I spent all day yesterday trying to write a kinky story while the death of Isaac Kappy weighted heavily on my mind. It was a mess; both on the writing end and on the impact it had on my own persona.
I neither liked nor disliked Kappy. We met some weeks previous to his sudden fame via periscopes and endless rants on live-streams. We exchanged a lot of emails back then, and even got to Skype once or twice.
Our friendship somewhat parted ways when he decided to fully get behind supporting Qanon and the accompanying grifts, which included minor D-celebrities and well known scam artists like Fiona Barnett, Sarah Ruth Ashcraft and Becky Percy. By parting ways, I don’t necessarily mean it ended, it just simply faded away and we stopped contacting each other as we both had different priorities and views, most specially with regards to Qanon.
It was my e-friend Privvy that broke the news to me. It was a day later. Up until that point I haven’t heard a thing, and it took a lot of online digging to believe it was true. Alas, it was!
From the moment I heard the news and for the next few hours I was dumbstruck enough to believe I had no emotions about it. I spent the next few hours searching the nets looking for answers; but mostly looking at how people felt about it. In the end, I had nothing but contempt and disgust for everyone that simply was trying to politicize Kappy’s death.
Kappy jumped off a bridge, and as he hit the ground he was run over by a passing vehicle. There were a dozen or so witnesses, and even a pair of teenagers that physically tried to restrain him, but were unsuccessful.
I know many things about him and his involvement with Qanon. I also have many gaps in the story. I know he was in touch both with EyeTheSpy and Thomas Schoenberger, among others. As much as I know their reputation and how they manipulate and blackmail people to do their bidding, and as much as I want to blame them for his death, as of now, there is nothing to support the theory. Just wild speculation. Just the needing somebody to blame for his death.
People wasted no time in doing videos about him. Both supporting his exposure of pedophiles, all of them, for the sake of honesty, unproven, and also the myriad of videos proving that he was nothing but a con artist and a scammer.
For the last couple of days Twitter has been buzzing with Kappy’s death. From the Qanon community itself, there have been the usual claims that he was ‘suicided‘ (meaning he was killed by the Deep State Cabal), despite witness evidence; or, the wilder theories that assumed he was remotely mind-controlled and was made to jump to his death because of what he was exposing.
Kappy didn’t expose anything. I made that very clear on an earlier post. He used his semi-celebrity status to get fame and donations, which he used, along with Vegan Mikey, to shoot up drugs and gamble.
From the opposite end of the spectrum, that is to say, the Qslayers or, to put it simply, those like myself who have been exposing Qanon for the cyber warfare operation it is, there has been nothing but contempt for Kappy, for his being a fraud, and the usual blame that Qanon is, once again, responsible for the death of another man.
While I might agree to a certain degree with the Qslayers , I am disgusted by the way they are also handling the news.
It is true that Kappy jumped to his death, after taking his Instagram down and leaving a message were he stated that he felt himself to be a Judas; and felt he had betrayed ‘the greatest military intelligence of the world‘, meaning Qanon. All of it is true. Undeniable facts.
And yet, out of all the chaos from the opposite communities, out of all the outrage and blame, I seem to be the only one that truly cared for him. At the very least, I seemed to be the only one who is shredding tears for him, rather than just trying to use his death for Youtube views.
Last night I went on a rampage on Twitter. I projected my feelings of hopelessness over @NSA_QIL2 account, which is another one of EyeTheSpy fake accounts pretending to be a super secret NSA agent working alongside POTUS to take down the Deep State.
It didn’t matter. Today, I finally broke down. I cried to my husband while I explained who Isaac Kappy was, his involvement with Qanon, and why was it that nobody cared about the fact that the man was so depressed that he took his own life.
I am not making excuses for Kappy. He wasn’t a great guy. But I don’t think he was inherently evil either. Kappy lied alongside Vegan Mikey with regards to Voodoo Doughnuts and other made-up pedophilia fronts and accused a lot of people of being pedophiles, without evidence, in order to rack up donations that they could use to funnel their drug and gambling habits.
But there was more to him. He was a troubled soul. He was marked by life with loss and despair. He had deep emotional issues that were made more prominent by his abuse of opiates and addiction to gambling.
People who are unaware of what emotional issues can do to the general well-being of an individual, and how acute those feelings can become when they are fueled by an extreme use of drugs are quick to dismiss a person worthiness and quick to pass judgment on a person’s character.
The truth is, there was more to Kappy than just a gambling and a drug addiction. There was more to him than just periscopes where he lied his way through in pro of quick profit to pay for his habits and finance his lifestyle.
As I sit here crying over the lost of a man’s life, I can’t help to wonder if, in a way, I understood Isaac better than most people did. I am not perfect. I am not all-knowing. But I do know what it feels like to mask a lifetime of abuse and condescension with the use of drugs. I do know the reasons behind it. The reasons why people abuse them. The reasons why I abused them. The reasons Kappy had to abuse them. You will hear a lot of excuses from drug users, from just how good the ‘high‘ feels to the fact that they can quit anytime they want to everything in between. The truth is simpler: drug abuse comes out of a deep discontent with life and with our feeling out place in society. No matter what you hear, people don’t abuse drugs because they have a perfectly happy and healthy balanced life. Drugs are a means of escapism. A means to feel, for the little while when the high kicks in, that we aren’t as worthless as society thinks we are. But the high eventually fades away and we are faced with nothing but the realities of our own, troubled soul. Our feelings that we do not belong to any community, to any group of people. The feeling that everybody would turn their back on us if they knew they real ‘us‘, and they would despise us for it. The feeling of unworthiness borne from the realization that if anybody knew our soul, they would find it full of darkness and despair and hate and would never want to be close to us.
Kappy was suicidal. I’ve been trying to blame to blame myself for not noticing earlier, even though, in fairness, I gave up watching his live-streams a long while ago because I found them extremely dull and boring. But I should have known better and I should have paid more attention, because, if I have to be honest, I know exactly how it feels to have those thoughts. I know that non-suicidal people don’t casually mention suicide and try to pass it off as an aside thought. I know it lurks on their minds, and they try to cry for help, but, in the end, the not wanting to seem weak, the not wanting to cry for help trumps over the real feelings of inferiority, so that their cry for help gets concealed under a a myriad of nonsense words that are put there to mask such feelings. I know how it feels when the darkness consumes you, coming out of nowhere, for no apparent reason. It creeps upon you, unsuspected. It stabs you in the back. It tells you that you are nothing. That nobody likes you. That nobody cares for you. The darkness creeps upon you from unknown places within your soul, only to tell you how much of a failure you are as a human being. How utterly worthless and senseless your entire existence is. How much better off the world would be without you. I know those feelings because I have experienced them. Those and many more that I am unable to articulate into words that would make sense to the average reader.
I know the darkness though. It has been my companion for all the 35 years of my life. I know how it feels to be bright and and full of life and energy one day, only to wake up the next day looking at means and ways to kill yourself. From nooses to poison, to guns and other quick means to stop the pain that consumes your soul. I know the darkness within. I know how it takes over your life and consumes it. And everything underneath is just a black shadow of what the ‘happy days’ were. And the shadow looms forever closer, forever tightening its grasp upon every aspect of your life until you feel there is nothing but to end your life. After all, the world would be a much better place without you. How can it not? What have you ever contributed to the world? What have you ever done to help people? How is the world better because of your presence in it?
Every misdeed and every wrong you ever did is a thousand times worse when The Dark Shadow looms over you. There is no escape. I know. I should know. The first time it took over me, I was only sixteen years old. The story doesn’t much matter, except that I woke up in a hospital bed with a bunch of plastic tubes plugged from my nose down to my stomach and a very mean nurse who obviously couldn’t wait to finish her shift, and my attempt at ending my life was nothing but an inconvenience to her time-schedule.
I know about gambling too. I met lots of gamblers in London. Some where the occasional ones, wasting their wages down a slot machine, and some where professional gamblers, mostly poker players. The first time I heard of a gambling addiction I was very young. It concerned a common acquaintance, but nobody close enough for me to interfere in their own life affairs. I grew up working my shifts away at an assortments of pubs, restaurants and whatever other denominations depending on geographical location. It didn’t matter. The gamblers were always the same. Males and females. And when I moved to Paris at the tender age of 18, the people I met there, nearly twice my age, had no better judgment that to sign me up into the local casinos. There were the high-rollers, those who you only see in certain VIP areas of casinos and, depending on their stack, you might not get to see them at all as they have their own private areas for gambling. People who earn millions of dollars a month don’t need to gamble. There is an entire different psychology at play from the regular folk. But it boils down to power and supremacy, and showing to everybody else that they have a certain status. Average gamblers are very different and way easier to get hooked into the games. Sometimes all it takes is a winning spin on a slot machine, or a badly played hand of poker that suddenly boosts your bank account by several hundred dollars.
Addiction to gambling though, even legal in many countries, is a real issue that, and just as much as Qanon itself, it can tear families apart. I have seen way too many examples and I had battled with my own issues long enough to not care about giving an explanation. After all, I don’t have anybody to explain myself to, except, myself.
There are two main problems when considering gambling: the first one is the person itself. The second, and more complex one, its the person’s state of mind. As a rule, a gambler shouldn’t sit at a table for more than two hours, whether winning or loosing. For the general population consumed by the habit (not the high rollers), gambling plays a part in one’s state of mind, and the general (albeit wrong), believe that one can always recuperate the loses if he or she carries on gambling for a given amount of time. Anybody familiar with the laws of chance and probability would spot the fallacy at once. However, this doesn’t deter clever men and woman from pursuing a gambling career, even if the odds are always stuck against them.
Gambling with an unsound state of mind is never advisable. However, there are no experts at hand to judge one’s mental ability at the time of placing a bet. Gambling with depression is a very explosive cocktail. I know that personally. It does nothing to help your state of mind that you had a small betting hand and won. Then placing higher bets, all the way up until your salary has gone down the drain, yields nothing but busts while playing against the house. The mindset is similar as explained above: it’s all about keeping the bets going while hoping for the one hand that is going to make up for all the loses and an extra nice profit to boost that makes up for the time and effort put into it. Except that is never the case. The wins are always small. Just high enough to tease you into betting some more, but never enough to cover your losses.
Gambling with depression helps nobody, except your feelings of self-loading and unworthiness. You leave the casino or your online poker table feeling angry and defeated. But eventually the fact that you have failed at the most simple mathematical games also kicks in towards those depressive feelings. You think to yourself that you should have known better. You know you should have known better. But you didn’t.
And suddenly it dawns to you that is only payday, and you have another thirty days to live by without a single cent in your bank account. It dawns to you that you have nothing in your fridge but an old bottle of ketchup and some old pasta packets to survive the month. Some people soldier on and deal with their own failures and move on, vouching to never bet again, and to an extent, a lot of them keep their promises. Other people vouch for similar things, but their addiction takes over their minds just as much as drugs do and they beg for money. They make up all sorts of stories to fuel their addiction.
Addiction to gambling is a disease. Perhaps a man-made disease, but a disease nonetheless. It takes over your mind and consumes your body. It takes over your persona and makes you do unspeakable things in pro of cash to gamble. Much like drug addiction does to you.
Isaac Kappy was a suicidal person. He had a drug addiction problem, which, besides what it does to your brain, it also has physical repercussions too that mos psychiatrist are wiling to overlook. Physical substance addiction plays a key role into what our brain synapses conceive as both possible and acceptable, as well as tricking your own self into an array of excuses for doing questionable things to pay off for your vice. On the whole, a gambling addiction has very much the same repercussions; except for the fact that is the mind being tricked, and is that mind that is working the body and the self into committing those same questionable acts just to get a few dollars to spin down a slot machine.
At the time of death, Isaac Kappy was suffering from an array of mental disorders, coupled with an extreme drug use and drug addiction. He tried reaching out for help, and his pleas were overlooked by everyone. Kappy committed suicide. It is my believe that he did so not only to quench the demons populating over his mind, but out of a sense of deep remorse and regret for what he had done to other people.
Isaac Kappy was not a bad man. He wasn’t a great man either, but he wasn’t terrible. The last year of his life saw him mixed in a variety of extreme situations that, coupled with his own mental state of affairs, drove him to suicide. Isaac Kappy was 42 years old at the time of his dead. Sadly, he is going to be remembered for what he choose to do with his last year, rather than the previous 41 years of his life. Nobody is going to look at what he did previous to that, the people he helped, the conversations he had.
In a sad, pathetic way, it made me think of my own death. The fact that when I do, I’ll be nothing but a mockery on Twitter’s timelines and a trending hashtag, along with a variety of people claiming to have known the real me, my emotions and my intentions.
It bothers me terribly. It has been bothering me since I heard of Kappy’s death and took notice of how people were reacting online. He was troubled. He messed up. He conned people out of money and he took advantage of others. I understand the lack of sympathy from most people. But the truth is, I understand Kappy because I can relate to his frame of mind in many levels, not just separately, but together. And at the end, Kappy didn’t die for any great cause. It was his own guilt and remorse that drove him to it.
When I heard of Kappy’s dead I was dazed enough by the news that my own internal feelings were eclipsed and put aside. Last night I began venting my frustration. Today, I have been sitting here for the last six hours crying for a man I barely knew, while I write a few kind words from a perspective nobody is considering.
We are all so quick to pass judgment. We are all so quick to think we know everything about a person’s life based on a few live-streams and a few misdeeds. I seem to be the only one thinking about the man himself. His problems, his developments, his desires and his feelings.
In a somewhat twisted way born out of common experiences, I cared for him. I still do. I care enough to cry over him. I care enough to cry over the fact that a sad, lonely and depressed man took his own life, and nobody seemed to care enough about it to give it a second thought as to why. Everybody is trying to politicize his dead, and nobody is giving a second thought as to what drove him there, or what he is leaving behind.