When my mind shattered, it didn’t sound like breaking glass. It was quieter, more intimate—like a page ripping in half beneath my rib cage. And from that rip, something inside me shifted. A truth.
I wasn’t The Little Mermaid anymore, longing for rescue and fading into foam. I was Merida with a bloodstained bow, carving a path of fate through a forest of thorns. My fate…is a gothic one. A blood-red fairytale, written in ink, shadow, and bone.
Through the Looking Glass: Where Madness Met Me First
The descent into psychosis wasn’t sudden—it was a slow, creeping erosion. A whisper here. A flicker there. Until I could no longer tell what was real and what wasn’t. The faceless man stood behind me, always.
I heard voices that spoke only to me. My ESA dog, Ragnar, an all-white Alaskan Malamute, was the only anchor to reality I had left. His eyes were the last lighthouse before I drowned.
I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I didn’t want the paper my doctor handed my mother, instructing the ER staff to fast-track me into psychiatric care. I didn’t want any of it. But I saw the fear in my mother’s face—real, raw, unmistakable—and I said yes. I said yes to surviving.
Admitted: Not To a Fairy Tale Tower, But a Hospital Bed Like In Return To Oz
It took almost nine hours before I was allowed to lie down. I didn’t even realize I was in the emergency wing’s psych holding area until I heard the quiet shuffles of others in a mental crisis nearby.
I thought I was in some padded fairytale asylum. I was wrong. No princess tower here. Just antiseptic lights, pastel curtains, and the long wait for a room at the psychiatric hospital.
But I was a “risk.” High priority. Not because I was violent—because I was broken. The only threat I posed was to myself. The real danger was losing Ragnar…and myself.
I stayed there for seven days. A week of swallowing pills, of pacing the floor, of looking over my shoulder. A week of visits from my mother—yes, she came every single day—and the realization that maybe I wasn’t as unloved as I believed.
Fairy Tales Are Built on Trauma: Mine Was, Too
On one of those sterile, fluorescent days, I turned to my mother and told her the truth: “I’m moving to Romania. To Târgoviște. With Luna. I can’t be here anymore. I’ve been Rapunzel for twenty years, waiting to be saved, waiting for a prince who never came. I’m letting down my hair, and I’m climbing down the tower myself.”
She didn’t question me. She just asked, “When?”
I said a year.
She said, “No. You need to go in November.”
That’s when everything began to change.
Enter Samuel or “Charming” — The Faceless Man Gets a Name
Not long after, I met someone on a language app—a young man from Romania. Samuel was charming, kind, and curious. He had that unmistakable Eastern European accent that made my stomach flutter.
We talked for hours. I told him I was hospitalized. That I was going through hell. And instead of running, he stayed.
Samuel gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: hope.
Of course, things weren’t perfect. He discovered pieces of my complicated past: stalkers, betrayals, trauma. And he flinched. But eventually, he understood. We rebuilt. We kept talking. Kept laughing. And the darkness around me began to shift.
A Room of My Own…in Arkham Asylum
Eventually, I was transferred to the psychiatric hospital. At first, I feared having a roommate, but I didn’t. By the next day, I had a room to myself. Stark, lonely, eerily quiet. But it was mine. 409 was the number of my room.
Inside that place—with its locked windows and heavy door—I began to unravel and re-thread my mind. I met with social workers, psychiatric nurses, and eventually, a psychiatrist who would give me the diagnosis I needed, not the one I wanted.
She explained my symptoms. Confirmed the psychosis. She couldn’t fully diagnose schizoaffective disorder yet, but there were signs. I was also dealing with severe OCD and agoraphobia that had escalated into full isolation. But she gave me compassion, not judgment. And in that moment, I felt seen. For the first time in years.
The Familiar at My Feet, The Fire in My Chest
The whole time, Ragnar waited. Luna, my friend, checked in daily. Samuel stayed on the line with me at night. My circle was small, but it was sacred.
Back home now, the battle isn’t over. The faceless man still flickers at the edges of my vision. The agoraphobia still keeps me inside. Ragnar still waits by the door, missing our walks. But the difference is: there’s a plan.
My mother said, “You’re not staying here another winter. Sell everything. You’re going to Romania. Forget about November. You’re going in September.”
The Diagnosis is Real, But So is My Gothic Fairytale
I live with OCD. Psychosis. Paranoia. Anxiety. Agoraphobia. PTSD. I’m not ashamed. I refuse to be. Because this isn’t the end. This is just the beginning. The end of a life locked in a tower. And the start of a new chapter in Romania—haunted castles, shadowy folklore, vampire bloodlines and all.
I’ll be with Luna. With Ragnar. With Samuel. With my voice and my stories and my gothic dreams.
This is my fairytale.
And it starts now.
If you’ve ever felt trapped, unseen, or shattered—this journal is for you. I’m documenting every haunted step toward Romania, through diary entries, raw mental health revelations, and the gothic love story you won’t believe is real.
📖 Follow my journey: [Kickstarter / Substack / Patreon / Medium]
🐺 Featuring Ragnar, my ghost-white familiar
🦇 Featuring Samuel, who may be more than Charming…
📍From hospital bed to haunted castle.
💔 From madness… to myth.
Gothic Bite Magazine 