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To everyone who joined these forums at some point, and got discouraged by the negativity and left after a while (or even got literally scared off): I'm sorry.

I wasn't good enough at encouraging people to be kinder, and removing people who refuse to be kind. Encouraging people is hard, and removing people creates conflict, and I hate conflict... so that's why I wasn't better at it.

I was a very, very sensitive teen. The atmosphere of this forum as it is now, if it had existed in 1996, would probably have upset me far more than it would have helped.

I can handle quite a lot of negativity and even abuse now, but that isn't the point. I want to help people. I want to help the people who need it the most, and I want to help people like the 1996 version of me.

I'm still figuring out the best way to do that, but as it is now, these forums are doing more harm than good, and I can't keep running them.

Thank you to the few people who have tried to understand my point of view so far. I really, really appreciate you guys. You are beautiful people.

Everyone else: If after everything I've said so far, you still don't understand my motivations, I think it's unlikely that you will. We're just too different. Maybe someday in the future it might make sense, but until then, there's no point in arguing about it. I don't have the time or the energy for arguing anymore. I will focus my time and energy on people who support me, and those who need help.

-SoulRiser

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Just a story I wrote.(unedited)
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Depression101 Offline
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Post: #1
Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

I'm pretty depressed, and, as the character in the story, school has taken away my love for writing and reading. This is all I managed to write, didn't finsish it for the aforementioned reasons. It's sloppy and I didn't edit it, so I don't expect anyone to read it. So I don't actually know why I'm posting it. But I am, and I see no harm in it since I've posted a warning it's a bad, unedited story.


In an old Victorian manor, through an east-bound window, rested an old and expansive bedroom where sickly Peter Carmichael lay. He was merely thirty-three; disease should not have caught up with the speed and vigor of his early age, but it did. He lay under a blue silk duvet in a four poster bed, draped with black curtains. He inherited the manor from his grandfather, under the condition that all the servants remain there until death or resignation -- his grandfather loved the servants, treated them like family; the other condition was that his any member of the family would be accepted into the manor if they need a place to live or stay. A kind hearted family man, Micheal Carmichael was. His sister was staying in the manor for the weekend, she always did. It wasn't that Peter hated her, or even disliked her, but they never got on like brother and sister. They had nothing in common and they never spend time with each other as kids; they were like co-workers: two people who knew each other and were forced to associate but never grew close personally. But Evelyn Carmichael didn't have any other place to stay, she rented a college dorm, but it cost extra on weekends and she was annoyed by the loud music from all the parties. Peter never went to college; further so, he dropped out of high school. It bored him mercilessly, deprived him of basic rights, and stifled(if not killed) his artistic soul. He was quite a writer until school destroyed his creative freedom and will, and drew forceful associations between art and relentless academics. And school caused the first full-scale breakdown. A mental seizure of sorts. Two more followed and coupled with general stress, Peter was hospitalized and prescribed lots of rest.

The manor was situated on a hill surrounded by a pine and spruce forest; the tallest trees there reached up to fifteen feet, and the nearest town was thirty minutes walk. Thus, Peter decided, it was a fitting place to "rest." The master bedroom has a mahogany floor and antique stone walls, insolated during the fifth renovation. The bed stood up on a slight rising and was flanked by two end tables. A dark oak desk stood up near the window, with a typewriter, stack of crisp pages and a fountain pen; following the literary theme, the walls were covered by ten bookcases, standing next to each other, all holding leather-bound volumes full of arhaic words and complex sentences. The cieling was so high up you couldn't see it at night, and the room so big it looked perculiar with it's minimal furniture, it seemed out of proportion; it was very unnerving.

Beds are an international symbol of comfort and warmth. And for the right reasons. No matter how fatigued and ill one feels, mentally and pshyically, one can still find relaxing and numb comfort in a good bed, and so was the case with Peter Carmichael. He spend night, day, evening and morning in his bed, recling in the soft matteress, he felt at ease. Mostly because he didn't care much anymore; school made him disgusted of reading and writing, he felt useless just wasting away in bed, and he felt empty inside: he had nothing to live for. He was, in his reserved way, misanthropic; and was, in his outwardly way, cynical. The difference being is that he acted sore at his ilness and mad at his laziness, but felt a flaring contempt for the system. The system. The men, women, and things pulling the strings, the brainwashed robots marching in the streets, he hated this whole Kafkaesque, Orwellian world: not only did the government control and brainwash people, but beurocrocity created the perfect prison for man. And he, Peter -- was a victim. The Man took away everything Peter loved; he destroyed artistic expression, freeness of speech, individuality, equality, and, worst of all -- free thought.

Peter didn't ventured beyond the four posters of the bed, except, occaisonly, to smoke pipe and sip whiksey on the porch. His sister seldom visited him, because she had better things to do than amuse a man who didn't care for her company. The servants also rarely came in unless need for food, drink, fresh sheets and clothing arose. Peter enjoyed his isolation and demanded that the house remain as quiet as possible at all time. The man lost a lot of sanity during his school years, become more mentally vulnerable when he lived in cheap, diseased apartments, and there was no question that his isolation degenerated him further, but he swore the servants to specific instructions not to disturb him and made any one else feel unwelcome in his presence. At night, when whippoorwills sing and slender branches scrape the windows and when the wind whistles, the dark, oddly-proportioned chamber instills a certain dread that does wonders to an imagination the likes of Peter; thus, he was very upset that the conditioning instilled in him prevented him from taking pleasure in the art that the horrific atmosphere inspired. Peter wished he would just wither away; there was no meaning in his life: he lost everything to school and higher authority, he was lost, worn and spent.

"Then it was straight to the 40 ouncers/ slapping teachers and jacking off in front of my counselors." As the World Turns - Eminem.

"A man is a success if gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does whatever he does what he wants to do." - Bob Dylan.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die." - H.P. Lovecraft.

"I became insane, with long intervals of painful sanity." Edgar Allan Poe.
05-07-2017 06:47 AM
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 Thanks given by: Avatar Korra
Avatar Korra Offline
There is no cause of anything

Posts: 342
Joined: Jan 2017
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Given 204 thank(s) in 143 post(s)
Post: #2
Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

Ehhhh? You said this was bad, but... you have some writing skills. *-* I like this.
It kinda has a The Secret Garden feel to it.

"I’M BEGGING YOU, PRINCE ZUKO! It’s time for you to look inward and begin asking yourself the big question: who are you and what do YOU want?"
" While it is always best to believe in one’s self, a little help from others can be a great blessing"
-Uncle Iroh(Avatar: the Last Airbender)
05-07-2017 06:58 AM
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Depression101 Offline
Freedom Fighter

Posts: 345
Joined: Mar 2017
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Given 273 thank(s) in 172 post(s)
Post: #3
Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

If you like I also have a story here called "Liquor Cabinet". I wrote it about a year or two ago(can't remember). That one is fully edited and all. It should be somewhere on the forum here. And I'm glad you liked. I've never read The Secret Garden, is it any good?

"Then it was straight to the 40 ouncers/ slapping teachers and jacking off in front of my counselors." As the World Turns - Eminem.

"A man is a success if gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does whatever he does what he wants to do." - Bob Dylan.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles.

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die." - H.P. Lovecraft.

"I became insane, with long intervals of painful sanity." Edgar Allan Poe.
05-07-2017 07:02 AM
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Avatar Korra Offline
There is no cause of anything

Posts: 342
Joined: Jan 2017
Thanks: 1491
Given 204 thank(s) in 143 post(s)
Post: #4
Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

Oooooooo. I shall read it.

Also, I read The Secret Garden a long time ago, but I remember it inspiring me then, so I'd say it's pretty good(though nothing like 1984). It's basically the story of a resentful young girl neglected by her parents who was sent off to live with her mysterious uncle in his mansion and discovers a crippled young boy who she was never told about and a forbidden garden. That's all I remember. xD

I'd recommend Heidi even more. Her story shows how being sent to a restrictive environment can drain the cheer and curiosity of a child who previously enjoyed life in the mountains. It's probably more related to your situation and what so many youth experience around the world. I even cried a few times seeing her become depressed and physically sick in her new environment.

"I’M BEGGING YOU, PRINCE ZUKO! It’s time for you to look inward and begin asking yourself the big question: who are you and what do YOU want?"
" While it is always best to believe in one’s self, a little help from others can be a great blessing"
-Uncle Iroh(Avatar: the Last Airbender)
(This post was last modified: 05-07-2017 07:21 AM by Avatar Korra.)
05-07-2017 07:19 AM
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Benjavaz Offline
Default User Title

Posts: 343
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Post: #5
RE: Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

(05-07-2017 06:58 AM)Korravatar Wrote:  It kinda has a The Secret Garden feel to it.
That was exactly what I thought!!!!! It reminded me of the secret garden with the manor, the servants, the miserable son, everything.

(05-07-2017 06:47 AM)Depression101 Wrote:  I'm pretty depressed, and, as the character in the story, school has taken away my love for writing and reading. This is all I managed to write, didn't finsish it for the aforementioned reasons. It's sloppy and I didn't edit it, so I don't expect anyone to read it. So I don't actually know why I'm posting it. But I am, and I see no harm in it since I've posted a warning it's a bad, unedited story.


In an old Victorian manor, through an east-bound window, rested an old and expansive bedroom where sickly Peter Carmichael lay. He was merely thirty-three; disease should not have caught up with the speed and vigor of his early age, but it did. He lay under a blue silk duvet in a four poster bed, draped with black curtains. He inherited the manor from his grandfather, under the condition that all the servants remain there until death or resignation -- his grandfather loved the servants, treated them like family; the other condition was that his any member of the family would be accepted into the manor if they need a place to live or stay. A kind hearted family man, Micheal Carmichael was. His sister was staying in the manor for the weekend, she always did. It wasn't that Peter hated her, or even disliked her, but they never got on like brother and sister. They had nothing in common and they never spend time with each other as kids; they were like co-workers: two people who knew each other and were forced to associate but never grew close personally. But Evelyn Carmichael didn't have any other place to stay, she rented a college dorm, but it cost extra on weekends and she was annoyed by the loud music from all the parties. Peter never went to college; further so, he dropped out of high school. It bored him mercilessly, deprived him of basic rights, and stifled(if not killed) his artistic soul. He was quite a writer until school destroyed his creative freedom and will, and drew forceful associations between art and relentless academics. And school caused the first full-scale breakdown. A mental seizure of sorts. Two more followed and coupled with general stress, Peter was hospitalized and prescribed lots of rest.

The manor was situated on a hill surrounded by a pine and spruce forest; the tallest trees there reached up to fifteen feet, and the nearest town was thirty minutes walk. Thus, Peter decided, it was a fitting place to "rest." The master bedroom has a mahogany floor and antique stone walls, insolated during the fifth renovation. The bed stood up on a slight rising and was flanked by two end tables. A dark oak desk stood up near the window, with a typewriter, stack of crisp pages and a fountain pen; following the literary theme, the walls were covered by ten bookcases, standing next to each other, all holding leather-bound volumes full of arhaic words and complex sentences. The cieling was so high up you couldn't see it at night, and the room so big it looked perculiar with it's minimal furniture, it seemed out of proportion; it was very unnerving.

Beds are an international symbol of comfort and warmth. And for the right reasons. No matter how fatigued and ill one feels, mentally and pshyically, one can still find relaxing and numb comfort in a good bed, and so was the case with Peter Carmichael. He spend night, day, evening and morning in his bed, recling in the soft matteress, he felt at ease. Mostly because he didn't care much anymore; school made him disgusted of reading and writing, he felt useless just wasting away in bed, and he felt empty inside: he had nothing to live for. He was, in his reserved way, misanthropic; and was, in his outwardly way, cynical. The difference being is that he acted sore at his ilness and mad at his laziness, but felt a flaring contempt for the system. The system. The men, women, and things pulling the strings, the brainwashed robots marching in the streets, he hated this whole Kafkaesque, Orwellian world: not only did the government control and brainwash people, but beurocrocity created the perfect prison for man. And he, Peter -- was a victim. The Man took away everything Peter loved; he destroyed artistic expression, freeness of speech, individuality, equality, and, worst of all -- free thought.

Peter didn't ventured beyond the four posters of the bed, except, occaisonly, to smoke pipe and sip whiksey on the porch. His sister seldom visited him, because she had better things to do than amuse a man who didn't care for her company. The servants also rarely came in unless need for food, drink, fresh sheets and clothing arose. Peter enjoyed his isolation and demanded that the house remain as quiet as possible at all time. The man lost a lot of sanity during his school years, become more mentally vulnerable when he lived in cheap, diseased apartments, and there was no question that his isolation degenerated him further, but he swore the servants to specific instructions not to disturb him and made any one else feel unwelcome in his presence. At night, when whippoorwills sing and slender branches scrape the windows and when the wind whistles, the dark, oddly-proportioned chamber instills a certain dread that does wonders to an imagination the likes of Peter; thus, he was very upset that the conditioning instilled in him prevented him from taking pleasure in the art that the horrific atmosphere inspired. Peter wished he would just wither away; there was no meaning in his life: he lost everything to school and higher authority, he was lost, worn and spent.
If this is about what school is doing to You, then you should resist school at all costs. If this ever happens to anyone that I know, or anyone really, the school system will have hell to pay!

I HATE my school. I'd rather die than go to school for another 6 years.Fu
(This post was last modified: 05-08-2017 01:02 PM by Benjavaz.)
05-08-2017 12:58 PM
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James Comey Away
Banished Oldfaf in Exile

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Post: #6
Just a story I wrote.(unedited)

School represents misery, yet misery is often interchangeable with comfort.

Remember that excess comfort is the same as misery.

RIP GWEDIN
RIP URITIYOGI
RIP NIGHT
RIP VONUNOV
RIP WES/THEWAKE
RIP USERNAME

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Stop jerking off to porn and whining and do something about it

Make School Survival Great Again - MSSGA

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05-14-2017 06:56 AM
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