The Night My Girlfriend Dissociated and Forgot Who I Was

by Anonymous - follow for more.

The situation, as it stood, couldn’t have looked much worse. A man had cornered a tearful, terrified woman in the lobby of a block of flats and wouldn’t let her leave. If another person entered at that moment, the woman would say the man was a complete stranger. She’d say she had no recollection of how she’d got here.

The third person would – quite reasonably – deduce that, in all probability, the man had drugged the woman and, if they had a shred of human decency, would come to her rescue by whatever means. Maybe they’d call the police. Maybe they’d beat the shit out of him. After all, he was clearly planning to rape the woman. There was almost no explanation in which the man came out looking like a goodie. Almost.

I played the hypotheticals through in my head and, to a God I decided in that instant was real, I prayed. I prayed that as long as I stood there with my girlfriend in the midst of a severe dissociative episode, no other soul would appear. God, if you’re reading this: I owe you one.

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I am not afraid of your scars. In fact, I’m absolutely infatuated with them. They’re stories… Of all the shit you’ve been through, of all the heartache you’ve dealt with - they’re battle scars and they’re fucking beautiful. I’m in love with them almost as much as I’m in love with you.
—  Oko ninjah
How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.
—  Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

She had left angry, neither a confirmation nor denial to what she had requested. He wasn’t sure what she had expected. To tell him of all elves that a former officer of the Alliance had the freedom to walk his City’s streets as one of his own? Wary, was the only reasonable reaction. 

"You just go on with your little red and gold life, not giving a second thought to anyone or anything, especially me and your daily life won’t be effected in any way."

Her taunting had been more accurate than perhaps she had realized. He lived a life of ‘red and gold’, servitude to his people like every Silverhaze before him. He was loyal to a nation and that left little room for the individual. The needs and safety of everyone else before his self, before the minority. It was the larger scale of things. A man like him did not build lasting relationships with such opinions. A man like him left a trail of burned bridges that lit the paths that he had traversed. He did what he thought necessary, the things others found cruel or heartless, and much in his own life had been sacrificed with such actions. Not that he had ever asked for the understanding of others; he knew it would never be a forthcoming subject. 

She had spoken ever infuriating words, whittled away at cool and collected facade of stoicism, a mask worn well despite the constantly bubbling rage that was stirred and mixed. He refused to give her the satisfaction of annoyance and had kept every fraction of aggravation under careful wrap. Lock and key. She refused to see the bigger picture. 

"There is no potential. There isn’t a ‘situation’."

He was a Marshall of the Alliance. This was face value, this was broad spectrum. An inside look to his personal home front, was what Spider was giving the human, when he could very well be a spy. Some mission undisclosed to the Minx that she was blindly playing into? Kasmiran did not always agree with the Horde, this was true, but that was where the allegiance of the Thalassian people currently lie, and while they were in a tentative and shaky truce with those of Blue, he knew that in the end, this falsified ‘elf’ was indeed the enemy. Even in Draenor, with the wavering peace found outside of Ashran, during the main campaigns, spies had been deployed on both ends. There was no trust to be found anywhere. This too was fact. 

It was words that she had spoken in the past, that worried Kasmiran’s mind now. 

"Good men have a very annoying habit of always trying to be good."

Indeed, Kasmiran knew very little of what had happened to the man, only the result and while the Marshall’s intentions might be pure curiosity now, that didn’t mean that the tides couldn’t turn. The question was, when and if the time ever came, what Axsion’s idea of good would be? Where would loyalties lie? He was weighing the probabilities and outcomes, speculating on what the end result would be, and what his current course of action should be. Even he had difficulties in the decisions. 

Had it been any other human, Kasmiran would have had little trouble deciding. Kill him and be done with it. That was what his mind told him, to handle the situation swiftly and without hesitation. Instinct however, remained dormant, having found no reason to surface, to make an opinion and it was that notion that stilled his thoughts. For the time being, he could wait. He was forever a patient man. Until he could find out more, Kasmiran would keep an open eye, and steady aim. 



Placenta Teddy Bear
On exhibition at the “Doing it for the Kids” showcase, this teddy bear was made using human placenta. A crafty alternative for those who don’t want to eat the placenta, but instead want to make a toy out of it and scar their kids for life.

Prosecutor Mizell called half a dozen witnesses, and Judge Mizell never objected once to his line of questioning. Mr. Cline testified first, and Sheriff Barclay came last. The story that emerged was a simple one. At noon on the day of Rebecca Cline’s murder, there had been a birthday party, with cake and ice cream. Several of Rebecca’s friends had attended. Around two o’clock, while the little girls were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Musical Chairs, Jim Trusdale entered the Chuck-a-Luck and ordered a knock of whiskey. He was wearing his plainsman hat. He made the drink last, and when it was gone he ordered another.
—  Stephen King has a story in this week’s New Yorker.
Couples Therapy Part 5 (Dr. Caroline Foster & Cailey)
  • Dr. Foster:-walked in and smiled at the couple- Ahh... You both look like you're ready to talk today. -sat back and opened her notebook- So what have you two been up to this past week?
  • Bailey:-had her fingers laced together when Caroline walked into the room.- Hi, Caroline. -Giggled sheepishly- Yeah, we're ready for therapy today. She smiled brightly at the older woman and looked at Caleb- Did you want to tell her what happened babe?

My name is Anastasia, and I am  dead in the eyes of the law. I am Missing.

I remember it like it was yesterday. April 9, 2006. I was in my backyard, locked out of the house because of a stupid mistake. It was one of the first nice days that spring, so I didn’t mind being outside. I was waiting for my mom to come home, when I heard it. Footsteps. The mud was fresh from the recent rains. At first, I thought I was imagining things.

My family is always telling me that I am too paranoid, too jittery. I talk too loudly, or I am too babyish. That was wrong. I was nine years old when it happened. The sound was getting closer. I tried to hide, but my open backyard ruined my chances. I did what I had to. I ran.

If I had called out, the neighbors wouldn’t have helped. They know how I am. They’ve complained about me to my parents. I screamed inside my head and ran as far as I could for as long as I could. I spotted the one pursuing me. It was just a dumb fox. I tried to find my way home, but I was too lost.

My family put signs up for a year trying to find me, and then, they gave up. I didn’t want to go home after that. I could live my life elsewhere. I didn’t  need them, after what they’d done.

I did manage to get one of the flyers once. It read:

                   LOST DOG

  • Beagle- Brown and White.
  • Responds to the name “Anastasia.”
  • $200 Rerward

Transylvania’s Haunted Forest, Known as Romania’s ‘Bermuda Triangle’: Hoia Baciu

When most people think of Transylvania, the first thought that comes to mind is Dracula. But, setting Vlad Tepes (the person considered the model for Dracula) aside, the area’s majestic yet notorious landscapes are home to perhaps the world’s most haunted forest.

The forest in question is the Hoia Baciu forest located outside the city of Cluj Napoca in the historical region of Transylvania, Romania.

The area first gained notoriety outside the region when in 1968 biologist Alexandru Sift who, while on a scientific expedition to the forest, snapped a photo of a disc shaped UFO. The photo fueled ufologist interest across the world.

However, the forest is known for much more than just UFO related phenomenon. It is known as the “Bermuda Triangle of Transylvania” among the ghost hunting community and among paranormal investigators, such as Dr. Adrian Patrut, president of the Romanian Society of Parapsychology.

“Some experts believe that we are dealing with a genuine Romanian ‘Bermuda Triangle.’ The area certainly can be certified as such, especially with the exceptional video and photos, along with testimonies of researchers who studied it for decades,” said Dr. Adrian Patrut in the show “Science and Knowledge (TVR Cluj), according

Visitors to the area tell of intense feelings of anxiety. Moreover, some who have ventured off into the mysterious woods have emerged with unexplained rashes, scratches, burns, and other effects like migraines, nausea, vomiting, and even missing time.

To make matters more menacing, some of the forest trees are twisted and distorted misshapen like those depicted in old fairy tales. This landscape adds to the anxiety experienced by visitors as they enter.

In one particular area of the forest is a clearing were no trees grow. Some paranormal investigators believe this area to be especially high in activity.

Many locals believe the site is haunted and that if they enter, they will not return. In fact, according to legends of the area, the forest is named after a local shepherd who, along with his 200 sheep, disappeared.

Other legends include that spirits of murdered villagers have been trapped in the forest and are unable to move on. Visitors to the forest often hear disembodied voices and sometimes witness disembodied heads floating amid the trees.

Dr. Patrut has been studying the site since the 1970s, but unfortunately, no conclusions about the forest’s strange atmosphere have come to light.

In recent years the site has attracted tourists to the area seeking either ghostly encounters or spiritual experiences, according to the Travel Channel’s “Ghost Adventures,” a show which did a short stint on the mystery forest.

Today even the legends remain buried in the shroud of campfire stories. However, the lasting impression of this forest seems to the consistency of the occurrences and the large amount of photographic evidence.

Why do I read?
I just can’t help myself.
I read to learn and to grow, to laugh
and to be motivated.
I read to understand things I’ve never
been exposed to.
I read when I’m crabby, when I’ve just
said monumentally dumb things to the
people I love.
I read for strength to help me when I
feel broken, discouraged, and afraid.
I read when I’m angry at the whole
I read when everything is going right.
I read to find hope.
I read because I’m made up not just of
skin and bones, of sights, feelings,
and a deep need for chocolate, but I’m
also made up of words.
Words describe my thoughts and what’s
hidden in my heart.
Words are alive—when I’ve found a
story that I love, I read it again and
again, like playing a favorite song
over and over.
Reading isn’t passive—I enter the
story with the characters, breathe
their air, feel their frustrations,
scream at them to stop when they’re
about to do something stupid, cry with
them, laugh with them.
Reading for me, is spending time with a
A book is a friend.
You can never have too many.
—   Gary Paulsen, Shelf Life: Stories by the Book