Why the Rich and Famous Commit Suicide: Hidden Spiritual Dimensions Revealed – Part B

I could see her arriving at her girlfriend’s mansion. They sat at a long dining table while staff quietly served a brunch that could have fed five. Her girlfriend spoke enthusiastically about the pills, explaining how they had transformed her life: better sleep, sharper focus, no emotional crashes, no dark mornings. With a hint of pride, she produced an elegant pill case, opened its compartments, and calmly pointed to each colored tablet, listing its function as if reviewing a well-curated collection.

From my vantage point, observing beyond the physical, I saw something else unfold simultaneously. The protagonist’s aura was not a smooth, luminous bubble. It appeared uneven and compromised, riddled with indentations. Where vibrant colors should have shone cleanly, I saw murky patches—reds and yellows stained with black and bluish-green hues, as if the field itself were bruised.

What startled me most was the contrast. Her girlfriend, who had been using these drugs for years, displayed an aura that was bright, intact, and remarkably smooth.

An insight arrived instantly. Many factors can produce such a paradox, but in her case, the signs were unmistakable. The red ruby necklace over her heart chakra was constricting it, energetically suffocating its center. Her emotional body was in disarray, and her physical body was weakened and burdened with toxins. The perfume she sprayed daily was being absorbed directly through the thin skin of her neck, disrupting her thyroid and hormonal function, and throwing her throat chakra out of balance. Added to this were associations with individuals who carried deeply distorted energies that polluted her aura, as well as unresolved karmic residues. Each factor caused direct harm, but together they created a cascade of dysfunction across all levels of her being.

Her girlfriend then gave her her supplier’s contact details, assuring her that he was discreet, trustworthy, and catered exclusively to people like them. “I’ll call him,” she said. “He’ll be expecting you.”

Spirit Attachment

I sensed the conversation was ending. In that moment, my attention was drawn to a structure within the protagonist’s aura. It had several colors—dark gray mixed with yellow-green—and no stable form, constantly morphing like a living organism. Then I witnessed something extraordinary: during their farewell hug, as their auras merged, the structure slid through a hole in the protagonist’s aura and embedded itself within it. When they pulled apart, it remained with her.

The insight came without delay. This was what is commonly called a low-level spirit, but in this case, to be precise, it was a ghost. A former friend of her girlfriend, who had died from an overdose a year earlier, was unable to cross over. His reasons for lingering are not part of this telling. What mattered was his intent: he was seeking passage and had chosen her as the better candidate to obtain it more quickly.

The False Path Solidifies

When I saw her return home, I noticed many changes. No fans at the gate. No security. No commotion. The gate and the house looked different. I realized the scene had shifted a year forward. She was living in a new house, driving a new car, speaking on a new phone encrusted with diamonds. She had successfully acquired everything from her New Year’s resolution. And although the house was empty and held no lasting presence of a man, the message I received was that there had been many short-lived encounters.

The next scene unfolded abruptly. She was on the phone with her agent, nervously pacing, her voice sharp and trembling with restrained fury. Contracts were falling through. Invitations had stopped. She accused him of incompetence, betrayal, and negligence. His attempts to respond only inflamed her further. The call ended with a violent tap of her finger against the screen, and then her phone was thrown against the couch, bouncing onto the floor. She swore.

Her hands shook as she reached into her purse and pulled out her pill box. She opened it with ritualistic precision, selected the yellow pill, and held it between her fingers. Staring at it for a moment, she whispered almost tenderly, “You know, you have never let me down. I love you for that.”

A response rose instantly from within her mind, soft, reassuring, intimate.

“I love you too,” the voice said. “And I would never let you down.”

I watched in disbelief as a dialogue unfolded. Not imagined, not symbolic, but a conversation. But who was speaking to her? The answer was immediate and chilling. It was the ghost now inhabiting her aura. He had become her confidant, her anchor, her best friend. This had begun only two weeks after she started taking the drugs. When she mentioned the voice to her girlfriend, she was reassured with delight: she was told she was one of the lucky ones, that the drugs had opened her psychic channels, and that she was now communicating with an inner guide. She accepted this explanation eagerly. It gave meaning to the companionship. It gave permission to the dependence.

Back in the present moment, she spoke again to her trusted “guide,” desperation bleeding through her thoughts. “I’m losing everything. No contracts. No invites. No relationship. No nothing. What should I do?”
The reply came instantly, warm and soothing, wrapping itself around her anxiety like a blanket. “Why don’t you prepare a warm bath? Add your favorite aromatic oils. Take the green and the white pill together for the best results. When you come out, you’ll feel refreshed, clear-minded, and ready to hunt for a new agent. Before you know it, you’ll have your life back.”

The Final Illusion

The next image was quietly unsettling. She was lying in a bathtub filled to the brim with water. Her face looked peaceful, almost glowing. I watched as she slowly lifted her right leg above the surface, studying her foot as if admiring her pedicure. Her thoughts drifted gently, losing their sharp edges. “I’ll have a new agent. I’ll be popular again. I’ll find a strong boyfriend. I am…” The thought faded before it could be completed.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Too heavy. The warmth enveloped her. The tension left her body completely. Somewhere in her fading awareness, she believed she was already in bed. Sleep took her gently as her body slid lower, silently, beneath the waterline.

A profound sadness overtook me. Just as I believed the story had ended, I saw her rise—but something wasn’t right. In a chilling moment of clarity, I understood: her physical body lay motionless in the bathtub, while her astral body stood beside it, staring in horror.

Confusion flooded her being. Despair followed immediately. “This can’t be happening,” she repeated, trying desperately to return to her body, pressing against it, willing herself back inside.

Then she remembered. She had an inner guide. Relief flickered. She closed her eyes and called for him, mentally and telepathically, with urgency.

There was no response. The silence was absolute. He was gone.

The Aftermath

Panic gave way to curiosity. She experimented with her new state, passing her arm through the wall, then her entire body followed effortlessly. I stayed close behind as she rose outside, floating above the house, suspended in the air. “Where do I go?” she wondered. “Where am I supposed to go?”