain. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this to be honest, I think I want to share my very real fear of a very unreal threat. I know cracked.com is a biased website, but they've got a hell of a way to back up their stories with real journalism. It really doesn't help my paranoia that they write about possible ways the apocalypse can start either. My fear isn't really about the zombies, it's about what would happen to the people we love.
I am afraid. And I need help.
I do it often. I will lie there in bed, reliving every detail of that terrifying moment in my life. I replay my futile attempts to escape, feel the strong arms drag me back to captivity, the deafening whisper in my ear, all of it.
I do this over and over and over and over again.
And I enjoy it.
This is probably the reason why I'm so into being hurt physically/hurting others, so I can in part relive that horrifying day.
And here's an essay that I wrote about it.
When I was in my Sophomore year of high school, I was a wreck in a dense thicket of wood. I was barely going to school, always fought with my parents over the most trivial of matters, and literally felt like I was in a handcart shooting straight to hell. My entire life felt out of control, falling and spinning into a deep darkness that I would never be able to escape. I was lost in a thick dark forest of angst and pain, weighed down by chains of obligations from my demanding family, ropes of guilt tightened until I couldn't breathe when I slipped form their high held expectations.
Running around blindly in the pitch blackness surrounding me, I wildly flailed my arms around like a crazy lunatic, grasping around for my own breath, for anything I can hold and be certain of. I reached first for my closest friends, the safest ones, but they couldn't see me gasping and choking in my chains. I pleaded and cried, spat and shouted, but they didn't understand. For quite some time I found comfort in the silent blade, but so many others cried out so loud in opposition of my comfort in them. Next I tried for those "adults" who walked within our school walls, some with knowledge from all corners of the world, others just dimwits drowning in their authoritative power over the still mindless children. Some understood my cries and pushed me away, the lions who throw their children down the cliff to toughen them to become their own kings. Others reached out their angelic wings and, whether or not on purpose, stabbed me in my eyes.
Still flailing around in the dark screaming and running, lost in the dark, I
stumbled across some acquaintances I barely knew. They saw my chains, my binds, the scars that had accumulated over the years. They saw and understood, and led me down the path they walked and believed was the correct path for me.
They were my life support. The ones who encouraged me to break from the system, to fight the flow of everything. Their word was my law, their suggestions my command. I followed and believed everything they told me as truth and never questioned their logic, like ignorant children blindly believing the faith thrust to them by their parents. Running behind them in their shadows, listening to their words and not those of my ever demanding family, gave me a taste of freedom, a taste of my own individuality, and I hungered for more.
Crawling behind their lead, a dog on an invisible leash, I wagged my tail and drooled my tongue happily, turning a deaf ear to the shouts and cries of what used to be my only order of life. I enjoyed the ecstasy of rebellion, the bliss of knowing my fake freedom. I ran around with them, believing that this was the best way of life, free of bounds and responsibilities, enjoying the full aspect of finally being let off the heavy metallic chain and leash that scarred all along the neck, not knowing that this so called freedom was fast bringing my own demise.
Weeks and months passed, staying out late and not going to school, stealing money from my parents to purchase the physical substances which brought along the mental ecstasy of my faked escape. All the alcohol, all the marijuana, all the hiding away at the local hidden parks, faked my mental freedom, my faux fur of the coat of freedom. No one truly understood how this euphoria was dragging me further into the pitch blackness, the never ending spinning into the depths of hell. No one, not a soul. If anyone saw, no one dared to stop my impending doom.
That fateful day, October of 2006. I was spending my after school with the one I believed to be my best friend, and two other very well liked acquaintances. I considered all I knew an acquaintance because I never quite believed they would stay with me for too long at this time. I followed my best friend, believing his word that this would be a quick stop at his home for a video game in need of returning to our acquaintance. I followed him innocently and blindly, not reading into the signs he was giving off. Quickly we ran up the stairs and veered right into his room. Once we entered his chambers of faked light and freedom did I feel the familiar dread crawl over my skin. He locked the doors and yelled out the window to our acquaintances below that we will be of some time, that he could not fine the item we had been questing for. I felt the dread creeping and stumbled out the bedroom door, in hopes of relieving this crawling demise. Chased and captured, dragged back and locked again. This time it was yelled, it would be some time for he was making food for our grumbling tummies. I felt no grumbling, only fear that I could not quite shake off. Crawling out the room on my fours, making to the front door and barely unlocking it until I'm captured and dragged back again. No excuses this time, just being dragged back. In a flash I stumble away like a desperate child, to the living room window. Captured and dragged again.
No more energy to run again, I feel my body collapse. First my fingers, then my legs. My torso and limbs follow quickly behind. I feel the hand I trusted turn into hands of those I do not recognize and tear off the wall to my own sanity. As I feel the breaking of the barrier, I hear the whisper: "You're not going to fight anymore?"
My arms give one last desperate struggle to escape the drowning blackness, then all is lost.
A few hours later, I realize I am outdoors again, streaming tears down my cheeks and abandoned by my acquaintances, as I imagined countless times before. I call out to them over imaginary cable lines, but only the drooping yellow flowers return my falling tears. I stumble myself back home after another few hours, take a long cleansing of all the sins I've committed to all those who only wished my best, then sleep. I cry out from my heart at random intervals the rest of all the pent up guilt and shame of disobeying those who only wanted me to succeed and be the best that I could possibly become, and shed off the skin of the one who was so lost in the darkness of the forest, blind to the flickering light of the torches of the ones who were trying to find me and lead me back home.
Stepping out f the dense forest, covering and deep gashes and wounds from the scratching and tearing of the branches, I realize I am now not only free to the demands of my unforgiving family, but also free to the demands of those who stained the purity of my innocence. I realize, in the new rising of the sun, that I am free to all the chains and binds that tied me down in so many shapes and ways. I finally, realized, after wandering the thick denseness of the darkness, that I am my own master, my own slave, my own demon, my own hero. In my own decision, based on my own logic.
Finally, out of the drowning forest, away from those rusted chains and blinding blackness, after all the screaming, bleeding, and scarring, I was free. Free to live my own life, in my own mind, with my own thoughts and and my own feelings. Finally, after so many years of self inflicted torture, I was free.
I'm finally learning the basics of flash! FINALLY!
and a new note about the BSDM.
I finally figured out, its not the bdsm that I like. its being a pet that a like. you know, being petted and fussed over, being cuddled and what not. yea.
wheee im cuddley :)
deadly confession of my heart: I mildly enjoy bdsm.
ok now that's over with, a question to all you NGers out here: Do you have any advice on any mild/slightly hardcore scenarios I(female/to-be-master) can play out with my boy friend(male/to-be-pet)?
I've never had much creativity myself, but I usually enjoy being the more "pet" role in a master-pet thingy in the bedroom. Trouble, me and my boyfriend have always wondered about how it would be if we ever switched roles. Id like to surprise him in the near future and take this idea into action, but i really need some help thinking of some scenes! I didnt put this thread in that advice thread in the clubs room because I know I wont be the only one benefitting from this, and it would be a great time to share some NSFW ideas just to throw them out there ^ ^ so anyone have some scenes theyve always imagined a girl doing to them, or have done, or have just seen some where on the internet and thought it was cool?
so why the hell do i have to put this here? if its for advice, srsly.