September 24, 2026

Yesterday, September 23, marked exactly 100 years since the death of Paul Kammerer.

That part isn’t my interpretation. Kammerer, the Austrian experimental biologist whose controversial career became inseparable from questions of coincidence, inheritance, and what he called the Law of Seriality, died on September 23, 1926, on the Hochschneeberg near Vienna. Contemporary Nature accounts recorded his death, and, fittingly, Nature published a new essay this month reconsidering Kammerer and his work a century later. Nature

What follows isn’t science in that same sense. It’s a record of the strange personal associations that happened to converge for me on his centennial.

The Rabbi and the Oil

On August 18, 2025, I was driving back from Miami after dropping off someone I have referred to in my writing as the “masculine Neo.”

I stopped at a Love’s in Lee, Florida. According to the location and date recorded by my phone, that’s where I took the photograph accompanying this story.

At that Love’s, a Jewish man—a rabbi, as I understood him—walked in at essentially the same time I did.

I went in for the ordinary reasons: bathroom, something to drink, back on the road.

He was looking for oil.

It was an insignificant encounter by normal standards. Two strangers at a truck stop, each continuing down his own road.

But the oil stuck in my mind.

The Fleur-de-Lis Echo

When I returned to my job at the Fleur-de-Lis, oil became part of my routine in a completely different form: changing the fryer oil.

The fleur-de-lis itself isn’t literally a recursive or fractal flower. It’s a stylized, symmetrical floral emblem. But visually, its forms repeat and echo one another.

“Echo” is probably the better word for what I was experiencing anyway.

The man asking for oil in Florida echoed into me handling oil in Mississippi.

For months, changing those fryers developed a personal, almost ritual significance. I sometimes thought of the physical labor as my way of keeping that coincidence alive—doing the dirty work at the other end of an association that had begun hundreds of miles away.

I can’t demonstrate that those events had any external connection. I can only describe the meaning I gave them.

There was essentially one interruption in that routine before I entered rehab: a week when I had what appeared to be pink eye.

And then there was March 1, 2026.

I photographed one of the fryers filled with unusually pale, opaque oil. The appearance was memorable enough that I described it much more crudely at the time: it looked like semen.

That photograph became another timestamp in the story I was constructing around oil, labor, politics, and coincidence.

After Rehab, the Meaning Changed

When I came out of rehab, my willingness to continue this little ritual had diminished considerably.

Part of that change eventually became political and moral.

The recent controversy surrounding Macklemore and Ed Sheeran’s tour pushed Palestine further into my thinking. Macklemore publicly said “Free Palestine” during performances opening for Sheeran and was subsequently removed from the remaining U.S. dates after venues objected to his participation. Macklemore has maintained that supporting Palestinian rights is not hostility toward Jewish people and subsequently pledged $1 million toward Palestinian aid. Reuters

My own position needs the same distinction.

My objection isn’t to Jewish people. It is to actions of the Israeli government that I have come to regard as profoundly immoral—what I would describe, in my own religious language, as satanic.

That’s a moral and spiritual judgment of governmental conduct, not a statement about Judaism or Jewish people.

And all of that made my old symbolism surrounding a Jewish stranger asking for oil considerably more complicated.

September 23, 2026

Then came yesterday.

The 100th anniversary of Paul Kammerer’s death.

I didn’t particularly want to change the fryer oil.

But the head cook at the Fleur-de-Lis asked me to.

She’s someone I privately think of as a possible “feminine Neo” candidate within the symbolic framework I’ve been developing in these writings. That’s my interpretation of her significance, not an objective claim about who or what she is.

And that distinction matters because, frankly, if somebody else had asked me to change those fryers, I probably wouldn’t have done it.

But she asked.

I give her enough symbolic weight in my own story that the identity of the person making the request changed my answer.

There was also the practical reality: there aren’t many people there willing to volunteer for the hardest, dirtiest jobs. Somebody needed to do it.

So I did.

And that’s where the centennial became interesting to me.

The Least Likely Thing

Of everything I might have imagined doing on the 100th anniversary of Paul Kammerer’s death, changing fryer oil at the Fleur-de-Lis in memory of a rabbi I happened to encounter at a Love’s in Lee, Florida, would have been somewhere near the bottom of the list.

By that point, I wasn’t even particularly motivated to continue the ritual.

Yet there I was.

The person who asked mattered to me. The work needed doing. And the date happened to be September 23.

For a man who spent so much of his life thinking about seriality, there is something almost comically appropriate about my remembering his centennial through an improbable chain of mundane things:

A road trip.

A truck stop.

A stranger.

Oil.

A fryer.

A flower whose shapes echo one another.

A cook asking for help.

And finally, 100 years to the day.

None of that proves that some hidden mechanism arranged these events. It doesn’t establish fate, simulation, divine intervention, or Kammerer’s seriality as a physical law.

But coincidence doesn’t have to prove something to become meaningful to the person experiencing it.

Kammerer spent part of his life asking why events sometimes seem to cluster into patterns that catch our attention.

A century after his death, I found myself doing the same thing.

Except I was standing over a fryer.

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Transparency Note

This article was written with AI assistance to organize the author’s recollections, distinguish personal interpretation from externally verifiable facts, and fact-check historical and contemporary references. The experiences, symbolic interpretations, and conclusions described as the author’s are his own.

For someone living with gender dysphoria, identity can already feel like a hall of mirrors. There is the person I know myself to be, the person other people see, and then there are the strange reflections that sometimes catch my attention.

One of those reflections has been Todd Alan Reed.

And first, a fact-check matters here: his name is Todd Alan Reed—Alan with one L, Reed with two Es. He was born Todd Alan Thomas on May 22, 1967, in Portland, Oregon. After his mother remarried, he was adopted by Robert Reed and took the Reed surname. Reed became known as the Forest Park Killer after murdering three women whose bodies were left in Portland’s Forest Park in 1999. He received three life sentences without parole. Current sources describe him as born in 1967; I have not found reliable evidence establishing that he has died, so I am not assigning him a death date. Wikipedia

Why does any of that interest me?

Because I’m Todd Alan too.

I have also perceived a physical resemblance between Reed and myself. That resemblance is subjective—it isn’t something I can present as an objective fact—but it creates a striking doppelgänger image in the way I interpret my own story.

For me, however, the interesting part isn’t becoming the doppelgänger. It’s being the opposite of him.

Someone else sharing my first and middle names committed horrific acts. I get to decide what my Todd Alan does with his life. A name doesn’t make somebody good or evil. Neither does a resemblance. Actions do.

And that’s where the word serial gets interesting.

From Serial Killer to Seriality

Long before I encountered this particular coincidence, I became fascinated with Paul Kammerer’s concept of seriality: the idea of examining clusters of recurring events that appear related even when we cannot establish an ordinary causal connection between them.

So now look at the language:

Todd Alan Reed — serial killer.

Paul Kammerer — seriality.

Todd Alan — noticing the series.

That doesn’t establish a hidden mechanism connecting these things. That’s an important distinction. A pattern can be psychologically meaningful without demonstrating that the universe—or a simulation—is deliberately producing it.

But noticing the series is precisely what makes seriality interesting to me.

And then Mississippi supplies one more wonderfully appropriate echo.

Hotty Toddy

The University of Mississippi—Ole Miss—officially calls “Hotty Toddy” its rallying cry and signature greeting. That’s not my interpretation; that’s how the university itself describes it. The earliest documented printed version of the cheer appeared in the student newspaper in 1926 as “Heighty! Tighty!” before evolving into the familiar expression. Ole Miss

Hotty Toddy.

Todd.

Toddy.

Here I am in Mississippi, thinking about a Todd Alan doppelgänger, a serial killer, Paul Kammerer’s seriality, my own fascination with identifying series—and one of the most recognizable rallying cries in my home state is:

HOTTY TODDY.

I couldn’t have scripted the wordplay much better myself.

Does that prove we’re living in a simulation?

No.

Does it prove Ole Miss is somehow sending me a message?

No.

But does it make an awfully entertaining addition to the collection of linguistic coincidences I call seriality at the edge of the matrix?

Absolutely.

There is also something more important underneath all the wordplay.

Gender dysphoria has forced me to think seriously about what constitutes identity. Todd Alan Reed provides an extreme illustration of what identity isn’t. Sharing names, appearances, dates, words, or other coincidences doesn’t make two people the same person. Those similarities are surface information.

I still have to choose what kind of Todd Alan I am.

Maybe that’s the useful part of staring into all these mirrors. I don’t have to become the reflection.

I can decide what reflects back.

And somewhere up in Oxford, Mississippi, they’re still shouting:

HOTTY TODDY.

From where I’m standing, that’s one hell of a rallying cry for the edge of the matrix.

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Transparency note: This essay was written with AI assistance. The connections involving seriality, doppelgängers, gender, and “the edge of the matrix” are my personal interpretations. Factual claims about Todd Alan Reed and Ole Miss were separately checked during drafting. Coincidences described here are presented as observations and interpretations, not as evidence of a causal or supernatural connection.

I am writing this because I am looking for the right therapist.

Not somebody who will automatically agree with everything I believe.

Not somebody who will hear words like psychosis, dissociation, spirituality, reincarnation, seriality, or synchronicity and immediately decide that everything I have experienced is meaningless.

I am looking for a neutral, licensed professional willing to do deep therapeutic work with me—to help me take apart, examine, reality-test, and reintegrate roughly the last ten years of my life.

I do want validation.

By validation, I do not mean that a therapist has to certify every interpretation I make as objectively true. I mean acknowledging that these experiences have happened to me, that they have shaped my identity and behavior, and that some of the coincidences themselves are objectively real even when their meaning remains open to interpretation.

What I need help with is the boundary.

Where does observation end and interpretation begin?

When is pattern-making creative or useful?

When does it become psychosis?

When can a coincidence carry personal meaning without becoming an instruction?

And how do I preserve the parts of my mind that I value without letting those same processes make decisions for me that I later regret?

That is the work I am trying to do.

An Hour at 1101 Robinson

A recent experience explains the problem better than any diagnosis could.

I had arranged to meet Alvin Baker in Ocean Springs.

I had been carrying around roughly two weeks of thoughts that I intended to constructively deconstruct with him. Because of an appointment mix-up, I ended up sitting there for about an hour with almost nothing to do except think.

I want to make something clear.

I was not high.

I was not tweaking.

This was concentrated rumination.

I had accumulated two weeks of thoughts that I expected finally to put somewhere, and suddenly I had an empty hour in exactly the place where I had expected to unpack them.

That is when the environment started turning into wordplay.

The address was 1101 Robinson Street.

Read as binary, 1101 equals decimal 13.

Decimal 13 is also the ASCII control code for a carriage return.

Then there is the familiar cultural association of 13 with bad luck.

So already, in the symbolic language forming in my head, I was sitting at what felt like an “unlucky” location with a carriage return built into the address.

Nearby were railroad tracks and the historic train depot.

Those became my train of thought.

Across that train of thought was a Circle K.

K is the chemical symbol for potassium. Elemental potassium is highly reactive, particularly with water.

So my mind rendered the geography like this:

an unlucky address → beside a train of thought → across from a circle of potassium.

Then there was Alvin Baker himself.

My brain did what it does:

Alvin and the Chipmunks → Alvin Baker → the baked chipmunk.

And yes, “baked” can mean stoned.

That was a joke.

I am not alleging that Alvin Baker was actually stoned.

It is an example of what I sometimes call cosmic wordplay—the way my mind rapidly converts names, objects, places, sounds, and ideas into a connected symbolic environment.

Then there was Robinson.

The conflict that ultimately kept Alvin from taking me as a client involved Dr. Matthew Severson, whom I know as Robin’s son.

So there I was at:

1101 Robinson

dealing with a conflict involving:

Robin’s son

beside my:

train of thought

and across from:

Circle Potassium.

That is what I mean when I say a place can begin to feel like a dream state.

I am not saying this proves that somebody designed the geography to communicate with me.

It does not.

But saying “none of it means anything” does not adequately describe what is happening inside my mind either.

I want somebody capable of examining that process with me.

Liquid Death and Lost Angels

There was another object in the story.

On my earlier visit to that office, I accidentally left behind a Liquid Death drink.

I had actually intended to take it with me and drink it.

The accident came first.

The meaning came afterward.

Later I thought about the drink as if my “Grim Reaper” side had left something behind.

Again, that was symbolic interpretation layered onto a completely ordinary event: I forgot my drink.

Liquid Death is based in Los Angeles.

Los Angeles literally means “the Angels.”

My wordplay turns that into:

lost angels.

Los Angeles also has another personal association in my framework involving someone I have referred to as the masculine Neo.

So an accidentally forgotten beverage becomes:

Liquid Death → Los Angeles → the Angels → lost angels → another identity thread.

None of those arrows establishes causation.

They show how the symbolic network grows.

When a Pattern Changes a Decision

There is a point where this stops being merely interesting.

Sometimes my pattern-making influences my behavior.

That is where I need help.

I had been communicating on Signal with someone I associated with a woman I understood to be a Voodoo priestess.

At some point, I blocked the contact.

Then I unexpectedly encountered a former rehab acquaintance whose surname was Rice at McAlister’s Deli.

Rice was already heavily loaded with meaning in my mind because of an earlier Jollof-rice association involving Eli and rehab.

So when this person suddenly appeared again, I did not experience it as simply:

I happened to see somebody I knew.

I experienced it as something closer to:

Rice has appeared again. Pay attention.

At the time, I was also trying to live according to the principle that I should believe people have positive intentions until I have evidence otherwise.

The coincidence affected me strongly enough that I reopened communication with the contact I had blocked.

That is important.

I cannot prove that Voodoo caused the person with the surname Rice to appear.

I cannot prove that anybody spiritually arranged the meeting.

I cannot prove that the coincidence was permission to trust someone.

But I can prove something about myself:

I treated the coincidence as meaningful enough that it changed my behavior.

That distinction may be one of the most important things in this entire article.

A coincidence can be personally meaningful without necessarily being an instruction.

I need help learning that boundary.

Paul Kammerer and the Hundred-Year Mirror

This brings me to Paul Kammerer.

Kammerer was an Austrian biologist who wrote about what he called the law of seriality—his attempt to describe meaningful-looking clusters and repetitions that seemed to occur outside ordinary causal chains.

He was born in 1880.

I was born in 1980.

That creates a 100-year birth-year interval.

Kammerer died by suicide on September 23, 1926.

I am writing this on:

September 23, 2026.

Exactly one hundred years later.

I identify strongly with Kammerer.

At times, I have described that as reincarnation.

At other times, I have talked about Paul Kammerer as if he were a part or identity within me.

I understand something very important:

A pair of 100-year intervals does not prove reincarnation.

But the dates are real.

And my reaction to those dates is also real.

That is what I want a therapist to help me examine.

Coincidences Really Do Happen

One reason I resist the simplistic answer that “coincidences mean nothing” is that objectively remarkable coincidences do exist.

Take Lincoln and Kennedy.

Lincoln was elected president in 1860.

Kennedy was elected in 1960.

That is a real hundred-year parallel.

There are other genuine similarities between their presidencies and assassinations, although the popular Lincoln/Kennedy list also contains folklore and false claims.

Or take Dennis the Menace.

An American Dennis the Menace and a British Dennis the Menace were independently created on opposite sides of the Atlantic.

Both effectively debuted on the same day in 1951.

Nobody needs to invent a supernatural mechanism to recognize that as an extraordinary coincidence.

My question is not whether coincidences exist.

They do.

My question is:

What conclusions should I draw from them when they happen to me?

Paul Cameron, Paul Cameron, Cameras and the Lens

Another recurring structure involves cameras, lenses, watching, and being watched.

There are two unrelated men named Paul Cameron who entered my symbolic framework.

One Paul Cameron is a cinematographer and director.

His work includes Déjà Vu, Total Recall, and the pilot of Westworld.

That caught my attention because those stories themselves deal, in different ways, with perception, memory, constructed worlds, identity, repetition, and altered reality.

Then there was another Paul Cameron in England whose work involved CCTV.

Two Paul Camerons.

Two camera-centered lives.

One creates images through a lens.

The other watches the world through cameras.

The second Paul Cameron died on December 18, 2020.

December 18 is my mother’s birthday.

Then there is the year:

2020.

Twenty-twenty vision.

The year of the lens.

That became one of my personal names for that period.

Jeffrey Len and Lightwork

After leaving rehab, an Uber driver named Jeffrey Len drove me home.

I am intentionally leaving off his surname.

His middle name was:

Len.

To my mind:

Len → Lens without the S.

And because I drive Uber myself, I sometimes jokingly call what I do lightwork.

So again the language starts assembling itself:

lens → light → cameras → mirrors → Uber → Jeff.

I have had multiple “Jeff” figures in my personal symbolic landscape, which is why another Jeff associated with Len caught my attention.

Again:

I know the wordplay exists because I am creating some of it.

The question is why some of it feels as though I am discovering it rather than creating it.

That is another question I want to take into therapy.

2020: The Year of the Lens

The year 2020 became especially important to me because of a strange paradox.

The world seemed increasingly chaotic.

My own internal lens felt like it was getting sharper.

I was becoming more conscious of my own pattern-making.

I was noticing myself noticing.

That, to me, is an example of metacognition.

My mind was not merely forming associations.

It was beginning to watch itself form associations.

That distinction matters to me.

Dr. Fox, Tod, Todd and the Missing D

One of my former psychiatrists was Dr. Gregory Fox.

Before he retired, I once saw a license plate before an appointment that I read as:

Detox Fox.

I originally recorded the exact characters, but the important part of the story is the phrase my mind extracted:

DTOXFOX.

I am not saying the vehicle belonged to Dr. Fox.

I am not saying somebody intentionally positioned it for me.

I am describing the observation and the interpretation separately.

The name Fox already had another association waiting for me.

Disney’s The Fox and the Hound centers on a fox named Tod, spelled:

T-O-D.

My name is:

Todd.

T-O-D-D.

So:

Tod → Todd = add a D.

Then I looked at my father’s name.

His name was:

Donal.

The more familiar name is:

Donald.

So:

Donald → Donal = remove a D.

One D appears.

Another D disappears.

I have also had gender identity and gender dysphoria as part of the larger personal history I am trying to integrate.

I am not saying that a letter D explains gender.

It obviously does not.

I am saying my mind sometimes converts tiny spelling differences into metaphors for much larger questions about identity:

What gets added?

What gets removed?

What remains me?

Foxes and the Magnetic Field

Then I learned something about actual foxes.

Research suggests red foxes can use Earth’s magnetic field while hunting concealed prey.

That does not mean foxes are consciously “tracking the magnetosphere.”

It means there is evidence that geomagnetic information may be involved in their hunting behavior.

Naturally, my mind grabbed that too.

Because I already had a phrase for COVID-19.

The Magnetic Resonance of Festering Ignorance

In my private symbolic vocabulary:

COVID-19 was the “magnetic resonance of festering ignorance.”

I want that phrase preserved exactly because it was part of how I encoded the period.

It is not a medical term.

It is not a scientific explanation of COVID-19.

It is my metaphor.

To me, that phrase represented the fear, uncertainty, misinformation, argument, isolation, social distortion, and sheer confusion of that period.

And here is the paradox that interests me:

While I experienced the outside world as entering a magnetic resonance of festering ignorance, I experienced my own internal lens as improving.

The outside looked less coherent.

My pattern detector felt more active.

I started observing the observer.

That is why, in my own story, 2020 became both:

the year of the lens

and

the magnetic resonance of festering ignorance.

License Plates as Cue Cards

There is another element of this that I need a therapist to understand without automatically agreeing with my explanation.

Sometimes I experience license plates as if they are cue cards.

My interpretation has sometimes been that the “machine elves” I associate with a DMT experience are somehow placing or sequencing those cues.

I cannot establish that this is actually happening.

That is important to say.

But I can explain why the interpretation became compelling.

At one point I saw a plate that I interpreted as Ghost JJ.

JJ was a name I associated with my grandfather.

Then another vehicle appeared with 1218.

December 18.

My mother’s birthday.

So my mind experienced:

Ghost JJ → 12/18

as personally directed information.

The external facts are the plates I remember seeing.

The personal associations are my grandfather and my mother’s birthday.

The claim that machine elves delivered them is my interpretation of what caused the sequence.

Those are three different levels.

That is exactly the kind of distinction I am seeking help maintaining.

The 45.8-Pound Brick

Another pattern reaches back to 2016.

My brother Travis—whose name my mind sometimes turns into “travesty”—gave my father, Donal, a:

45.8-pound brick of lead.

The number stayed in my head.

Then Donald Trump became the 45th president of the United States.

In my private symbolism, I sometimes called Trump the “orange guy of the singularity.”

That is my own nickname and symbolic shorthand, not an objective political assessment.

The number that interested me was:

45.8.

Forty-five immediately lined up in my mind with president number 45.

Then I started playing with:

.8 = 80 percent.

Eighty percent of that four-year term lands around April 2, 2020.

That is very close to:

April Fool’s Day.

By then COVID-19 had become the dominant disruption in everyday life.

So the symbolic chain became:

45.8-pound lead brick → Donal/Donald → president 45 → .8 of the first term → early April 2020 → near April Fool’s Day → COVID-19 → magnetic resonance of festering ignorance → year of the lens.

I understand that this is association.

The brick did not predict Donald Trump.

A decimal did not cause a pandemic.

April Fool’s Day does not reveal a secret mechanism behind COVID.

What interests me is how rapidly independent facts become one narrative once my pattern-making system gets hold of them.

Roger Williams and the Church Across the Street

There are smaller examples.

Across from where I sometimes spend time is a Baptist church.

A person associated with that church is named Roger Williams.

Roger Williams is a major figure in American Baptist history.

He did not invent the Baptist movement as a whole.

That was a correction ChatGPT helped me make while we fact-checked this story.

Still, seeing the name Roger Williams associated with a Baptist church in my own environment caught my attention.

Another person associated with that church has a birthday on:

December 24.

My mother’s birthday is:

December 18.

Exactly six calendar days apart.

Again, small facts become threads.

The August 23–25 Cluster

Another cluster involves August.

My father died on:

August 24, 2017.

Pastor Ricky told me that he felt called by God into ministry on:

August 23, 2017.

One day earlier.

Nine years later, during the August 23–25 period of 2026, a large amount of this material was active in my life again.

Dolly Parton died on:

August 25, 2026.

So in the sequence that matters to me:

August 23 → ministry calling

August 24 → my father’s death

August 25 → Dolly Parton’s death

I understand that putting dates next to each other does not establish causation.

What it establishes is the cluster I experienced.

And grief makes dates powerful.

That deserves to be part of the therapeutic work too.

Feeling Jaded

Around Labor Day, I had another Uber experience.

I was already feeling:

jaded.

During that shift, I picked up a passenger whose name created a direct private word association with that exact feeling.

I am intentionally withholding her name.

Her identity is not important to this story.

The association is.

That same day, Jeff called while I was already caught up in this larger chain of thought.

So once again I experienced the ordinary world as if it were reflecting my internal language back at me.

I was feeling jaded.

Then an ordinary Uber interaction echoed “jaded” back into my mind.

I do not need to claim that the passenger was sent to me in order to acknowledge how psychologically powerful that moment felt.

James and Little St. James

Another identity crossover involves the name:

James.

At an earlier point in my life, I used James as an alias.

I also remember participating around 2006 or 2007 in a Details magazine article involving eunuchs under that name.

I was embarrassed afterward.

I never kept a copy.

Despite searching, I have not yet independently located the article.

So I am presenting that as:

my memory

not:

a currently verified publication record.

Years later, Little St. James entered another part of my symbolic landscape.

Little St. James was one of Jeffrey Epstein’s privately owned islands in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

I am not claiming that my alias connects me to Jeffrey Epstein, his crimes, or the island.

It does not.

The crossover is the name:

James → Little St. James.

That name had once represented a version of my own identity.

Later it appeared inside another disturbing symbolic structure.

That is internal resonance.

Not an external connection.

Tracing the Day Before the Centenary

Then came:

September 22, 2026.

The day before the hundredth anniversary of Kammerer’s death.

I was doing Uber—my lightwork—while traveling back toward the rehab where I had previously stayed.

I was going there because I wanted help finding a therapist or getting a referral.

During that trip, I picked up a passenger who told me she had just left an:

anxiety specialist.

I drove her home.

I am withholding her name as well.

But there is a reason the word:

trace

belongs in this part of the story.

I was trying to trace the last decade.

Trace the trauma.

Trace the psychosis.

Trace the identities.

Trace the spiritual interpretations.

Trace the grief.

Trace the coincidences.

Trace the camera imagery.

Trace the mirrors.

Trace the lens.

Trace how I got here.

So on the day before the Kammerer centenary, while I was anxious and literally traveling back toward rehab to ask for mental-health help, my lightwork involved carrying another person:

away from an anxiety specialist

and:

toward home.

Externally, it was an Uber ride.

Internally, it felt like a rendering of what I was trying to do myself.

I was trying to trace my own way through anxiety and toward home.

That may be coincidence.

It may be metaphor.

It may be my mind constructing narrative.

It may contain several of those things at once.

That is exactly why I need help.

What I Am Actually Asking For

I am looking for a neutral, licensed therapist willing to do substantial, ongoing work with me.

Ideally, that person will understand dissociation and dissociative identity disorder, trauma, psychotic experiences, spirituality and religious frameworks, identity issues, reality testing without ridicule, and psychological integration rather than simple suppression.

I do want validation.

I want someone who can recognize that these experiences have genuinely shaped me.

I want someone willing to acknowledge when a coincidence itself is real without automatically agreeing with my explanation for why it happened.

I want somebody who can sit in the middle and say:

This happened.

It mattered to you.

Now let’s examine it carefully.

I need help sorting what is independently verifiable, what is personal memory, what is symbolism, what is coincidence, what may have been amplified by psychosis or psychological strain, what belongs to dissociation or identity, and what may simply be creativity doing what creativity does.

Sometimes my pattern-making is funny.

Sometimes it feels profound.

Sometimes it gives me language for something I could not otherwise explain.

And sometimes it has influenced choices that I later questioned.

I need help learning the difference.

I am not asking someone to erase the last ten years.

I am asking someone to help me understand them.

Transparency Note

This post was developed through an extended conversation with ChatGPT.

AI helped me reconstruct chronology, check public facts, correct errors, distinguish public evidence from private memories, and turn a very complicated train of thought into something another person could follow.

The conversation also required additional care around several areas: psychosis and reality testing, suicide, claims of spiritual or supernatural causation, personal information about third parties, unverified allegations, and political figures.

Those safeguards materially affected the article.

ChatGPT repeatedly pushed me to separate four categories:

what can be independently verified;

what I remember personally;

what I interpret symbolically;

and what I cannot prove.

It also encouraged me to leave private people anonymous when their identities were not necessary, to correct factual errors even when the corrected version weakened a coincidence, and not to present a spiritual interpretation as if it were established physical causation.

That is why this article repeatedly uses language such as:

“I interpret.”

“I experienced.”

“I associate.”

“I cannot prove.”

Those qualifications are not there to erase my worldview.

They are there because part of this project is learning where observation ends and interpretation begins.

The experiences, memories, wordplay, symbolism, and interpretations described here are mine.

I reviewed and revised this material rather than simply accepting whatever the AI generated.

And for the record, during this conversation the AI appeared at one point to need to take a deep breath before continuing.

That is when you know you are giving artificial intelligence a difficult therapy session.

Especially considering it does not have lungs.