My [weird AF] Reincarnation Story

actual final edited version:

11- March-2022


Sh!t got weirder than I thought

…it figures.

 

This journey technically began 14 years ago, when I was 16. I had been suffering from depression and anxiety, so I sought therapy. As I grew to trust my therapist, I confided in her about this strange feeling of guilt that I could remember for as long as I had lived.

It was one of the first things I could recall feeling, before I even knew what it was. I could not pinpoint where this guilt was from, or why. I just knew it was always sort of in the background. What accompanied it was masochism, and my tendency to self sabotage.


My earliest memory of masochism was when I was 4. My mother sent me to have my nap, and when she came to check in on me an hour later, I had tried to keep myself a prisoner in my own room.

After months of sessions, she finally stated the obvious:


” Have you ever considered, that perhaps, you are feeling guilt from a past life, and you’re making yourself pay for it?” she asked.


Not surprisingly, I was an intense child. This information about my early life will be important later in the story.


My teachers described me as emotionally mature for my age, if not empathetic. I had, always, a strong sense of intuition about people and situations.

Despite being a frail child, I grew into an athlete. The pain of running helped me cope with my intrinsic need to suffer - the Spartan lifestyle of track camp fulfilling me in ways I didn’t understand at the time. My endurance was what made me a good athlete, and my endurance carried me through even the most difficult moments of my later life, including, anorexia.

My therapist and I continued our sessions, and as fate would have it, at the time, I was also learning about World War II in school.The combination of my own recall, as well as my studies, allowed me to gather enough specific data points to do research. I felt compelled to learn more. Maybe I would even find out more about who I might have been.

To my surprise, after entering the most specific information I could think of, I found him. In an instant, upon looking into his eyes, I just knew. I was more surprised at how easy it was to find him, rather than the actual identity itself. My stomach twisted into knots, and I began to cry as intense and confusing emotions washed over me. That night, I cried myself to sleep, never formally revisiting this journey again until 14 years later.

I think what spurred me to continue was the close friendship I made with a European girl. [ 💫🤍she even inspired me to try to learn a whole new language ]. The pandemic allowed me time to meditate, and these thoughts and feelings would rush back to me.


This inspired me to look into past life regression. Thus, I did. And it’s been a strange and wild ride. One of the biggest tasks was to come to terms with my [past life] death. Luckily for me, this wasn’t as difficult as it would be if I were to try to research one of my more obscure regression recollections:


My very past life, if this is true, would have been someone well known.


He was a military leader, as well as a writer, who fought in both World War I and II. Coincidentally, we share almost the exact same birthday to the day, 100 years apart, in November of 1891.


Historians, enemies, and comrades alike describe him as a principled, chivalrous, strictly apolitical, outsider. Despite being in the army, he was a rather rebellious man who preferred to operate independently. He was described to live by the chivalrous honor/ moral code of a bygone era. As one historian noted, he was “an individual.”




He indeed was certainly different for his time and rank. For one, he had a good sense of humor, with a hands on, rather unorthodox leadership style. He earned the respect of his men by fighting beside them, even going as far as to eat the same rations.


During his career, he even earned the respect of his enemies by treating all prisoners of war with decency and respect. He had, as it was described, waged as clean of a war as possible.


Besides his unique character, he became known for his tactical expertise. With his intuition, creativity and endurance, he designed and implemented devastating methods of psychological warfare. As his men described, he seemed to almost have a 6th sense, when it came to the battlefield.

During his 20's, he fought in the great war, and became known for his endurance and boldness. By the time he was my current age, he was trying to protect his battered country, mostly through diplomacy. Later, he became a writer and a teacher, publishing a best selling tactical war memoir.


At the same time, he was obviously flawed and complicated, also in terms of morality. For one, he had a huge ego, and was incredibly vain. And perhaps because of his old fashioned way of thinking, he could be incredibly naive in political and other situations.


His downfall? He fell in love with a psychopath.


To help myself process the events of that hypothetical past life, I wrote a sort of hypothetical artistic, psychological autopsy inspired story, from his point of view. The events I write about come from actual, historical records and research, mixed with my own hypothetical recall and intuitive sense of his feelings and inclinations.

That said, here is disclaimer 1:


No one knows what happens when we die, and I would never be so arrogant as to suggest that I’m any different. Thus, out of respect, I shall purposely leave things vague and nameless. For those who are well versed in history and good at reading between the lines, here is disclaimer 2:


Given the greater horrid context of this time period, I feel the responsibility to say that this is strictly an artistic purely hypothetical interpretation of his experiences, from his point of view, leading up to his death. Much of his story is intertwined with the man who’d be both his greatest love, and his downfall. Especially in light of this- the following must be understood!

*** This story/ experience is not meant to, and does not excuse, condone or endorse this history, or the people in it. ***

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My birthday, November 11th, which eerily and coincidentally is the anniversary of the end of the Great War in 1918, was the most pivotal day of my past life. This was a day which marked shame, changing the course of the history of my entire country, as well as setting the course for the rest of my life.



This chain of events led me to the man who’d claimed to be the answer to it all. In a time of national shame, he rose up through the ranks of vulnerability. Drunk on ego and political naivety that was on the level of professional negligence, l too fell completely under his spell. I could never have believed that he would end up being the death of myself, and countless others.

The fact that I fell for a psychopath does not surprise me in the least, because this is one of my biggest reoccurring issues in my current life. I have learned that I am like catnip to psychopaths, and perhaps they have been this way for me.


Subsequently, as insane as this is, and difficult it is for me to make logical sense of, it somehow makes complete intuitive sense to me that one of the most evil and manipulative psychopaths of all time was the love of my past life. Similarly to how my love life goes now, despite everyone warning me of how psychopathic and insane he was, I still believed in him.


When he came to power, he brought his own paramilitary force. They were barbaric. I came to despise them so much, that according to historians, I forbade my son from joining them. They did not share same views or beliefs as our traditional army, which I had belonged to since before the outbreak of the First World War.


I came to hate nearly every one of his close associates in high command, and some of them would become my greatest enemies. Despite this, I somehow differentiated him from them. Love makes me irrational and stupid, even now.

Upon reflection and research, believe I probably was the love of his life as well, [in the very limited capacity he had to truly care for another human being, that is]. It was, however, not in the romantic sense.


This was a bromance.


If I had to describe it, I think it was even more powerful and pure than the traditional concept of love. Engrained and entwined in this love was a strange, inexplicable feeling of hope. Perhaps it was our shared hope for our nation- our belief in each other.

Our ”unusual” connection, as one historian wrote, was often infuriating to me, because it seemed to defy time, space, logic and reason. For all of the power I had at that time, I was powerless to it. In one soldier's diary, I had apparently described hating myself for "allowing him to fool me again," after he gave me some bullshit briefing. On the flip side, I think his later sadism towards me, especially in regard to my death, was fueled by similar resentment.


We most likely connected because we were were both self-made men from humble beginnings. We were also veterans of the Great War, and as such, we shared the same anger and passion about November 11th, 1918. That, and he greatly enjoyed my writing. He was a fan of the war memoir I had written. This led him to eventually hire me for his personal security battalion.


I was, basically, his bodyguard.

His trust in me never wavered, even in his most extreme states of paranoia, which he would become so known for. Once, we even had an intense, but beautiful moment in which he placed himself under my personal protection. Especially considering that he was rumored to wear bullet proof vests to dinner outings, his level of trust in me was, indeed, unusual- but I cherished it nevertheless. This, I can only surmise, made my later betrayal of him so much worse in his eyes.

Uncovering this data point hardly shocks me either, because in my current life, I have found that even the most difficult people seem to let their guard down around me. This is one of the main reasons that I came to be in the helping profession.


In letters I had written to my wife, I wrote about how our relationship developed. After he transferred me to his headquarters, I saw a lot of him. One day, to my surprise, he [ somewhat nervously, oddly enough] asked me if I wanted to go to lunch with him. I of course agreed. From there, we grew closer.


He would often seek me out for advice about various situations, which led to long conversations, sometimes way into the night. As hard as we tried to fight our connection, we eventually just sort of gave in to it. This obviously caused jealousy and hatred among his high command. Some of them would eventually be a part of deciding my fate. They already despised me, because I wasn’t one of them.


I wrote to my wife again, telling her that “apparently my position with him is getting too strong.” And despite not being one of them, I was his. Our profesional relationship quickly morphed into a complicated personal one. The two relationships often became entangled, which was nothing but problematic and would eventually lead to my death.


Regardless, from that point on, he sent me on missions. I begged him for a tank division, and he happily granted it to me. I remember how devoted I was- I wanted to conquer any obstacle in my path for him, and I did for a very long time.


I believe my successes in my earlier missions were fueled by my passion and devotion to him. As one soldier noted in so many words. . . " as he stood before him with such military bearing yet so devoted I have a feeling that what mattered most to him was to lay victories at our leader's feet."

He eventually sent me to Afrika, a theater of war entirely new to me. It thrilled me, allowing me the chance to be as creative as I wanted. These were the most intense and exhilarating moments of my past life. I recall the mesmerizing sand dunes- the bright blue sky. I remember the sandstorms that would get into my eyes.

The sand wasn't the only thing blinded me. My caring for him blinded me to his nature, and despite his trust in me, he exploited my talents and manipulated me for his own ends. I trusted in him, never questioning the bigger picture.


Most of the time, when he did anything inhumane, I made excuses for him in my mind- or blamed it on his high command. It was far too painful for me to believe otherwise. Doing so meant that I would have to face the cruelty and coldness he was capable of.


Once I truly comprehended his nature, and learned of the depths of his cruelty, I knew he needed to be taken down. There is a debate in history of just how I’d intended to do this. Despite this historical ambiguity, I know somehow that I wouldn’t have wanted to have him killed. Trial, prison, yes. I was all for forcefully removing him- to bring him to justice and restore peace.

However. . .


As hurt and disturbed as I was, I would never be capable of harming him. My emotional ties were just too strong. I believe that this part of the plan was likely not divulged to me, for this very reason.


His true nature shouldn’t have shocked me. Especially after his first order to execute prisoners of war.


I received his order to kill with shock and horror. This was something I simply couldn’t allow. Shortly after, I burned his order, as if this perhaps could remove it from the fabric of reality.


During this time in Afrika, I disobeyed him yet again when he ordered me to kill more prisoners of war. Later, when he asked me to sacrifice my men in a fruitless battle, I refused.

I shudder to think of the rage he must have felt when he'd discovered that I was a part of the plan to dethrone him. Especially after his patience with me, which was unheard of. Anyone else would have been shot on the spot.

Over time, our mutual appreciation turned into what historians say was a love/ hate relationship. The last time I ever saw him, he was a shadow of himself- crazed and paranoid. He threw me out of the room, angry at me for trying to reason with him.


Our communication patterns weren’t the best, and this was one of the main causes for my eventual death. Historians referenced excerpts from his staff. They wrote of how I would send him long and confusing reports about the battlefront, noting his immense annoyance.


I clearly didn’t take the hint, because his anger only grew when, realizing that he'd lost his mind, I sent him yet another letter- begging him to see reason- to step down and make way for peace. This letter partially sealed my fate. In his megalomania, he would never accept the truth from me.

Not long after, I would be shot down in my staff car by enemy spitfires. Three days later, an attempt on his life was made. We both survived, but I was gravely injured. He however, was just bruised and homicidal. It wasn’t long before I was implicated in the plot. In his mind, I had both left him for dead and challenged him, which was unacceptable. As it was recorded in history, he ultimately blamed my behavior on, in his own words:


a “serious misreading” of my “character.”

The last months of my life were a storm of depression, intense guilt, and horror. I blamed my own personal negligence and ego for contributing to the unjust war I was fighting- and all for criminals. To make it worse, I had foolishly come to love their leader.

During this same time, I became painfully aware that he’d placed my house under surveillance. This left me in a constant state of anxiety. Even far away from him, I could never truly escape his will.


Looking back at my regression sessions, an