Guys, I’m absolutely obsessed with these filters with flowers, stars, and all that stuff. Here’s my ass for you, because honestly, I don’t have much else to offer 🥴

I wanted to write a bit about myself (how unexpected), but I catch myself feeling a little awkward about it—mostly because I really hate discussing mental health issues, especially when it comes to myself. Originally, I actually started my OnlyFans account to write posts about this stuff and have at least one place to vent. Back then, I didn’t even think I’d have subscribers.

Since childhood, I’ve had a pretty unhealthy codependent relationship with my mom, and I started separating from her very late. She was the ultimate authority in the family, and she completely demonized, mocked, and suppressed any conversations about mental health. To make things worse, my father decided to casually get into drugs for fun. My mom and older brother have rock-solid minds, but unfortunately, I grew up as a neurodivergent, sensitive kid. And yeah, being completely ignored and having my needs dismissed really messed me up—both as a person and, honestly, even physically.

I was always sure that I was perfectly normal, just pretending to be an idiot, being lazy, too emotional—basically a moral failure ruining my own life, while the world itself was actually quite simple.

Why am I saying all this? Well, at 27, lo and behold, my brain has finally grown a little, and I’ve started to realize some things. Mainly, that I am actually mentally unwell. And saying that out loud makes me feel incredibly ashamed.

And please, don’t comment anything about how “brave” I am or any of that crap—it makes me want to throw up.

Of course, I always knew I was pathologically depressed. But I got stuck in this trap where the authoritative adults in my life either mocked or ignored me, and I lacked the theatricality, arrogance, or aggression to demand attention. All I ever had was cowardice and softness.

Anyway, I didn’t even finish my introduction, and it’s already a hundred miles long. So here’s what I actually wanted to say—anyone who judges or mocks me for posts like this can go fuck themselves and eat shit (Although, let’s be honest, I’m the only one actually judging myself🥴🥴🥴)

Now, the main point: I feel like I’m dying.

This isn’t a fact, a certainty, or hypochondria—it’s just an overall sensation. Like I’m slowly disconnecting from the world, feeling more and more like an outsider. Sounds, objects, space, people talking to me—it all feels slightly surreal, like I’m watching from the outside. I’d even say there’s fear in it, though that word feels a little too strong. Maybe more like a tiny worm of anxiety wriggling somewhere deep inside. Or no—more like this entire feeling wants to grow into fear.

When I’m awake, I feel like I’m just serving time—not in pain, not suffering, just… here. I have plenty of things to do, I handle them on my own initiative, and I don’t have that much empty time. But everything feels like it’s behind some thin glass right in front of me, and my body moves as if through milk.

The closest word for this feeling is torment, but without pain. Just a necessary discomfort.

I’ve had a certain behavior pattern for a long time—around people, I’m always busy, upbeat, joking around. I developed this a while ago to hide my extremely negative experience of being alive. And this clown persona even became fun for me because I love playing with words and imagery.

But lately, it’s getting harder to keep up. It’s difficult to maintain facial expressions, and I find myself “freezing” more often, like a bad internet connection. I set a goal, try to launch a behavior—but it just doesn’t start. Time passes, and nothing happens.

I can’t watch anything on YouTube—nothing interests me. I can’t look at memes. Haven’t opened TikTok in ages. But it’s not like a dopamine addiction, where you feel frustration—it’s more like my brain’s hook just doesn’t catch onto the events in the videos. I keep casting it out, but it just lands in empty water. I don’t even really grasp what’s happening, even though rationally, I understand.

My willpower is practically nonexistent. It’s not even that concentrating is hard—it’s like my ability to focus just isn’t working at all.

And yet, somehow, I still manage to do all my work and household chores perfectly.

I look forward to sleep every day. I wake up in the morning with my dogs, around 7:40, and the start of a new day feels like a fly landing on my forehead. Not exactly a tragedy, just this small, nagging annoyance. It’s not hard to get up, not hard to wash, take care of myself—I mention this because when I was in an acute depressive episode, even these things felt nearly impossible.

But sleep—I’m truly happy about sleep. It’s relief, it’s the correct state of being. My dreams are getting longer, more vivid, more connected. Meanwhile, waking life feels foreign, incomprehensible.

I don’t even really feel anxiety anymore. I don’t get irritated, I don’t form emotional attachments. I couldn’t care less about anyone—people all feel like they exist outside of me, and I can’t engage with them in any way. I look at them, observe them, and yet they don’t register. At least before, they used to annoy me.

The only thing left is feeling how my body gradually gets more tired throughout the day. Well, that, and my dogs—I’m still happy to have them, I love them. I don’t want to leave them, and I don’t want to be without them.

Some time ago, I thought all my anxiety was about university—I dread going back there, to the point of horror. But now I’ve come to the conclusion that I can study for a hundred years if I have to, as long as my parents are alive. And once they die—well, that’ll be my time to go too.

But for now, I have a job, I handle important things, I’ll keep studying little by little, and eventually, I’ll get that damn diploma.

My eyes still tear up when I think about how, at almost 30, I’m nothing. Even though I put in everything I had. Just a void, an object of pity and patronizing disappointment.

So what was I saying? Oh yeah, university doesn’t matter to me anymore either.

I used to think that a lot of money would fix my problem—I dream of finding some rich sponsor, or suddenly becoming incredibly wealthy. I imagine myself lying on an inflatable mattress in the waters of some private, sunny island. And even then, I don’t feel joy, I don’t feel peace. Just lying there, not wanting anything, except to be dry and asleep.

Maybe I think this way because I’m here and not there.

I like this feeling. I track it in myself, nurture it. It’s easier to think that my soul is detaching from here—lifting, flying far, far away.

I don’t know what this is. I don’t think I have derealization. Maybe it’s just a weird side effect of antidepressants.