#she had a case of raging ptsd and literal brainwashing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ziracona · 4 years

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I once read a theory about white glowing eyes being a sign of a killer being brainwashed/mind controlled, which is why Wraith, Spirit and Deathlinger hunt after survivors even though they have little to no reason to do so. If it's okay, could you please write how they would react if the mind control went off one day and they realised what they were doing the whole time?

Oh yeah! I’ve always considered the Entity-touched eyes to mean the killer has their visual perception of the world intentionally altered, and since Caleb canonically is made to hallucinate and has the same effect on him, considered that more or less confirmed by his chapter. I haven’t heard brainwashed/mind controlled before, but I can give that a go. If I’m remembering correctly, Hillbilly has that as well.

Rin would be horrified. The Entity literally turned her into the thing she hated—into something like her father, who gives in to rage and mutilates and kills innocent people. She’s done the same thing to girls her own age her father did to her, and with no ability to stop it. Realizing she’s been used to do that? It would destroy her. She would be overcome with sorrow and confusion, and terrified, because she has no idea how to stop it, or if it’ll just happen again. And she would be so sorry, but what would you even say to someone you’d done that to? It all suddenly feels so impossible and scary and lost beyond repair. She’s a corpse and a killer, and she’ll never be free, and she’s beyond heartbroken.

Max would be confused. For so long, he’s been fighting off threats and he’s been hooking them because he wants to, right? Because it’s how he warns other people not to come to his home. But suddenly, the control on him is just gone, and it doesn’t make sense anymore. Where is he? How did this happen? What took him, and what is wrong with him to make him think this was normal? The farm is all wrong, and there are barriers he can’t get through, and it hasn’t been new threats—it’s been the same people! Over and over and over again, and he knows he killed them, but they’re back? And why? Why did he hook them? What was the thing in the sky? How did it make him do this? What else has it made him do? What can it make him do? What will it? Is this clarity just for a moment? Is he going to lose it again? And he’s scared then. He’s suddenly bricked up behind the wall, and the thing keeping him chained up is using him for sport he doesn’t want to be a part of, and mocking him, and hurting him, and he can’t beat it. Can’t get free. Can’t save himself. He’s back were he was as a kid, and the PTSD all comes back and hits him like a truck, and he’s terrified, and frenzied, just bashing himself against the barrier to his little cell of a realm, trying to get free, trying to save himself, and he sees it coming to claim him again, and there’s nowhere to run, and he just has to watch it get him.

Caleb is furious. He’s been used, again, and again, and again, his whole life. Every employer of any kind he ever trusted, stabbed him in the back! And it’s happened again. Somehow worse than ever before. This bastard demon monster dragged him from his world, and got in his head, and made him think he was getting revenge. It made him see all these total strangers as men he hated, so he’d be motivated to hurt them for it. It used his rage and his personal quest for vengeance like a dangled carrot, and moved him like a puppet, and he’s furious. He doesn’t really give a damn about the strangers, but he’s mad he was manipulated into giving them the punishment he wanted to give to Bayshore. The Entity was just…going to let him think he was getting that vengeance, forever. Didn’t even give him a real offer, or force him, or break him. It just drugged him. So that he’d do what it wanted, like so many things he’s served before. And he. Is. Angry. He doesn’t know if he’ll be controlled again. He doesn’t know if there’s a way to break it. But he writes what’s going on down in two letters. Leaves one in his jacket for himself to find, in case there is some way for him to break this control and get some god damn revenge if it takes him again, and the other, he takes, ties to a bottle of alcohol, and throws into the Survivors’ campfire area. Hoping one will see it. Because he doesn’t really give a damn about them, and they sure as hell don’t give one about him, but the enemy of your enemy is your friend, and he knows, no matter how much they hate him? They hate the Entity more. And if they can find a way to break its control, he’ll try to help them find a way to make it pay, like he has every boss who betrayed him before it, and it’s a longshot, but it’s all he’s got.

Philip is shattered. He’s spent his whole life just trying to live. Just wanting to be decent. To take no harm, to do no harm. To have just some kind of simple life, where he doesn’t have to fight to be in a small house that’s warm in the winter and cool in the hot season, and where he isn’t afraid he’ll starve, or be murdered on a street corner, and maybe can sometimes afford to go see a movie or buy a new jacket in a store every now and again. And those ambitions were still far too much. Life has seen him fit to suffer since the day he turned six. He lived through the horrors of genocide in his home as a boy, lost people, watched so many die, watched so much senseless and cruel and awful and unfathomable brutality. And he hated it. He wanted, more than anything, to be able to punish the people who burned others alive for no reason at all but a little bit of hate or a little bit of money. He wanted the people who didn’t survive the genocide to have the justice they deserved. But he had no power to do it.

He went to America, following promises of a safer and better life, and he survived, and that was nothing, but nothing was enough. He sometimes bought beers with the little extra money, and he made rent, and the food wasn’t great, but he was not afraid to starve. His job was simple, and he liked it, because he got to repair things. Some cars he crushed, but others he got to fix, and send back out, and as inconsequential as it was, the world was some fraction of a percentage better at night after work he’d done, and that felt good to him. And then he saw blood leaking out of a trunk, and rescued an injured young man from being crushed, only to watch his boss slit the man’s throat and take the life he’d just saved. He was only even able to buy the man an extra ten or so seconds of life. And then found out he’d been used to kill hundreds he hadn’t known existed, hidden in the trunks of cars, and his boss was doing it, like men always had. Killing others senselessly and brutally and mercilessly, for a little bit of hate, or a little bit of money. And so he killed his boss, to avenge the people he’d used his hands to kill. And fled, because no matter if the police or the mob found him first, it was going to be death the moment anyone did. And then the Entity took him. And it’s been years. Years of this quiet, peaceful, silent haze. Buried under so much fog. Hunting shadows, fleeting images of faces he doesn’t remember. What has he been doing? Has he really been aware of it at all? The worst part is he doesn’t know. And the control over him shuts off mid-trial, and suddenly he’s just Philip, just the Philip he’s always been, and he’s standing above a little girl, with her blood on his blade and her friend’s dead body beside her, and she’s cowering, waiting for him to kill her, and he knows he’s going to—he was going to. And he remembers all of. Every moment, like memories. But like memories he wasn’t there for. Like sleep-walking, and waking up, but gaining all the memories your eyes took in while you were asleep.

And he doesn’t understand it. He can’t. He never would have done this. But god, he did—he did. He sees himself doing it. He remembers it. And it wasn’t him, it wasn’t! He doesn’t know how, but it wasn’t! It was like being drugged, no, it was worse. There was something else in him. Moving him, and he was awake, but only a little. Buried beneath it, unable to fight back. Unable to stop it. But forced to be party to all the blood it shed. It made him something he was not, so much more completely and irrevocably and unforgivably than Azarov ever did. And there’s just. There’s no coming back from that. There’s no way to make peace with it! Or get past it! Or anything like that! It’s so beyond over. It breaks his mind. It breaks him. It’s too much to hold. He’s been using the bell. The bell that used to warn there were people coming to kill family when he was a child, and he’s been using it to announce he’s coming to kill, like he was one of the men who would enact genocide for a little bit of hate or a little bit of money. How, how has been doing this? Doing any of it. He killed one seconds ago, and there’s another at his feet now, waiting to die. And he just collapses and holds his head and screams, that muffled, choked scream from vocal chords damaged a little from their complete lack of use. And he doesn’t see anything at all for a minute, except pain and the past and the present and the possible futures, as he tries to bear more pain than is physically possible, and then he’s a little aware of the world again, and the girl is moving. She’s edging towards the sickle he dropped. And he could stop her. But he just stays still and watches her take it, and she closes her fingers around the hilt and shakily shoots to her feet and levels it at him.

Says, “Don’t move!” in a trembling voice.

Of all the things. He was about to murder her, and she’s telling him not to move. Like there’s a way she might offer not to kill him, if he complies. She’s so small. Maybe the smallest in all his memories. Maybe the smallest one there’s ever been here. In another life, she could have been him. Could have been his sister. She could have been the one walking down a road, wishing to kill people like the man who killed a friend. Maybe she’s there, right now. She must be.

He stays kneeled and looks at her for a second with eyes that, for once and only once, are his own deep brown like hers, and not glowing, and then he lowers his head and closes them and says, “Kill me.”

It’s the first thing he’s said in years. It’s the first time in years he’s had a reason to speak. He doesn’t want to take the words back.

She doesn’t. She hesitates. Says, “What?” Lost and confused. He can’t understand why on earth she would hesitate. She shouldn’t.

“I don’t know how long this will last,” he says, opening his eyes and looking up at her again. It’s hard to do. There’s blood matted in her dreads and the little pink shirt she’s wearing, and some of it is fresh, still bleeding, from where he was starting to kill her. “Kill me while you have the chance. Before I become like that again.”

“Before…?” She hesitates again. Trying to figure him out. Trying to do the right thing, somehow, even here and now. “’Like that’—you mean—you don’t…control what you do, as the Wraith? You can’t?”

“I don’t know,” he says in his voice that never speaks. He doesn’t. And he has a deep, troubling feeling, that if he lives, he is not going to remain himself long enough to understand it, either. “But that is not me. Kill me. Before I become it again. … Please,” he adds. It’s harder to get out than the rest. He doesn’t have a right to ask her for anything.

“B-but,” she stutters, suddenly so unready to kill him. She lowers the blade a little and it hurts to see. “If it’s not you—if the Entity uses your body, and you’re just somebody trapped inside, you’re a victim too. I could save you! There might be a way to stop it!”

She’s so desperate to help him. That’s almost enough to kill him on its own.

“Don’t try to save me, child,” he pleads with as much voice as he has left, “Whatever it has done to me, I have done it with it. I am not a thing to be saved. Kill me while you can. Avenge your friend.” She still doesn’t want to. He can see it in her face. She’s worried now—afraid to do the wrong thing. How can something so innocent and kind be left in her after being ripped apart so often in this hell. It’s almost comforting to see it, in spite of everything. There is no longer any hope for him, but if she is still like this, there must still be hope. For them. For other people. It will not always end for people like him like it is for him himself.

“You would be doing me a favor,” he says, because he remembers he doesn’t want her to have a death on her soul, and if she cannot see this as just, she must see it as mercy, or it will scar her too. He hesitates, lost. Thinking about what will happen if she doesn’t. Thinking again about what already has. “I don’t want to be this. Please,” he whispers. He starts crying. Or maybe he was before. He wasn’t aware, but he feels it now. Silent, but his face is cold from the breeze against it in the night air.

“I could save you,” she says again, pleading now too.

And Philip feels the Entity go inside him then. While he’s looking into her eyes. And he knows he’s going to be buried again in a second, and he may never wake back up, may just be trapped forever watching himself murder innocents like he was the kind of man who loved it. And she still has a chance to kill him if she does it now, but he sees her face, and the kindness there, and the worry, and concern for someone she should feel no concern for, and he knows even if he asks her this one last time, she will not do it, and whatever he tries, he only has an instant to do it in before he is gone again, maybe gone for good, and with everything he has of himself left in the second he has remaining, he shouts at her to run.

Also! Since I did Philip’s as a narrative, I’m doing a short one for Rin too, but under the cut. : ) Hope you enjoy these the Philip one made me cry. :’-]

It wasn’t meant to be shut off.

The plan had never been for one of the killers operating under controlled illusion and compulsion to realize what they had been living. Why would it be? That was only going to cause the Entity problems. But blight was an unpredictable biological event, even for the Entity, and this year was a little different even than most. Different, because The Blight himself was tinkering maybe a little too much. The purge this year was deep, and intense, and the killers themselves were more involved than ever, and the system broke. Not for long. More a hiccup, than anything. A burst of static. But it happened, nonetheless.

Rin wasn’t in a trial. She was in the estate, waiting, like she always did between trials. She needed to get home to kill her father. Any day, any minute now, she would get to do it and avenge her mom and be free. She was folding origami cranes. 1,000 of them, and her wish would come true. She would go home, and finish her father, and be at peace. And she was excited. Happy. A stack of paper beside her, and she had been folding for hours. This was 987. So close now, it was in her grasp. “988, 989, 990. 991, 992,” she whispered to herself as she folded cranes, trying to go faster and faster and fumbling a little in her excitement. “993. 994—” A sudden burst of wind came out of nowhere, and the crane in her hands was torn away, and the little pile she had scattered, and as she turned to look after them, vanished into the inky black sky.

She felt her eyes well up with tears. “I was so close,” she whispered to herself, heart sinking. But that’s okay, she tried to tell herself, You were so close in just a few hours. You’ll get it this time. And, consoled, she started again, back to one. Sure she’d get it this time.

She was on number 413 when the Entity’s control was suddenly lost.

Rin faltered, hands halfway to making a fold, and stared at nothing, then slowly looked down at the bird in her hands.

Oh no, she thought, unable to assign any emotion to the thoughts except a vague echo of fear, I’ve done this before. Not once before. Not twice. Not twenty. Thousands. She had done this thousands of times before. And always, always on the nine hundred and ninety-fourth one, they were blown away, and she started again.

How long have I been doing this? she thought in a panic, a deep, real fear seeping into her body.

And then it hit her for real.

Not the cranes, and the endless cycle. But the time in-between. The trials.

“No,” she whispered. She went rigid, then twitched. It was too much to bear. Memories flooded her brain and it was more pain than she was able to take. People. God, so, so many people. Some of them could have been her own age, even, and all of them she had…God. The memories were harsh and unbearable. In her head, it had been her father. She had been…been killing him. Or been—been practicing. Been getting ready. God, god, it had made so much sense to her. Like she was meditating to work her way to the real thing. But how had she thought that? It had never been him at all! It had been people, people like her! Fuck—people running, people screaming, and bleeding, and begging, and crying, and being torn to pieces at her feet.

I killed them, she thought in horror, I killed them all.

So many times. So many times. And it was the same people? How? How did she keep killing the same ones?

Where am I? thought Rin in desperation. She shot to her feet and looked around. It—it was home, but, but no, no, no, no, it wasn’t home at all! It was wrong. It was like home in a dream, where you thought you recognized the place, but the moment you woke you realized how completely wrong the structure had been, and were lost as to how it had ever felt right at all! What am I? she wondered in horror as she caught sight of the hue of her hand. Stumbling over her feet, Rin tore out to the gardens, looking for something she could see herself in, and fell to her knees by the little nearly dried up stream, and looked. And brought her hands up to her mouth in despair and fear.

She wasn’t a person anymore. She was pale, almost blue, and her arm was detached. Glass in her shoulder—god, she could feel it now. Feel the agony. And her side? It was—it was in pieces—she’d almost been ripped in two! She started to wonder how she was even still alive, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t, god, and that was so terrifying to try to truly understand. Her eyes were white like a Yurei. No. No, she realized, starting to cry, No. An Onryo.

How long had she been one? How—? NO. NO! How will I ever get free? She had to kill her father! It would be the only way to ever end this? And where was he! Where was she!

Rin stumbled to her feet and ran, looking for an exit, to—to wherever was away from here. She made it to the edge of the garden, and saw trees ahead, and tore for them, and slammed against a barrier she couldn’t see and was knocked back onto the ground.

Struggling up, Rin found the barrier and slammed her hands against it, but it didn’t budge, and no matter how hard she pushed, she couldn’t make it through.

“Help!” she called as loud as she could, crying again in the impossibility of her situation, “Please! Someone! Anybody! Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there!”

Nothing.

The whole world was empty, except for her. She kept pounding, kept calling, kept trying to get free, but there was no change. And exhausted, she fell to her knees and cried.

“Please.” Miserable, she curled up into a little ball and wept silently, trying to make sense of all the horrible murders in her head. Thinking of how awful the night with her father had been, how impossible it had been to understand a man like him would do a thing like he had done to her mother, and then her, and how she had known for completely certain she would never ever ever do such a thing herself, and now she was just like him.

“Did…did you say, uh…’help’?” came a voice Rin didn’t know.

She looked up in surprise, and through blurry dead eyes, saw a girl she recognized—a girl with three red braids in her hair, out of breath and flushed from running, looking at her warily from about ten feet back.

Rin’s English wasn’t amazing, but she was pretty sure the girl had asked her something about calling for help.

“’Tasukete’ right?” said the girl, eyeing her with a little suspicion and a lot of confusion.

I was right! I was right, she heard me!

Rin hurriedly sat up a little and nodded.

“…Why?” asked the redhead, moving a little closer.

And Rin was suddenly not seeing her. She was seeing hundreds of versions of this girl from her past. She was seeing one form last week, that she had chopped to bits with her katana the exact way her father had killed her, and she was sick, and couldn’t say anything at all. Could barely move. She wanted to hide. Wanted to curl up in a cold dark corner and never be seen again. She wanted to wake up and find none of this had ever happened.

“ごめんなさい。” whispered Rin, because ‘Sorry’ was the only word suddenly that she could even remember anymore.

The girl seemed to know that one to, and blinked at her in surprise, and took another step closer. “…Sorry?” she asked in a very different tone of voice. Less hostile. Less wary. More worried and confused. “For—what’s going on?”

Rin felt it coming while the girl was still speaking. There was a heaviness settling on her brain, and it was a terrifying heaviness. It was like finding another person with you inside your body, who had forced their way in, but they had not only joined you, but found a way to make your body more theirs than yours. She saw her vision flicker, and the girl was her father for a second, and things made less sense and more sense at once, but the things that made more sense were all wrong and murders and millions of paper cranes that would never be enough to buy a wish. And she reached out and put her hand against the barrier and tried to warn the girl, tried to say something, but suddenly there was no girl. Just her father, glaring back at her and filling her with rage and fear and hate, and she couldn’t remember the girl or why she was here, but she knew what the thing in front of her was, and she wanted to kill it.

#ask #anonymous #dead by daylight #writing #long post #dbd #Philip Ojomo #Rin Yamaoka

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takebackthetreasure92 · 4 years

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Making myself clear to my ex-stalkers

This is an email I sent my former staff worker from InterVarsity Christian Fellowship in February 2018. Apparently, InterVarsity remains under the impression that I won't speak out about the fact that they gang-stalked me and encouraged my abuser to harass me--even strangle me. And spread slander about me that they knew was false, just because my would-be murderer was a model student leader and it was my reputation or his. Are they really foolish enough to think I will back down? #InterVarsity #metoo

"Hi Jordan,

This is just to set you straight on a few things and make sure you understand what I hope for and don't hope for with you in future. The reason for using the pseudonymous email address is just a precaution against a certain ex at the moment because my legal name change is not information he needs right now, but I think you know who this is ;). (It's Julian, who has ditched their birth name for good.)

So I know that you, at the very least, had the decency to recognize the low and utterly puerile nature of your betrayal of me. You even almost got yourself to believe your own lies sometimes. I say almost because you had your somewhat squeamish moments, like when you used Gregor's last abusive accusation of non-forgiveness as a way to try to shut me up about every way our former cult had fucked up. (Honey, you realize your willful blindness to InterVarsity's more dangerous qualities and failure to watch Gregor's paranoia and rage, both of which escalated almost no matter what I did (keeping my mouth shut not being something I owed him or that he deserved), could have resulted in me getting literally strangled to death at Rockbridge, right? If you honestly don't--well, that ought to at least explain quite a lot about my continued hypervigilance around IV that led to some perfectly understandable PTSD paranoia. Google around and inform yourself on what that looks like. For your love of God, please recognize the signs in the students that come your way in future at Needle's Eye or anywhere else.)

Jordan, I feel like if you had paid closer attention to the things I was trying to tell you every time I brought it up or a PTSD flashback brought it to mind, which I unabashedly recall was often because...your cult was (and is) dangerous, you might have picked up on the fact that I was hoping to wake you up to what was going on in the ministry. And you used both my persistence and my PTSD to stab me in the back in what was the most manipulative way possible (no matter what prettier half-truth you told the self-righteous and naive Halen about it). Your smile at me when you knew Josh's confusion at that ridiculous gossip situation (your poisonous cult was the problem there, dear, not me) gave you a way to fuck me over, and to let your own childish ass off the hook for having an openly pro-gay transgender member, recalled a seven-year-old boy who had just told a perfect fib to the teacher on someone else and thought he was going to keep the candy he stole from that other person after all. You were a child, to be blunt, Jordan, just an immature, accountability-shirking little boy who threw his more Christ-like morals completely out the window--and all in the name of covering up every disgusting arm-twist (all failed arm-twists in my case, hee hee hee) and mind game and coercive (and often abusive) move InterVarsity had ever pulled to keep its attendees in line. Speaking of which, your expression when you thought I was about to blurt out the words "I was gay" at one event might have led someone else to think I was about to forcibly break someone else's arm, at the very least. Jordan, becoming disappointed when people who say something controversial on Facebook and then have the temerity to show up at your event--that is a fifteen-year-old thing to do. Admittedly it's better than seven, but *really?*

You know, what I give myself a pat on the back for is not giving in to your or Gregor's immature insistence that I keep my mouth shut. What you did there was wrong, Jordan, not least because you knew perfectly well Gregor was a very, *very* dangerous person when his narcissism was threatened. The only thing I caved on with him was the fact that during our casual relationship he monopolized my time romantically, literally stalked me, and acted very petulant and possessive when other men's names came up--and in the later stages of that contemporaneously cheated on me with my roommate and later went out of his way to paint me as a complete ninny for getting offended by that, as if nonconsensually holding someone to romantic double standards does not count as cheating, which of course anyone without pathological narcissism and over the age of 18 or so knows it does. Just because I gave him my silence on just that one at the time for Brooke (who truly had no clue because she had taken his fibs hook, line and sinker, to the point where he would have had no problem still messing with her mind by smearing his way out of further accountability, just like you did with me later in the game) did not mean that I was going to even begin to overlook my conviction that InterVarsity classmates needed to be told what the ministry was capable of, under the wrong circumstances and with the promise of seizing more and more control over the lives of its members. That I never ceded that control to you all--for which again, I feel extremely blessed and grateful, but to God goes that glory--is of course the real reason you gave me the boot and then tried so hard to mindfuck me into thinking I had no one but my own sorry, selfish, deep-in-sin self to blame.

LOL! Grow up, Jordan. That is the kind of silly lie a fourteen-year-old boy tells his partner (especially if his partner is female-identified and he therefore feels entitled to say it to "his girl") when he's trying to get a get-out-of-jail-free card for screwing her over by making her believe it's because of something she's done. Spiritually, you are the one who needs to get your shit together. You and InterVarsity fucked our friendship over, and you delivered the coup de gras for an incredibly selfish, inappropriately domineering, and silly reason. Emma may have been able to behave like a manipulative, completely brainwashed fool on the matter most of the time (which of course, to a degree, she was), but your own acting and/or (more likely) self-deception skills left just a bit more to be desired. I mean, I get that the staff routinely throw both themselves and their dogma at people to earn their allegiance (in many ways it was like dealing with very persistent pimps, especially when you were trying to shut me up, just to be brutally honest there), but still. And for the record, I have called Gregor out on everything (partly to cleanse my own mind of any toxic remnants of his brainwashing and mainly to secure my safety and my partner's, now that Gregor lives just over in Nashville) and threatened him with a restraining order based on both his abuse and threats and his (actual) stalking behavior if he *ever* resumes any of that again--and pointed out to him that pointing those projections of his back at him where they belong would be a cakewalk in any "court of law," should it come to that. Which of course praise God it almost certainly won't, now that I've made it clear I don't trust him to behave in the event of reconciliation, not in this life. For the last seven years all I've wanted for him was for him to be free of all the poison in his soul--that is a wish extremely near and dear to my own heart and soul--which is why your disgusting use of the ammo he gave you in telling you of his self-exculpatory-nine-year-old accusation of non-forgiveness (no, child, the reason it so visibly hit home was not actually being guilty of that; I've given you the real reason) was so, so, SO low. And I did not give a fuck about what Mary and the other brainwashed, narrow, and foolish girls thought, just to be radically honest about them.

Again, for your own sake, for the sakes of your students in Needle's Eye, and literally for God's sake, you have got to get your spiritual shit together. For years I thought you were one of the ones who also remembered to hold onto principle and, more importantly, a sense of principle *that originates within the self,* not the cult. I was very, very wrong about that. As advice, I'll let you know that I often felt like one of the few people in the cult who hung on to their adulthood in that sense, mainly *because* I would not relinquish control over my life, let alone my mind. You almost got me with the implied lie about everything being just "benevolent misunderstandings," but in my heart and in the hearts of others who would have been vilified and dismissed right and left, had they voiced those opinions to the overenmeshed majority, all those childish fibs never quite held water. Your crimson-faced mortification when I cunningly ratted your bullshit out to Josh--that was a very adult high five on your part, so I sincerely high-five you in return for all that--said it all.

I need scarcely say that I make no apologies at all for exposing all of your evil as a ministry to the university's first-years. They were the ones who needed to be warned in light of all your intrusive, sneaky, manipulative, and just plain disrespectful rubbish in infiltrating the move-in volunteer staff and pulling out all the shots in your usual WAY-too-manipulative ploys to lure new people over. There is a world of difference between wanting a person to be Saved--God has a myriad of tools suited to that purpose, as you well know, for which good old-fashioned prayer will suffice if it's meant to be--and wanting to be the saving force and guide. And there certainly is a difference, a very consequential AND spiritually essential difference, in wanting it so intensely that you will stoop to ANYTHING to pull people into your ministry, not RUF or Cornerstone, and to make sure they join, stay, and follow YOU. The real kicker here is that their definition of "follow" is for their members ENTIRELY too invasive, inappropriately domineering, manipulative, unhealthy (the DEFINITION of unhealthy, dear, so it's small wonder your staff used that buzzword fairly frequently with folks, in the pot calling any criticizing kettle black), and just plain psychologically abusive in a much-too-frequent pattern.

So I beg of you. BEG of you. If you have not already, get your shit together. I intend to just let you be in future, and I would appreciate it if you would extend me the same courtesy, starting with not responding to this email. Even though you're out of IV now (for your sake I sincerely thank God for that), I don't need to tell you outright that you had your chance with my friendship; you blew it when you irrevocably broke my trust. Forgiveness always came easy for me, but almost no matter what comes up down the road I will never fully trust you again in this life. The same goes for Gregor and Emma. And there is nothing you can say to me that you can get inside my head ever again. I'm just being honest.

Please, just work on healing any remaining crippling and lies in your mind and soul.

In Christ,

Julian"

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