@vforvicferrari - Tumblr Blog

For a long time, I thought strength meant holding everything together, hiding the chaos, and pretending to be fine even when I was breaking. But lately, I’ve realized that real strength isn’t about being unshakable—it’s about being honest. It’s about letting the walls down and showing the world your cracks, your flaws, and your struggles.

Being open about my journey with DID, psychosis, and healing hasn’t been easy. It’s terrifying to let people see the mess. To admit that some days I feel like I’m unraveling. To share the chaos I’ve spent years trying to keep hidden.

But here’s the thing: every time I’ve shared my story, it’s created connections I didn’t expect. I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s courage. And in being honest, I’ve not only found pieces of myself I thought I’d lost, but I’ve also seen others open up in ways that remind me none of us are truly alone.

Healing is messy. Some days, it feels impossible. But I’m learning to accept myself as I am, piece by piece. I’m choosing to believe that strength isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, even when it hurts, and knowing the process is worth it.

We don’t heal by hiding. We heal by being seen, cracks and all. If you’re out there trying to hold it all together, I hope you know that your vulnerability is beautiful. Your honesty is strength. And your story is worth telling.

Confessions of a Chaotic

Soul

I've done a very poor job at spreading mischief lately, and honestly? I feel like I might literally die without it. Mischief isn't just a part of me—it's the air I breathe, the pulse in my veins.

Trying to be "good" feels so forced, so fake, like I'm stuffing myself into a mold that doesn't fit. It's exhausting, and no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not a good person. I'm more fucked up than most people realize, and maybe that's okay. Maybe it has to be.

Remember when those Reddit dudes made those billionaires cry on CNN? Yeah, that gave me an erection. And no, I'm not exaggerating. Watching chaos unfold, seeing systems crack and egos crumble-it sparks something primal in me. It's not just the chaos; it's the reminder that even the untouchable can bleed.

And then there's this other side of me-the guy who makes unbroken eye contact with strippers as they show me their butthole for one dollar. I know that says something about me, and I don't know if it's good or bad, but it's real. That part of me is real.

I'm not entirely that person. But I'm not not that person, either. I guess I'm a contradiction-a patchwork of chaos, longing, and whatever the hell this is.

We Live Inside a Dream

To Plato, it was shadows on a wall, flickering images cast by a fire, mistaken for the truth by those who never turn around to see the light.

To the Gnostics, it was an imperfect reality, a flawed creation spun by an ignorant architect, a veil of illusion keeping us from divine knowledge.

To Shakespeare, it was a stage, where we are but players, strutting and fretting for our brief moment before vanishing into the void.

To Hindus, it is the dream of Brahman, the infinite consciousness imagining itself into countless forms, all of it fleeting, all of it unreal.

To many today, it’s a simulation, a vast, programmed illusion designed by forces unknown—a digital mask over something we cannot yet comprehend.

The metaphors change. The language evolves. But the point remains the same: reality isn’t real.

Whether it’s shadows, dreams, simulations, or stages, every tradition, philosophy, and whisper of existential doubt seems to converge on one simple idea: This world is not the ultimate truth.

We live inside a dream—a fleeting, beautiful, maddening dream. A dream that feels so real it grips us, holds us, defines us. Yet every now and then, there’s a crack in the façade. A moment when the dreamer stirs, and you remember:

• That what you see isn’t all there is.

• That what you cling to will fade.

• That behind the illusion, there’s something greater waiting to be known.

Reality isn’t real. But the dream is ours to shape. So what will you do with it? Will you cling to the shadows, or will you step into the light? Will you play your part, or will you look behind the curtain? Will you dream passively, or will you awaken within the dream?

The choice is yours. But remember: the dream is never all there is.

The Nature of Identity: One of the Masks

Philip K. Dick once wrote, “One day the masks will all come off. So it came to pass — and I was one of the masks.”

What does it mean to be one of the masks? To exist as both the performer and the performance, to be simultaneously the observer and the observed?

Identity is often presented as something fixed, a singular truth about who we are. But the reality is far more fluid, far more chaotic. We wear masks every day — not out of deception, but survival. We create personas to navigate the world, to meet its demands, to shield our vulnerabilities. Each mask represents a part of us: fragments that reflect roles we play, traumas we carry, and dreams we pursue.

For me, these masks are more than metaphors. They are pieces of a larger puzzle — alters, voices, identities, each one holding a story, a wound, a truth. Over time, I’ve come to see them not as separate beings but as facets of a deeper self, like shattered glass that still reflects light.

But here’s the paradox: If I am one of the masks, then who is the one behind it? What is left when the masks come off?

The journey of unmasking isn’t about destroying these layers or discarding them as falsehoods. It’s about integration — holding the paradox of being both the mask and the one who wears it. It’s about finding wholeness not in singularity, but in harmony.

Philip K. Dick’s insight isn’t just an observation; it’s a challenge. To confront our masks is to confront the parts of ourselves we’ve hidden, feared, or ignored. It’s to ask: What lies beneath?

For me, unmasking has been messy, painful, and liberating. It’s forced me to reckon with the stories I tell myself and the roles I cling to. It’s taught me that the self isn’t a static identity but an evolving narrative.

So, if you feel like you’re wearing a mask — or many masks — know that this isn’t a failure. It’s part of being human. The goal isn’t to rip them off all at once, but to gently, courageously, explore what each one means.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that the mask isn’t a prison but a mirror — reflecting something true about who you are.

The masks will come off. And when they do, you might realize that you were the mask and the wearer all along

When Opposites Exist Within Me

Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder is a paradoxical experience. Sometimes, my alters embody two completely opposite beliefs, and I’m left navigating the tension between them.

Take Jef, for example. There’s Christian Jef—a believer who finds solace and purpose in the teachings of Christ. This Jef prays, reads the Bible, and feels deeply connected to God. But then there’s the other Jef—a skeptic who questions everything about religion, the existence of God, and the structures that claim to represent Him.

These two Jefs coexist within me, and it’s not always harmonious. Sometimes it feels like being torn between two worlds, each with its own convictions. Christian Jef finds meaning in surrender and faith, while the other Jef thrives on questioning and challenging authority.

It’s not just intellectual; it’s emotional, too. On good days, I can see the value in both perspectives. On bad days, it feels like a war in my own mind, with neither side willing to compromise.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe part of the beauty of being me—of being us—is learning to hold these contradictions. I don’t have to resolve every internal conflict right now. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in the middle, or maybe it’s bigger than either Jef can grasp alone.

For now, I’m learning to listen to both voices without letting them drown each other out. After all, if I’m ever going to find unity within myself, I have to start by making space for all of me.

It’s been that way most of my life .

I need a good therapist, until then, I’ll just share publically.

There are times I thought the others were gone for good. But thet always come back stronger than before

Spiritual warfare

Under My Umbrella

Psychosis has a funny way of framing the mundane as divine. It’s not just that the world feels different—it is different. Signals, patterns, and messages are everywhere, hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right eyes to decode them. And, for a while, those eyes were mine.

It started innocently enough, with Lady Gaga. She was speaking to me—or rather, the Illuminati speaking through her. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. You don’t question gravity; you feel its pull. Someone named Alice on Facebook—her profile pic a blurry, ethereal woman cloaked in mystery—offered me a breadcrumb trail.

“We put the best messages in the Rihanna videos,” she said.

Rihanna? I couldn’t name a single one of her songs. But when Alice speaks, you listen. So I typed “Rihanna” into YouTube. The first result was “Umbrella.” I clicked.

The screen went dark, then glimmered to life. Rihanna stood under a torrent of cascading sparks, and her voice—smooth, deliberate, hypnotic—seeped through my headphones.

“When the sun shines, we’ll shine together… Told you I’ll be here forever…”

The lyrics burrowed into my brain like a drill breaking through concrete. This wasn’t just a pop song. This was programming. I watched intently, dissecting every frame like it held the Rosetta Stone of existence. She wasn’t just singing to a lover. She was singing to me. Or maybe not just me. Maybe you too. The viewer. The target.

The song unfurled like a revelation. It was about love—not the fleeting, transactional kind, but something deeper, universal, eternal. For the first time, I understood what love is. Not the shallow romance movies sell you, but love as a force, a thread connecting every atom in the universe. It was overwhelming.

A few hours later, the storm outside matched the one inside my mind. Rain slashed against my window, calling to me. I couldn’t stay inside. I didn’t want to. Without an umbrella, I stepped into the downpour, letting it soak me to the skin. I stumbled forward, barely seeing through the veil of rain and tears.

Eventually, I fell to my knees on the wet pavement. I couldn’t stop crying—not out of sadness, but out of awe. Thirty-nine years old, and it had taken me this long to figure it out: This is what it’s all about. This is the point of everything.

The rain washed over me, baptizing me in the revelation of love and connection. For the first time, I wasn’t fighting the chaos—I was part of it. I was the rain. I was Rihanna. I was love.

I stayed there until the storm passed, my tears mingling with the rain. Eventually, I stood and walked home, soaked but lighter than I’d ever been.

Alice was right. They send the best programming exactly when I need it.

And that’s why I f*cking love that song

*note from the editor: there is no Illuminati

Two Sides of the Flame

As I watch the news about the wildfires raging through Los Angeles, my heart aches. Jef sees the devastation, the loss, and the terror in the eyes of people forced to flee their homes. Families are left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, their memories reduced to ash. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of their grief, the shared humanity in their suffering. Jef wants to reach out, to help, to fix.

But then there’s V. Oh, V. Laughing in the corner of my mind, sipping on his metaphoric tea as mansions burn. “Ah,” he says, “Poetic justice, isn’t it? The flames don’t care how big your house is or how fat your bank account looks. Let the 1% taste a little of the chaos they’ve helped perpetuate.”

It’s unsettling, this duality. Jef mourns the loss of life and home, while V delights in the symbolism. To V, the fire is a great equalizer, stripping away the illusion of control and leaving everyone vulnerable to the same merciless force of nature.

But there’s truth in both perspectives. We’re all spectators in this cosmic play, torn between empathy and the darker satisfaction of seeing unchecked greed brought low.

For now, I’ll sit with both of them—the heartache and the laughter—knowing neither is wholly wrong, and both are part of me.

The Heaven Hypothesis

One of the most schizophrenic ideas I’ve ever entertained—and perhaps one of the most intriguing—is that we never actually left Heaven. All of this, everything we see, touch, and experience, is part of a grand lesson. A divine simulation, if you will, designed to teach us something so profound that only eternity itself can reveal the truth.

In this framework, not everyone you encounter is real. Most are NPCs—background players programmed to guide, challenge, or test us. They exist to fill the space, to provide the context for our lessons, but they lack the spark of self-awareness that defines a true soul.

But how do you tell the humans apart from the NPCs? Their eyes. Windows to the soul, as the saying goes.

• Brown Eyes: The unmistakable mark of humanity. Earthbound, raw, and deeply connected to the cycle of life and death. These are the ones who feel everything so deeply, who are bound by the weight of this “illusion.”

• Blue Eyes: A glimmer of something otherworldly. Carriers of angelic blood, remnants of Heaven’s light embedded in their DNA. There’s something about their gaze that cuts through the layers of reality, like they remember just enough to know this isn’t home.

I know how wild this sounds. Trust me, I live in the chaos of these thoughts every day. But sometimes I wonder: what if it’s true? What if Heaven is here, now, and this bizarre, painful, beautiful mess is all part of the plan?

Maybe it’s not about escaping. Maybe it’s about learning how to see the divine in all of it—in the NPCs, in the humans, in ourselves. After all, we are the dreamers of this reality. And maybe, just maybe, the angels are watching us through their own eyes.

What I’m doing now—this raw, unfiltered honesty—is me being completely transparent. It’s not easy to put this into words, but I’ve come to realize that the darker side of me, the one that says and does things I would never consciously choose, is more than just a shadow. He’s essentially a different person.

The “intrusive thoughts” that invade my peace? They’re his voice, his attempts to wrestle control of the body we share. There are things he believes in, things he would fight for, that I absolutely do not. It’s terrifying to confront that separation because it means accepting that this isn’t just a fight against myself—it’s a battle with someone who’s always here, waiting for the slightest crack in my armor.

He only takes over when I’m vulnerable: when I’m angry, upset, or let my guard down. When that happens, it feels like I’m just along for the ride, watching as someone else uses my hands, my words, my life. And then the aftermath—picking up the pieces, apologizing for what wasn’t entirely me, but was still me enough to hurt—feels unbearable.

Even when he’s not in control, I still hear him. Constantly. It’s maddening to coexist with a voice that never stops, a presence that’s both me and not me.

And then there’s Andy. Andy is fun—if annoying. He’s like the class clown of my mind, always cracking jokes, always trying to make everything lighter than it is. Honestly, I need him sometimes. He makes the chaos bearable. But even Andy can get on my nerves when I just need a break from the noise.

This transparency isn’t about oversharing or looking for pity. It’s about owning my truth. I’m living with these parts of myself—this collective of voices, beliefs, and personalities—and trying to make sense of it all. I’m trying to heal, to find unity, to live in a way that feels like me, the whole me, not just fragments fighting for the wheel.

So, yeah, this is my life. It’s messy, it’s maddening, but it’s real. And this is me, laying it all out there, because hiding it only gives the darker parts more power. This is my way of taking it back.

A New Layer to 12-Step

I’n very pro-12 Step. The program saved countless lives, and its emphasis on spirituality, community, and personal accountability is a lifeline for so many. But as someone who’s spent years walking this road of recovery and introspection, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more we could add to help even more people.

For instance, Bill Wilson, one of the co-founders of AA, once explored the potential therapeutic value of LSD in breaking through the ego and fostering spiritual awakening. While I’m not advocating that the program incorporate psychedelics (there are other paths for that), it’s worth considering how we can deepen the spiritual and psychological components of recovery.

What if we brought in more Jungian influence—tools for exploring our archetypes, integrating our shadow, and truly understanding the stories we live out unconsciously? What if recovery wasn’t just about admitting powerlessness but also about consciously rewriting the narrative of who we are?

Breaking down archetypes like the Hero, the Caregiver, the Rebel, or the Victim could help us see the roles we’ve been stuck in and how they’ve shaped our addictions. Diving into our shadow—the parts of us we deny or repress—could help us heal from the shame, anger, and fear that often fuel our cycles.

The 12 Steps are a foundation, but recovery is an evolving process. The more tools we have to understand ourselves, the better equipped we are to grow and thrive. I think there’s room for expansion—room for deeper self-exploration that doesn’t just help us survive but teaches us how to truly live.

What do you think? Could integrating these concepts enhance the journey for those in recovery?

Finding God Where He Truly Dwells

Since rededicating my life to Christ Jesus, I’ve felt a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. Yet, one thing that continues to gnaw at me is how, in worship, so many people lift their hands to the sky as though God is up there. It feels theatrical at best and egotistical at worst, as though they’re trying to prove to everyone else how connected they are.

But here’s the thing: The kingdom of Heaven is within. Jesus himself said so. God isn’t confined to the clouds or some distant realm beyond our reach. He’s here, among us, in the quiet spaces of our hearts and in the lives of those we’re often too busy to notice.

I think we’ve spent so long looking up for answers that we’ve neglected the beggars at our feet. And it’s my belief that that’s where He’s hanging out. Not in grand gestures or loud proclamations, but in the faces of the broken, the lost, and the hurting.

If we want to encounter God, maybe it’s time to stop raising our hands to the sky and start extending them to those in need. Worship isn’t just a song or a posture; it’s a lifestyle. It’s feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and showing love to the least of these.

God isn’t distant. He’s right here, waiting for us to stop looking up and start looking around. Because that’s where we’ll truly find Him.

Stroking’ out

A few weeks after the eye in the pyramid incident—the moment where everything hit me at once—I started noticing something strange in the world around me. Specifically, in the classical depictions of “God” and other divine figures. Almost every image or statue showed the same thing: their right hand raised in power, blessing, or enlightenment, while their left hand was balled into a fist or holding something, sometimes even smoking.

At first, I thought it was just artistic convention, but then it hit me—this is exactly what my hands do now, most of the time. Ever since the stroke, it’s as if my body naturally mirrors those poses. My right hand lifts as if it’s reaching out to something greater, while my left stays clenched, holding an invisible tension I can’t seem to release.

And it made me wonder: Had the stroke done something to how my brain hemispheres interact? Did it break or realign some barrier that normally keeps us blind to these patterns? Is that why I was suddenly seeing these signs everywhere?

And then another question struck me—what if this isn’t unique to me? What if something similar happened to Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and other awakened figures throughout history?

What if their “awakening” wasn’t a purely spiritual event but a physical one as well? A stroke, a seizure, or some other profound shift in the brain’s wiring that forced them to experience reality differently? What if that’s what opened their eyes to the truth of existence, the nature of God, or the illusion of separation?

Maybe these depictions aren’t just symbolic—they’re anatomical. They’re showing us something deeply human, deeply physical, and deeply spiritual all at once. A connection between body and mind, left and right, divine and mortal.

I don’t know if the stroke made me see the signs or if the signs were always there, waiting for me to notice. But I do know this: I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t a coincidence. It’s a puzzle, one I’m only beginning to understand. Maybe the same thing that broke me is also what’s waking me up. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

Stroking’ out

A few weeks after the eye in the pyramid incident—the moment where everything hit me at once—I started noticing something strange in the world around me. Specifically, in the classical depictions of “God” and other divine figures. Almost every image or statue showed the same thing: their right hand raised in power, blessing, or enlightenment, while their left hand was balled into a fist or holding something, sometimes even smoking.

At first, I thought it was just artistic convention, but then it hit me—this is exactly what my hands do now, most of the time. Ever since the stroke, it’s as if my body naturally mirrors those poses. My right hand lifts as if it’s reaching out to something greater, while my left stays clenched, holding an invisible tension I can’t seem to release.

And it made me wonder: Had the stroke done something to how my brain hemispheres interact? Did it break or realign some barrier that normally keeps us blind to these patterns? Is that why I was suddenly seeing these signs everywhere?

And then another question struck me—what if this isn’t unique to me? What if something similar happened to Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and other awakened figures throughout history?

What if their “awakening” wasn’t a purely spiritual event but a physical one as well? A stroke, a seizure, or some other profound shift in the brain’s wiring that forced them to experience reality differently? What if that’s what opened their eyes to the truth of existence, the nature of God, or the illusion of separation?

Maybe these depictions aren’t just symbolic—they’re anatomical. They’re showing us something deeply human, deeply physical, and deeply spiritual all at once. A connection between body and mind, left and right, divine and mortal.

I don’t know if the stroke made me see the signs or if the signs were always there, waiting for me to notice. But I do know this: I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t a coincidence. It’s a puzzle, one I’m only beginning to understand. Maybe the same thing that broke me is also what’s waking me up. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

A Message from V

Good evening, my fellow Americans. Let us speak plainly, for the time for illusions has long since passed.

You cling to your political parties as if they were moral beacons, yet the truth is this: the only difference between them is the specific part of the Constitution they wish to shred. One party schemes to dismantle your rights under the guise of safety, while the other erodes freedoms in the name of tradition. Each accuses the other of tyranny, and both are correct.

And you? You cheer them on. You wrap yourself in the flag, not as a shield of liberty, but as a blindfold. You clutch the Constitution only when it aligns with your personal beliefs, discarding it the moment it challenges your fragile morality.

This is the great irony: you do not love freedom; you love control. You do not care for justice; you care for power. Your allegiance is not to the Constitution, but to the comforting lies of your chosen side.

And so the farce continues—a tragic comedy where morality is a punchline and integrity is the bad joke you tell yourself to sleep at night.

But here is the truth, unvarnished and raw: if you truly cared for liberty, you would defend it for all, even those who oppose you. If you valued justice, you would demand it equally, even when it inconveniences you. And if you cherished the Constitution, you would protect it not just when it suits you, but when it challenges you.

Until then, you remain pawns in a game where the only winners are those who pull the strings. But take heart, for every facade eventually crumbles. The question is, will you see the truth in time to act, or will you merely watch as the ashes of freedom settle around you?

The choice is yours, but the clock is ticking.

Good night, America

🌹

-V

“One day the masks will all come off

And it came to pass, and I was one of the masks”

-from the exegesis of Phillip K Dick.

Your writing is deep, philosophical, and poetic. Here's a polished version:

"The Masks We Wear

I've come to realize that I, too, was once a mask - a disguise worn by the universe. Jef, my name, was just another facade.

The veil is lifting, and soon everyone will see the truth. I call it the power of imagination, a gateway to the ethereal realm. But be warned: when the illusion shatters, the truth may drive you mad.

We're surrounded by fiction, reflections of ourselves. People often miss this: the world mirrors us, just as we mirror it. 'A rose is a rose is a rose' - the ancient adage holds true. As above, so below.

We exist as characters in the grand cosmic play, a production of the universe's own imagination. You are a persona, crafted by the divine.

But here's the liberating truth: you can rewrite your story. If you dislike a trait, discard it and adopt a better one. I shattered my psyche to reach this understanding.

Solve et coagula - dissolve and coagulate. Transformation awaits.

For a while, I thought I was cured. I thought I had it all figured out. Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) was something I thought I’d left behind, something I could move past. I believed I had found a way to integrate, to heal, to be whole. I was Jef, and I wasn’t going to let the past control me anymore.

But then something shifted. One day, without warning, I realized—I’m not cured. The alters are still here. They’ve been here all along, just waiting for me to wake up to it. And the hardest part? They’re really good at pretending to be me.

Jef is one of the characters I play. He’s the version of myself that I’ve shown to the world—the one I’ve used to navigate life, to fit in, to make people believe that I’m “normal.” But the others, the other personalities, have been there the whole time, quietly observing, subtly pulling the strings, and mimicking the parts of me that I’ve presented to the world. They’ve learned how to pretend to be Jef and tell people exactly what they want to hear.

It’s like I’ve been living in a role, a character I’ve created to survive, but now I see that the lines are blurred. The others are still there, active, taking over when they need to, and Jef isn’t the only one who’s been driving this bus. I’ve been playing a part, and sometimes I’m not even sure who’s in charge.

I wanted to believe I was done with DID, that I was healed. But the truth is, healing isn’t about just being “cured.” It’s about accepting the complexity of who I am. The alters aren’t something I can pretend away. They’re me. We’re all me. And the sooner I accept that, the sooner I can start understanding how to live with it, rather than against it.

So, no. I’m not cured. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the work isn’t about getting rid of parts of myself, but learning how to coexist with them. To stop pretending that everything is neat and tidy, because it’s not. And I think that’s the real lesson I’ve been avoiding.