This summer in Spain, one memory still deeply troubles me. Inside the church at the Poblet Monastery, I found a fledgling sparrow—overheated, injured, and in urgent need of a little help. From my experience, it only needed a few days of basic care, no more than five, to either recover or, if there were internal injuries, to pass peacefully. I approached the monks near the church entrance, asking for assistance.
When I asked, I was immediately refused. I explained I could give precise instructions on what was needed—a small box, some water, and a little food. When they refused again, I pleaded with them to find anyone at the monastery who cared about animals and might help. But they simply repeated that they were sorry and couldn’t do anything, adding that there were many cats around. They did nothing—denying the little bird both help and the mercy of a quiet, protected end.
A woman at the ticket booth showed far more compassion. She comforted me as I held the bird, tears streaming down my face, and even offered to help it with her friends from the gift shop. But her shift was ending in ten minutes, and I had no choice but to place the little bird back on the steps where I had found it, giving it some water before I left. I couldn’t stay longer; it was my last day in the country, and time was slipping away. I don’t know what happened after that.
That moment—the image of me leaving the fledgling on the steps and turning away—haunts me. Anger and helplessness, on the edge of despair. A feeling that eats away at you.
There is no language on earth that could capture the depth of my hatred for my university. It has no unified curriculum—each professor does whatever they please. Tests? However they want. Presentations? As they wish. Assignments? At their discretion. While one group might have a one-hour class where the professor delivers a clear, structured lecture, another group could sit through a four-hour session listening to the professor’s personal anecdotes. Some students get a multiple-choice test that the professor reviews afterward to ensure understanding, while others get an open-ended question on a random topic—write whatever you want, however you want. And yes, if you don’t write it, you’re barred from the next exam. Some professors will assess a student’s grasp of the basics before gradually increasing the question difficulty to set a fair grade; others will fail you outright if you miss a single hyper-specific detail, regardless of how brilliantly you answered the rest. One student might know the brain’s structure thoroughly yet fail for not knowing a tiny nuance, while another—who doesn’t even know what a pons is—will pass because, and I quote, “he’s such a nice guy.” (Yes, that’s an actual quote from a professor, and yes, this happens all the time.)
This is the reality at our university. Many students have written complaints, gathered signatures, sent letters to the dean’s office and even the Ministry of Education, involved lawyers, and filed lawsuits. But not a single one of these attempts has succeeded. The administration and part of the faculty are simply incompetent—they’re not equipped to do their jobs, and this fact would be obvious even to a monkey without a pituitary gland. These people are just “friends of friends” comfortably settled in well-paid positions. And with each passing year, the university tightens its grip: exams become increasingly complex, and the material reaches unreasonable levels of difficulty. By the third year, less than a quarter of the original class remains, which is catastrophically low. Given the steady decline in our small country’s population—accelerated by the government’s increasingly absurd policies—it wouldn’t surprise me if this push to reduce the number of much-needed doctors was some sort of state mandate. Otherwise, I can’t understand how this could even be happening.
The closer an empire is to collapse, the crazier its laws become. I only wish I didn’t feel so strongly about things that are beyond my control. That’s my mistake and my burden to bear.
I’m having breakfast, and for some reason, I feel this terrible weakness, as if I’m moving through milk. I find myself wondering if I’m an awful friend. I’m viciously jealous, and I openly wish all kinds of failure and misfortune upon friends who have anything better than I do. I even say this out loud—every one of my friends knows this about me. I only hold back with those who have less than me or about the same, but the second someone has even a slight edge, this deep, black envy ignites inside me. The only ones I don’t envy are those who have fought hard for what they have; with them, I feel only respect. I sincerely admire people who’ve put in long, honest effort to get where they are. Life has shown me that success is mostly a matter of circumstances aligning just right, and I’m deeply envious of the things that are simply out of my control.
And yet, my friends consider me genuinely kind and warm-hearted. I always try to help them and put real effort into it. If there’s any information that might be valuable to someone, I make sure they have it. In conversations, I frame things so that my friend feels I’m on their side, facing the problem together, rather than against them. I don’t let people down; if something changes with a commitment, I go out of my way to warn them in advance and to offer a reasonable alternative. Ironically, I used to go out of my way to flatter people, to try to appear more likeable or charming than I truly am. And for all that, I was utterly alone or surrounded by people I couldn’t trust with anything. Now, though, I have friends I would trust with my life. They love me, despite all the venom in me.
I came up with a new daily exercise for myself: every day, I’ll draw a random animal and write a phrase first with my right hand and then with my left. I just finished my first attempt, and it brought such a wave of positive emotions! I didn’t have to make anything look good or criticize myself for mistakes; I just drew, messily, with both hands, and simply enjoyed the process. Drawing with my left hand was an especially amazing experience—my hand was shaky, I couldn’t control the pressure, and I kept going outside the lines. I felt like a little kid holding a pencil for the very first time, just trying to draw something, without any concept of whether it’s “good enough” or not, simply learning this basic skill.
I recently deleted all my social media apps. At the time, I did it because I suddenly realized how dependent I’d become on scrolling—it was starting to frustrate and bother me, with my hand reaching for my phone every minute to check my feed. But now, some time later, I’ve caught myself wishing someone out there would actually notice my absence. My closest friends have my contact info, so they still easily reach out via WhatsApp or Telegram; that part’s fine. But there are others—not close enough to be called real friends, but people I’d genuinely like to connect with, to build a real emotional bond. When they would go quiet for one reason or another, I’d often find myself wondering about them, checking in or asking mutual friends if all was well. But now, no one is looking for me. I know this because any messages I’d get would still come through email notifications, and there are none.
It’s a strange feeling, almost like a faint itch in the heart—a mix of anticipation, a bit of thrill, the clear knowledge that there’s no reason to hope, and yet a sense of peace and release. And still, I check my email every hour, just in case someone has written. There’s also a bit of embarrassment, knowing that deep down, part of me feels like I might have vanished in hopes of attracting some attention. And people who do things like that have always kind of annoyed me.
My mom creates the most beautiful decorations for our home, each one inspired by the current holiday. She always says she’s simple and straightforward, but through that simplicity, she brings out what she loves so perfectly—through objects, arrangements, handmade creations. She’s done all kinds of crafts and has been embroidering for over ten years. She started when I first had to cross-stitch for a school project. It frustrated me since I had so much other homework, and this kind of work tested my patience, as I’ve always leaned toward creative, free-form things, while embroidery requires incredible focus and persistence. That’s when my mom took it up herself, and she got so into it that our home is now full of her pieces. The best part is seeing that she isn’t just pushing herself or filling time but genuinely finding joy, interest, and fulfillment in it. I hope one day I’ll find something like that for myself. I’ve tried to throw myself into different activities in search of a hobby, but apparently, it doesn’t work that way.
By the way, I had a dream today that someone tracked down where I live through OnlyFans and kept sending me my coordinates. I couldn’t have cared less. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a nightmare or what.
I’m so glad to be heading home to lie in my own bed and look at the linden tree outside my window. The doctor told me that people don’t truly want to die, and that I only feel this way because I’m very ill. But I don’t understand—how can someone wake up, feel the weight of their body, hear their thoughts, have responsibilities, and not wish to disappear? I’m not necessarily talking about bad experiences. There have been many wonderful and vivid moments in my life, but whenever I came back home, I would always think—this was great, but it took so much out of me that I don’t want to do it again. Things go fine, sometimes worse, sometimes better, but it would be perfect if none of it existed at all. Life is a slow decay, and it’s unbearably hard for me to forget that, which is why I don’t understand the purpose of it, as cliché as it sounds. Time exists only so that everything doesn’t happen all at once. And it feels strange to wait so long just for it to end. The doctor says it’s the illness speaking for me. I don’t understand how that could be, because I’ve had these thoughts my whole life.
I’m on the train. How I loathe everything about this process! The trains in our country are old and slow; in the summer, they’re unbearably hot, and in the winter, they’re so cold that real snowdrifts form near the doors. There’s only one bathroom for everyone, and it seems to be cleaned just once a day—you can imagine its state and the delightful aromas. The journey from my city to the capital takes 3.5 hours. When I need to travel for classes, I essentially spend two days a week just getting to the train in advance, finding a seat, traveling, then making my way to my accommodation and recovering. Unfortunately, despite the invention of computers, the internet, and the experience of quarantine, the administration of my university hasn’t mastered the remarkable technology of online learning. It’s especially frustrating when there are professors who wish to implement it, but higher-ups—those uniquely evolved beings—won’t allow it. It’s also disheartening that my city has a large, well-equipped university with enough competent instructors to cover a significant portion of medical courses. Yet, there’s no collaboration between universities, so people from all over the country flock to the capital to study under a program seemingly devised in a five-minute beer-fueled meeting by people who apparently never experienced studying themselves.
I love that time just before falling asleep. It’s when you can dream about not waking up. These thoughts cannot be taken away by the past day or the one to come—the right to sleep is sacred, and that includes the brief period right before drifting off. Thoughts of there being no more mornings bring joy, lightness, peace, and a pleasant anticipation. It feels like the only time I experience true happiness.
Oh gods!!! I have TWO new fans!!! My popularity is reaching infinity. I’m genuinely curious about how you found me and why you decided to follow. In any case, I’m so happy to have you here, even if you happen to be my former classmates laughing at me. To celebrate this incredible addition to my army, I’m posting this wonderfully non-aesthetic photoshoot. I don’t think I can come up with an intriguing thought to accompany it, so I’ll just tell you a bit about what’s in it.
I live in a house that used to have a wood stove but now runs on pellets. The pellets need to be regularly carried from the shed into the house, and I genuinely enjoy doing this—I love physical work that isn’t exhausting. There are also graves of my beloved dogs, Gabby and Lisa, on the land. It’s interesting how people who have never had pets often think they are replaceable, like couch cushions—one wears out, and you just swap it with another. Yet, the truth is that animals have incredibly different personalities, even when their life experiences are nearly identical. They have unique fears, growth periods, intelligence levels. And this isn’t just about dogs—any animal, including humans, fits into these categories.
Despite similar upbringing, everyone has very different starting points—physiology is unchangeable, and it lays the foundation not only for the body but also for the mind. Accepting this is something to come to terms with and work on, so as not to become upset when you don’t meet certain societal norms or your own expectations.
I started playing Dragon Age Veliguard. My laptop barely handles it, but the game looks stunning. I really like the faces and animations—they look so alive. The cutscenes are amazing, and the battles are visually beautiful. It’s a pity that the dialogues feel very polished. Maybe it will change as I progress, though I’ve only just passed the introduction. Even at this early stage, all the characters seem to be friends and act on the same side with shared beliefs. I miss the atmosphere of physical and social vulnerability and loneliness that was present in the previous games. In those, the beginning of the game created a sense that the protagonist might lose. Or impactful failures were achieved through plot twists. In this game, despite the described power of the main villains, there’s an immediate sense of a light, upbeat action story where the heroes are friends and will overcome everything. I hope that changes. I’d like to immerse myself in some existential hopelessness (within the game, of course).
I wonder—am I what they call a non-binary person? I fully understand that biologically I have a woman’s body, the reproductive features of a woman. But when it comes to a sense of self-identification, I simply consider myself a person—in my environment, no “traditionally feminine” traits were ever imposed on me; I chose what felt right within my means. I’m curious about what it feels like to truly perceive oneself as a woman or a man or even a battle helicopter. It seems like I am just a human being; I breathe and live in the world, I try to make my life better, I suffer, I engage in tasks, I have interests. I am the sum of my essence. I don’t know what specifically should make me a woman in terms of mentality. Perhaps what defines me as a woman in terms of character comes from brain structure and hormonal fluctuations, but even that doesn’t relate to any particular beliefs.
I’ve long noticed that I attract very peculiar people. Eccentrics, at the very least. Lonely, odd, awkward, with troubled speech and narrow ranges of interests, but emotionally warm. I make a mistake—or perhaps not—by somehow identifying these people in universities, in chats, stumbling upon them by pure chance. And I always have the imprudence to show interest and acceptance toward them, and if there’s a discomforting situation, I rush to defend them. For instance, if we’re working in a group and something needs to be presented, I volunteer to do it, even if I’m terrified myself. But I believe those with me are even more scared. I become for them the person I so desperately needed in my own childhood. These moments give me strength.
But then these people start seeking contact with me. They want to call, meet up. They don’t realize that they don’t interest me as individuals—I just wanted the world to be kind to them through me at that moment. I wanted to bring joy and feed my own ego. But they get attached. I try to come up with excuses to avoid more interaction, but they keep reaching out. And I respond. I don’t want to engage further, but I strive to ensure that when they leave, they feel cherished, warmed. I feel sorry for both them and myself. It’s as if I’m hoping that this kind of kindness will somehow find its way back to me through them. But I know that’s not how it works.
I love to daydream, especially about love and perfect, mutual relationships. The archetypes of my “inner men” have always, in one way or another, embodied the dark lord figure. For the past few years, that has been Melkor—the primordial source of evil in the Lord of the Rings universe. I reveled in these fantasies, creating my OC in another world, with her full story, plot, and their relationship. It might have only been a fantasy, but the feelings were real. This went on year after year, saving me during the saddest and dullest times and amplifying my joy during the happier ones.
But a few days ago, I suddenly decided I wasn’t good enough for him. Not my character, but me. Not skilled enough, not beautiful enough, not smart or tactful enough. Just an empty shell. And if he somehow knew of my adoration, of my fantasies, he would laugh or feel a mix of awkwardness and disgust. That thought was small, yet it affected me so deeply that I fell out of love with him. My OC stayed with him, somewhere far away in a story. But I did not; my heart is now empty. I’m not sure how to explain it, but it feels as if my low self-esteem instinctively shields me from disappointment, even in situations where it makes no sense at all.
I’m genuinely fascinated by the phenomenon of new iPhones. When I was in high school, I had a few friends who always had the latest models, and it was simply astonishing. I assumed these kids came from very wealthy families. It never occurred to me back then that when I visited their homes, I saw apartments without wallpaper, warped laminate floors, heaps of old garlic on windowsills, and stained plastic tablecloths on dining tables. To me, they were the rich kids of affluent parents because they had the latest iPhone.
When I got to university, I started noticing something strange. A medical university, especially in the post-Soviet space, is like a branch of hell on earth. So, I was amazed by classmates who managed to work on top of their studies, taking jobs as nursing assistants, janitors, or dishwashers. And yet, they all had the latest iPhones. My mind started to piece things together. It clicked even more when I learned that these same people would live on plain buckwheat cooked in water just to pay for their shiny new phone.
Maybe they were enthusiasts of cutting-edge features, or they adored the camera, or needed the phone’s speed for their very survival? No, most of them just watched TikTok. And here’s the thing—I completely get it. I’ve only ever owned two iPhones: a pink iPhone 7, which I used for six years, and then a purple iPhone 14, which I still have. Both work beautifully, feel great in my hand, and are lovely to look at. Yet when I see the newest iPhones on display in stores, I almost start to salivate.
What saves me is that I’ve always had plenty of other interests that sparked genuine excitement, not this peculiar, paradoxical one. So when I had the funds, I’d buy Lego sets, video games, figurines, albums from my favorite bands, or trips. It always seemed like there wasn’t quite enough left for an iPhone. But I still wanted one. Why? I can’t quite figure it out; I can’t find that rational core within me. I just do, and that’s that.
Maybe one day, if I ever have plenty of money, I’ll buy the latest iPhone every time it comes out. For now, though, my laziness and my true interests will have to save me. Besides, I really need to get a new computer, which I actually do need. But my brain covets an iPhone. Foolish brain.
I bite my nails intensely, down to the point of 🩸 and pain. To the point where putting on clothes or washing my hair hurts. And yet, I have absolutely no desire to do this. I first began paying special attention to my fingers when I was around 7 years old. I watched my mom clean between her teeth with her nails—she had very neat, well-maintained hands, and she did it in such a stylish way, with a soft “tsk” sound. It seemed so cool and grown-up to me, even though at that age, I didn’t fully understand what she was doing. I would just bring my thumb to my lips until a small swelling appeared on its side. This became an obsession. Over time, I started biting my nails so severely that the nail plate was half its healthy length. I also picked at scabs on my skin, usually from mosquito bites, leaving my legs covered in pigment spots. I squeezed pimples too, obsessively. By the time I reached the upper grades, I weighed 116 kg at 178 cm tall. It was quite the picture. After school, there were highs and lows, but my appearance eventually settled into something relatively nice. A big milestone was when, two years ago, I started getting manicures, and my nails finally grew out. For two years, I forgot about my hands, only feeling joy and pride in them. But this semester, we started our clinical introduction, and I had to remove the gel polish. The manicurist kindly asked me not to bite my nails. And I bit them. From the second week of classes, I destroyed them. I kept convincing myself I had broken the habit and would never do it again. But deep down, I always knew that beneath the beautiful nail polish, the old familiar version of me lay hidden—tormented by my own hands. I feel sorry for my fingers. I lie in bed and watch videos of pimples being popped. My nails ache. I wish I didn’t have such an urge for these things.
OMG, I have my first subscriber! I’m so happy, smiling widely while lying in bed after my shower. I didn’t expect this at all! It’s such a joy. Welcome!
Today, my mind felt completely empty. Not a bad day, except that the internet went out due to the storm. But that’s okay because I spent the day looking for cute shoes. I really love black lace-up boots with a chunky platform and wide toe to visually balance out fuller legs. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything I loved in my size 41, so I’ll be stuck with my old, worn-out sneakers. 🫠
Eventually, the internet came back, and I spent the evening playing WoW. Two moments stood out—one quest involved finding a criminal based on witness statements. All the witnesses said they hadn’t seen anything, except for one woman who pointed to an undead. I spent about 10 minutes questioning every other witness, searching for inconsistencies. In the end, I checked a walkthrough, and the undead was indeed guilty. I had overcomplicated things. But I don’t see it as a bad thing because I was just being thorough, exploring all the possible options in the game.
The second quest didn’t have a specific marker, so I had to plot a route between certain points myself. I desperately needed to go to the bathroom but kept holding off, thinking that if I left, I’d forget where I was going. The distance between the points was only about 40 in-game meters, which is very short. I really don’t trust myself and doubt my memory every time.
I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have a first subscriber! When I first created this account, I was praying that no one would ever see it. But today, I’m in the mood to dream. How will they find me? What kind of person will they be? Will they read my posts or just look at the photos? Maybe they’ll subscribe by accident and cancel shortly after. Perhaps they’ll see themselves in my words or feel compassion and support me. Or maybe they’ll find it all terribly cringeworthy, take screenshots, and share them with friends. They might decide there’s nothing interesting here and never return. Maybe they’ll think I’m beautiful. Or maybe they’ll think I’m unattractive and wonder how I had the audacity to be here at all. The thought of it all fascinates me.
Just a day ago, I realized something unsettling—I’m deeply afraid of unpredictability. For the past couple of years, I’ve been playing roleplay games with AI, and in those storylines, every event is approved by me in one way or another. Yesterday, I tried roleplaying with a kind-hearted friend. As soon as he sent the first message, which was completely harmless, I tensed up, genuinely on edge. It’s astonishing how much the mind becomes accustomed to well-trodden paths. It surprised me but also gave me the motivation to try something new, even if it’s just a small step outside my comfort zone.
I’ve always been curious about where the idea of stigmatizing certain personal preferences came from. In my mind, there are simply things that people enjoy which don’t harm anyone and things that bring unwanted suffering, either to others or oneself. The former is fine, the latter isn’t. It should be that straightforward, but it’s not. Society has found ways to shame people for their harmless interests—be it a fondness for animal costumes or any other niche fascination.
What’s truly baffling is how certain negative traits, such as indifference, manipulation, and a lack of compassion, are accepted as part of daily life. Take, for example, a student who chooses not to share an important file that would help his peers. Nobody judges him because “he wasn’t obligated to.” Or a teacher who notices a student is clearly distressed and detached but doesn’t take a moment to ask if they’re okay—because their grades are fine, and that’s all that matters. Or someone who refuses to help an injured bird, even when lending a hand would cost them nothing. Such acts of neglect and coldness pass unnoticed.
And yet, if someone has an unconventional interest, they’re more likely to be mocked and judged. Conversations about them rarely focus on their kindness, their reliability, or the support they’ve offered others. Instead, people laugh behind their backs, highlighting what society deems “embarrassing.” It’s astonishing how far we’ve drifted when harmless personal interests are more criticized and shunned than traits like indifference or callousness, as long as they fit within the bounds of the law.
Spent the evening with my family at a Halloween park. Surprisingly, the whole experience left me with such soft, pleasant feelings—I loved the dragon mask I wore, and I felt so natural and right in it. I adore imagining myself as some mythical creature.
But the best part of the night was hugging an actor dressed as a terrifying clown. I asked if we could hug, and he agreed, so we embraced, and I told him I loved him. Those few seconds felt so precious, even though I have no idea who he is. I wonder what he thought.
I really love hugging strangers. I’m not sure why, but I feel shy and uncomfortable hugging close friends and family.
It feels so strange to live without love. In some way, it’s frightening, though the fear itself is barely noticeable. It’s more like missing steps in the heart, ones that would lead to ecstasy, fullness, and peace.
I used to love the band Ghost. Since 2015, I listened to them almost daily. I tried to attend their concerts and, despite the struggles with queues, the crowds, and the waiting, I was always thrilled, always filled with that love. But over the past year, it’s as if that spark has faded. The same songs and melodies that once made my heart race now feel distant. I can hardly listen to them.
Recently, they announced a new tour, and for a moment, everything inside me lit up. I thought, “I’ll go for sure; I’ll buy a ticket.” Tickets for the Oslo concert go on sale tomorrow. And yet, I don’t want to go. The thought of having to travel somewhere weighs on me. It bothers me that I feel not “I want to,” but “I have to.” It’s as if I’m forcing love out of myself. Will that love actually come back, or will I just be trying to fake it, to justify the time and effort?
It feels as though I might no longer be capable of love.
I often daydream about how wonderful it would be to have plenty of money, to live without wearing myself out at an exhausting eight-hour job or in a grueling university where you’re lucky to get three carefree days in half a year. I’ve been studying for so long. One of the top schools in the country, the best class, one difficult degree already finished, another in progress. All of this, just so I can live in peace in my tiny hometown, in the home I love so dearly.
I come from a family of doctors, but I never wanted to be one. I’m so lazy that, really, I never wanted to be anything. Biology, at least, seemed interesting. In my town, there’s a university, and I’d hoped to become a researcher there, to join a department. But reality hit me hard—small towns like mine are so steeped in corruption that no matter how hard you work, you don’t earn a thing, and you’re unlikely to rise beyond a junior researcher.
So, at 24, I enrolled in medical school in the capital, four hours from home. And I’m exhausted. Taking academic leave threw me off track entirely. I’m haunted by the thought that I didn’t take the leave because I was sick but because I’m just not capable enough, that I failed. I’m afraid it will all happen again next year. I’m drained, like an empty shell.
I remember the first time I saw my nose in profile. I must have been about 15. I just wanted to take a picture of my ear with a new earring. And then I saw it—a bumpy shape jutting sharply out from a small, rounded forehead. And that lower lip sticking out, the heavy double chin. A disaster. Since then, I’ve lived with the thought that I never want to see myself from the side again. I also began to think about getting a rhinoplasty. I love Greek noses—straight with a soft bridge. I dream of having one like that.
But today, for the first time in years, I looked at myself again. Nothing has changed since then, except for some added wrinkles and pigmentation from acne scars. And yet, somehow, I feel indifferent. No excitement, no acceptance—just a quiet, disappointing indifference. Back then, ten years ago, I hoped I would become someone else. But as time passed, I’m still me.
It’s so strange to look at myself and see an aging woman. Not a girl, not a teenager—but a woman. Now, in my face, I can clearly see how I’ll look at 40 and 60. Time flows so slowly, yet looking back, it feels as if it was never there at all. There is only the present. I’ll never be younger than I am right now.
It feels strange spending all this time at home, in solitude, but it’s as if I don’t want anything else, and I don’t have the energy for more. I wonder, are these 26 years really my youth? If youth is supposed to be the best years, then what comes next?
I used to love doing creative makeup. Now I wear makeup to fool time, layering powder to even my tone, to cover the bags under my eyes. But the result is almost laughable, like a modest fig leaf trying to cover too much.
Why this place? Maybe because I’m afraid. Because I want to pour out all my thoughts, to expose my entire nature, however weak or flawed it may be. And I have this strange need for a kind of public openness—even if, in reality, no one actually reads it. I feel like a secret voyeur, hiding in a dark alley.
I’m also scared because when I see people I know openly writing about their pain or struggles, I feel embarrassed, irritated, uneasy—like I’ve witnessed something private, something not meant for others’ eyes. Sometimes I’ve even had the nerve to mock those feelings, not out loud, of course, but quietly to myself. And I dread that others might see me the same way. Worse still, I’m afraid they’ll respond with pity or sympathy.
In truth, I’ve always secretly envied people who are active on social media, who share all sides of their lives, embellishing, expressing, even seeking attention. I can’t do that; I’m too timid, too hesitant. But OnlyFans has this atmosphere of intimacy. So many people bare themselves here, literally, and together, they create a sense of harmony. Somehow, that makes it easier for me—like I’m exposing myself too, but in a different way.
Strangely enough, I was actually on OnlyFans a couple of years ago—purely to make some money. I posted a few suggestive photos with simple captions. I wish I could say, “It wasn’t for me” or “I’m above that,” but no. Honestly, I was just too lazy to put in the work—too lazy to post, too lazy to keep up conversations. I genuinely thought getting into med uni would be easier than running an OnlyFans page. And, for me, it really is. It’s easier to stick to a plan, to follow orders, than to try creating something on my own. That’s how lazy I’ve become.
And I’m ashamed of my weight. I get embarrassed looking at myself in the mirror. I never understood why. I see plus-size women online, I see my friends who are fuller-bodied—they’re gorgeous, they shine, they’re so stunning I can’t look away. But when I look at myself, all I feel is shame and pain. It’s like I can’t even see myself as a whole person—just fat, a belly, body hair. I want to scrutinize it, like bugs under a log, as something unpleasant. It feels like the issue isn’t the weight itself. It’s terrifying to admit just how much I don’t love myself, especially when I’ve built up this front of self-acceptance and confidence.
Incidentally, my previous account had the same name. When I deleted it, I didn’t even bother to withdraw the money. I was that sure of my future success. Or maybe I was just too lazy. Or maybe I thought I hadn’t really earned it.
Greetings, traveler! If you've stumbled upon my page, it's truly a wonder—there's no explicit content, no polished photos, no throngs of followers here. In fact, that’s exactly why I created this account. This space is for me. No one knows me here.
I’m 26 and still a student, with a degree in biology behind me and two years of medical university under my belt. I've always worked hard, making study and achievement my top priorities. Yet, despite my efforts, I've never been the best or even satisfied with my results. Recently, I became seriously ill and had to take a break from my studies. Now, at best, I won’t finish medical school until after I turn 30.
I’m 26 and have less than 100 euros in my bank account. I’m 26 and live with my mother. I’m 26 and have no hobbies. I’m 26, and to everyone else, I’m the determined, optimistic one—the unbreakable, dragon-hearted woman. But somewhere along the way, I think I cracked inside.
On the upside, I now have a year to face the emptiness, to search for whatever “self” there is to find. I feel no enthusiasm; it feels like even here, I’m bound to fail. But I still want to take small steps in the right direction. Here, no one knows me. I just want to try recording my thoughts, sharing photos of things I find beautiful. Maybe a selfie or two. I want to see myself as beautiful.
