Careercow Terry Rose Christo / Theresa Christodoulopoulos / "Tara Gilesbie" - Pretendian, Claimed To Write My Immortal, Currently Writing Fanfic Of Own Life
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I do that, it's called "dreaming". It's a lot of fun and I look forward to it every night, but it's very nonsensical and the events I dream about are not real even if they have real-life people in them. But if that's how you have an out-of-body experience, guess I must just be doing it wrong. Le sigh.
Not that I'm doubting OOBE when there's numerous reports of it, but I mostly hear about it from people who were on the operating table, though, not when it comes to curling up in bed for the night. She might be mixing up OOBE with lucid dreaming if we want to go down that route, because that's what it sounds like to me. I do find it interesting she claims she lost that ability right as soon as CSS stepped in, like it was symbolic of her "loss of innocence" or that the life-changing event shocked it out of her.
Life sucked for her and her brother, I get it, so she needed to find a way to cope. But escapism is a steep slippery slope, and if you don't find a way to balance your time and separate out fantasy from reality very quickly, it will just make functioning in society and therefore in life that much harder, and that's what happened with Rose. The concept of "the ditz" and your head being up in the clouds has been romanticized so much in fiction--which is escapism--that too many people are forgetting that those traits are in actuality more negative than not outside of your home (or just in general). Like it's one thing if you manage to actually make something of it such as writing a book or being an artist, but for 24/7 and you're not making good use of your time to produce anything worthwhile? Then you start fabricating memories on top of it? It's obvious her unhealthy coping methods have only fed into her mental illness, and living with her mentally-ill grandmother made it worse.
It's interesting to see what goes on in the mind of a mental case because of how scarily vivid it is for these folks, but this is really just such a damn tragedy. I also have to mourn the loss of someone who could have potentially become a writer in her own right. If she really and truly had all sorts of dreams growing up, she could've put that imagination into writing fantasy stories without trying to pass it off as an "inspiring true story".
One year ago today, "Rose Christo" posted her final public message announcing that her "memoir" would not be published. She's been completely silent, at least under that name, ever since.
Nothing has changed on that front. Rose is still a dead cow. However, I have found an illuminating bit of her writing on her still-existent Smashwords that appears to have gone overlooked. Rather than being a fantasy of tragic gay Native American teens or tragic gay abortion survivors, this book claims to be nonfiction. Uploaded in February of 2016, about a year and a half before the announcement of Under The Same Stars, it reveals a capacity for self-delusion beyond what was speculated in this thread.
It's titled "The Escapist's Guide to Out-Of-Body Experiences."
View attachment 557302
View attachment 557304
Over the course of its sixtyodd pages, Rose describes how she is able to astrally project her consciousness to distant locations and interact with dead pets. She offers instruction on how to have an out-of-body experience by laying down and focusing on "the colors behind your eyes" and then spends much of the page count prepping the imagination of the reader with various types of surreal imagery of what to expect to see, including contact with dead relatives and vivid descriptions of flying around the Milky Way.
Don't worry though, nobody ever would use the power of remote viewing for anything selfish:
View attachment 557305
My personal fave is the third chapter. Following a gushing tribute to batshit Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner, she details the out-of-body practices of (in order) Crazy Horse, Mohammed, Jesus Christ, French playwright Honoré de Balzac, Civil War General George Brinton McClellan, Le Comte de St. Germain, Nikola Tesla, and Helen fucking Keller.
But by far the most telling chapter is the final one:
View attachment 557307
When I was a teenager, an old man started visiting me during my OBEs. He was the sort of man you might meet on any given day at Rocky Boy’s Reservation, which is where a part of my tribe lives, and where I lived for a time in my adolescence. Loath to adapt to the times, the old man wore a ceremonial Cree ribbon shirt with a fringed tobacco pouch on his hip. His right hip seemed to give him trouble; despite being extracorporeal, he walked with a cane and leaned heavily against it. Long, thin gray hair framed his face in cloudy wisps. It was a face full of personality, with a rather big, hawklike nose, leathery wrinkles so pronounced I was tempted to fold them back to see what he looked like underneath them.
Sometimes it's the case that people are lonely, even during out-of-body experiences. The fact that this man kept seeking me out for conversation seemed to suggest that he was lonely, too. I didn't mind keeping him company. During one of our conversations, we walked together around the Bear Paw Mountains, cloaked in the moon and serenaded by coyotes. Despite the man’s cane, he kept up with me at an even, leisurely pace. I answered all his questions as he asked them.
"Is your name Rose?" the old man asked.
"Yes, it is," I said. Some information can flow freely between minds during OBEs. This didn't surprise me all that much.
"How old are you, Rose?" the old man asked.
"I'm eighteen," I said.
"Are you from Rocky Boy?"
"No, but my father is. I grew up in New York."
"Ah! Still, you came back here."
"I wanted to meet the rest of my family. I didn't grow up knowing them. I guess a part of 63 me's always missed them."
"Who is your family?" the old man asked. This is actually a very common greeting in Indian Country. Two parties will exchange clan information--in their Native language, if they know it--because they might turn out to be related.
After telling the old man who my relatives were, we climbed Baldy Butte together, where the air can get pretty thin. I wasn't worried about the old man's health. We weren't physical, for one. At this point, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking with a living man's subconscious, a living OBE practitioner, or someone who had passed away. A few days later, I eventually learned that the old man had been a young boy during World War II. He told me about growing a victory garden with his family to feed the soldiers overseas. They planted tomatoes, peas, and beets. "
"I could show it to you," the old man suggested.
I expected that he would take me back in time, so to speak. Deceased persons will sometimes do that during an OBE, especially as a means of showing you their memories. It makes for an interesting experience, although it can be annoying when they spring it on you without warning. Instead, the old man surprised me by telling me to look in my uncle's attic for a shoebox wrapped in rubber bands.
I didn't look for the shoebox right away. I'm ashamed to admit I forgot about it for many weeks. The old man continued to visit me sporadically, but somehow, it never occurred to me to ask his name. Then one day, toward the end of spring, I went upstairs to my uncle's attic to do some cleaning. He had decided to get rid of a few old boxes full of powregalia he and his children no longer wore. While I was stacking up Uncle Sam’s boxes, I saw a shoebox sitting against the back wall, rubber bands wrapped around the lid. I swear I thought my heart stopped. Abandoning my work, I bent down and opened the box to look inside.
It was full of old photos. All of them were black and white or sepia. A few had been folded so many times, they were flimsy when I leafed through them. One photo stopped me in my tracks. It was a photo of my Uncle Sam when he was a boy. He was sitting behind a small victory garden full of beets. Next to him was the old man I had seen during my OBEs. He was much younger, of course; about thirteen. He still wore the tobacco pouch on his hip. He was my biological grandfather on my father's side. He had passed away before I'd gotten to meet him.
tl;dr: If she admits to herself she's not an Indian, then she also has to admit her mystical magical coping mechanism is her playing pretend.
Of course, she was ultimately forced to admit that. There was some discussion at the time about how much of her own bullshit she actually believed. Based on what's written in The Escapist's Guide, I think she was very, very desperate to maintain her own illusions. But that's my own take on the tone of her writing; some might read it as straightforward evidence that she was detached from reality to a degree far beyond what was speculated. However you interpret it, it's interesting to revisit her actions knowing that 18 months earlier she was openly seeking contact from other people able to astrally project.
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All this drivel and My Immortal will always remain the most memorable thing she's ever written. Nothing will ever compare.
I don't think she even wrote that, frankly.
I'm with PolexiaAphrodisia on this one. Whatever proof she had about writing it deteriorated along with the story she crafted around its existence.
Luthien
kiwifarms.net
Good lord, I hope not. That would destroy my pet theory that Anne Rice wrote My Immortal.
Her proof for it was having a file containing the first chapters on a flash drive, which is kind of flimsy evidence.
But she would be suing everybody who mocked it then
Luthien
kiwifarms.net
... I mean, you can easily download for free a program that downloads fic from Fanfiction.net in PDF/HTML format. Copy-pasting that in Word or something of the kind is easy peasy. Because seriously, how the hell would she still have the "original" document after all those years?
I believe she also had a screencap of the inside of the FF.net account that had the name of the My Immortal writer on it, however, that's really easy to Photoshop and the only confirmation we have that it WASN'T fake was some nebulous claim of authenticity from the company that was at the time trying to hock her book.
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I have the entire fanfic printed out as a Word document at my parents' house somewhere. Does that mean I'm the writer too?
Her claims to authorship are as genuine as her Native heritage.
Her claims to authorship are as genuine as her Native heritage.
This is a fan fic author you're talking about (if she is the original author). Autism always finds a way.
- Highlight
- #354
One year ago today, "Rose Christo" posted her final public message announcing that her "memoir" would not be published. She's been completely silent, at least under that name, ever since.
Nothing has changed on that front. Rose is still a dead cow. However, I have found an illuminating bit of her writing on her still-existent Smashwords that appears to have gone overlooked. Rather than being a fantasy of tragic gay Native American teens or tragic gay abortion survivors, this book claims to be nonfiction. Uploaded in February of 2016, about a year and a half before the announcement of Under The Same Stars, it reveals a capacity for self-delusion beyond what was speculated in this thread.
It's titled "The Escapist's Guide to Out-Of-Body Experiences."
View attachment 557302
View attachment 557304
Over the course of its sixtyodd pages, Rose describes how she is able to astrally project her consciousness to distant locations and interact with dead pets. She offers instruction on how to have an out-of-body experience by laying down and focusing on "the colors behind your eyes" and then spends much of the page count prepping the imagination of the reader with various types of surreal imagery of what to expect to see, including contact with dead relatives and vivid descriptions of flying around the Milky Way.
Don't worry though, nobody ever would use the power of remote viewing for anything selfish:
View attachment 557305
My personal fave is the third chapter. Following a gushing tribute to batshit Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner, she details the out-of-body practices of (in order) Crazy Horse, Mohammed, Jesus Christ, French playwright Honoré de Balzac, Civil War General George Brinton McClellan, Le Comte de St. Germain, Nikola Tesla, and Helen fucking Keller.
But by far the most telling chapter is the final one:
View attachment 557307
When I was a teenager, an old man started visiting me during my OBEs. He was the sort of man you might meet on any given day at Rocky Boy’s Reservation, which is where a part of my tribe lives, and where I lived for a time in my adolescence. Loath to adapt to the times, the old man wore a ceremonial Cree ribbon shirt with a fringed tobacco pouch on his hip. His right hip seemed to give him trouble; despite being extracorporeal, he walked with a cane and leaned heavily against it. Long, thin gray hair framed his face in cloudy wisps. It was a face full of personality, with a rather big, hawklike nose, leathery wrinkles so pronounced I was tempted to fold them back to see what he looked like underneath them.
Sometimes it's the case that people are lonely, even during out-of-body experiences. The fact that this man kept seeking me out for conversation seemed to suggest that he was lonely, too. I didn't mind keeping him company. During one of our conversations, we walked together around the Bear Paw Mountains, cloaked in the moon and serenaded by coyotes. Despite the man’s cane, he kept up with me at an even, leisurely pace. I answered all his questions as he asked them.
"Is your name Rose?" the old man asked.
"Yes, it is," I said. Some information can flow freely between minds during OBEs. This didn't surprise me all that much.
"How old are you, Rose?" the old man asked.
"I'm eighteen," I said.
"Are you from Rocky Boy?"
"No, but my father is. I grew up in New York."
"Ah! Still, you came back here."
"I wanted to meet the rest of my family. I didn't grow up knowing them. I guess a part of 63 me's always missed them."
"Who is your family?" the old man asked. This is actually a very common greeting in Indian Country. Two parties will exchange clan information--in their Native language, if they know it--because they might turn out to be related.
After telling the old man who my relatives were, we climbed Baldy Butte together, where the air can get pretty thin. I wasn't worried about the old man's health. We weren't physical, for one. At this point, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking with a living man's subconscious, a living OBE practitioner, or someone who had passed away. A few days later, I eventually learned that the old man had been a young boy during World War II. He told me about growing a victory garden with his family to feed the soldiers overseas. They planted tomatoes, peas, and beets. "
"I could show it to you," the old man suggested.
I expected that he would take me back in time, so to speak. Deceased persons will sometimes do that during an OBE, especially as a means of showing you their memories. It makes for an interesting experience, although it can be annoying when they spring it on you without warning. Instead, the old man surprised me by telling me to look in my uncle's attic for a shoebox wrapped in rubber bands.
I didn't look for the shoebox right away. I'm ashamed to admit I forgot about it for many weeks. The old man continued to visit me sporadically, but somehow, it never occurred to me to ask his name. Then one day, toward the end of spring, I went upstairs to my uncle's attic to do some cleaning. He had decided to get rid of a few old boxes full of pow
It was full of old photos. All of them were black and white or sepia. A few had been folded so many times, they were flimsy when I leafed through them. One photo stopped me in my tracks. It was a photo of my Uncle Sam when he was a boy. He was sitting behind a small victory garden full of beets. Next to him was the old man I had seen during my OBEs. He was much younger, of course; about thirteen. He still wore the tobacco pouch on his hip. He was my biological grandfather on my father's side. He had passed away before I'd gotten to meet him.
tl;dr: If she admits to herself she's not an Indian, then she also has to admit her mystical magical coping mechanism is her playing pretend.
Of course, she was ultimately forced to admit that. There was some discussion at the time about how much of her own bullshit she actually believed. Based on what's written in The Escapist's Guide, I think she was very, very desperate to maintain her own illusions. But that's my own take on the tone of her writing; some might read it as straightforward evidence that she was detached from reality to a degree far beyond what was speculated. However you interpret it, it's interesting to revisit her actions knowing that 18 months earlier she was openly seeking contact from other people able to astrally project.
View attachment 557345
I can't believe it's been a year. I've been reflecting on it a good bit lately, myself.
I'd like to take a moment to powerlevel a bit about my biological family for two reasons: out of respect for users such as Mellorine, Angry new Ager, Aprilrains, and many others whose sympathy without even knowing the extent of the mess meant the world to me when this shit was going down, and to put into perspective how abjectly revolting Theresa's excuse to cut me off at the end was.
Do you remember on page two or so where I said I was sure Theresa wasn't physically abused (though not sure about sexually) by our mother? It's for a somewhat poignant reason: as monstrous a person as my mother was, she didn't become physically abusive until after my grandmother got custody of my sister. As broken as our mother was, losing Theresa broke her even further. She went from a crazed monster to a violent, even more crazed monster.
Those daily rants of how we ruined her life were now far more frequent, far more acerbic, and featured beatings that got worse each time. But naturally, with Theresa gone, I was now the sole victim of her madness, and I truly do mean madness. Literally every tantrum was like a tape recording of one I had already heard countless times over, with only the manner of violence changing, and the justification for each tantrum was always spurious (such as claiming she heard me whisper an insult at her, and then using my denial to get even angrier at me for playing innocent) if there was one. That's why I theorize our mother to be schizophrenic, by the way.
The point is my sister rightfully hates our mother for her insanity, but she didn't even know the far more horrid half of it. For years, so many years, I endured that lamentable nightmare literally every day alone.
So as bad as it was to know my sister who ignored me for 15 years was writing a fake story about me, and as bad as it was to get bullied by her SJW followers for revealing her ugly truths, the worst part of this ordeal might very well have been the end where Theresa claimed I was my mother's pawn as her excuse to cut me off.
She sent me one final e-mail almost a day after telling me to fuck off about how she started having revelations that her recollection of the past was wrong. I never responded and never will. I simply cannot forgive her.
I'll confess to you, my friends, this ordeal led me to a great bit of suicidal ideation and other personal problems. It just fucking ate alive at me that despite all my efforts to distance myself from my nightmare of a family, some absolutely fucking insane situation like this pulled me right back into the past with them.
That's why all your kind words meant so much to me and still do.
And to any of the tumblr or reddit users reading this in retrospect that called me "racist," "worthless," "trash," or any other undeserved insult: fuck you.
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Good man. You hung in.
Good on you man for hanging on. Can't imagine how tough all of that must've been for you. Semper Fi.
Who would've though she'd be this much of a bitch? Not surprising Tumblr would protect her - she's the 'abused native American lesbian', which as we all know, means she can do no wrong.
Who would've though she'd be this much of a bitch? Not surprising Tumblr would protect her - she's the 'abused native American lesbian', which as we all know, means she can do no wrong.
She really sounds like her mother's daughter.
Man, fuck her. You didn't deserve to be dragged in as a prop in her pity play and then discarded as soon as you became inconvenient to her narrative. All she wants is pity, and people who feed off of pity are not very nice people.
I'm sorry you had to put up with all this shit and have your sister basically stab you in the back on top of all that.
Mellorine
kiwifarms.net
@DawnDusk, you've handled this like a stone-cold champ. It fucking sucks that, as the only involved person with a conscience, you've had to deal with so much undeserved bullshit and emotional fall-out. Thank you for sharing the truth at such cost.
We may be (at best) armchair enthusiasts of abnormal psych posting on one of the internet's last refuges of tasteless humor, but making the facts known about the bizarre deceits people attempt is a really, really good thing. You not only stopped a liar from profiting on her lies, but also illuminated quite the case study of literary catfishing. Whether or not people learn anything from it is up to them, but it's a hell of a thing to create that opportunity. I really hope life only get better and better for you.
We may be (at best) armchair enthusiasts of abnormal psych posting on one of the internet's last refuges of tasteless humor, but making the facts known about the bizarre deceits people attempt is a really, really good thing. You not only stopped a liar from profiting on her lies, but also illuminated quite the case study of literary catfishing. Whether or not people learn anything from it is up to them, but it's a hell of a thing to create that opportunity. I really hope life only get better and better for you.
Luthien
kiwifarms.net
What went down with your sister is how I found this forum im the first place, since I was on Tumblr at the time. So honestly, bro, I wish you the best, and I'm sorry all of this shit happened to you. You deserve to be happy after all this.
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