The One Uncertainty 

When your mind wants you dead, there’s nothing you will despise more than your fighter spirit. When your world is black and white, death is a frustratingly grey area. You see I don’t want to end my life, I just want to end the pain. 

I am petrified of people leaving me, which causes me to alternate between pushing them away to hurry on the inevitable, and worshipping them so as that the highs make up for the lows and I maybe make them leaving just a tiny bit less inevitable.

After I’ve gone batshit my self worth is in negative figures. I’ve just done more to cement the inevitable and I despise myself for it. I am in a state of desperate fear and I am pretty sure everything is now irreparable. So of course I want to be dead.

Except I don’t. I’m not young or that heathy… not my liver anyway. Doctors have banned me from paracetamol and my liver caused dramatic complications in my pregnancy. I can’t just take an overdose half heartedly anymore. To try to end it would almost definitely mean I actually end it now.

And so for the queen of black and white there’s this big fuzzy grey. I don’t want to be dead. But I don’t want to be alive either. I just don’t want to be me, to think and act the way I do. I don’t want to hurt those I love and I certainly don’t want to lose them. 

Maybe this grey leads to the ultimate self destructive streak subconsciously… if I lose Daddy I will kill myself. I know people call us borderlines manipulative and I see how that sentence sounds that way. But in my mind it’s a simple fact. He’s all I’ve got. Lose him, I’m alone and lost and hurting in a world that I really don’t know how to cope with. So maybe part of me that is tired of fighting pushes him away so I can stop being a warrior and finally be dead, at peace.

But so long as I don’t manage to fuck things up my warrior spirit will keep me alive. However much my head calls for me to be dead, there’s gonna be that part of me that whispers that this too shall pass and urges me to fight not to kill me but to kill the pain. If only I remembered how to do that without dragging a razor blade across my arm.

One Day At A Time

When it gets like this, I either feel too much or nothing at all. It’s either the most crushing depression, like a darkness has consumed every cell within me, or its a numbness which fills me with fear that these are the only two options for eternity.

In both situations the behaviours are the same. I either cut myself to stop feeling so much, or cut myself to feel something at all. I either self destruct because I think I’m worthless or I self destruct because I need to feel emotions, any emotions, just something rather than nothing.

I know I get better but first I have to want to get better. And that’s harder than you would think. Sometimes, in those moments just after the suicidal part has passed, I prefer this to normality. These extreme emotions are so familiar. It’s like the pain I carry every day inside is finally at the surface and it feels so right. So comforting. So refreshing. 

It’s like normality is me on the run, and this, this mess is real me. Me who doesn’t have to meditate and stay distracted and do whatever the hell it is that keeps me sane. It’s just me, the broken girl who was abused for 4 years, finally being allowed some space to hurt and lash out and bleed the pain out.

I know I need to get it together soon. I have a uni exam in 12 days. I need to pull myself out of this darkness and start the fight again. But fighting is tiring, y’know? It’s exhausting. So these breakdowns… they’re like my rest time. I mean it’s no real rest, being plagued like this. But even just the fact I feel I can cut myself at times like this is a little release from the hard work of being nice and sane.

I am certainly better than I was. The fight is less difficult and I function normally more of the time. My good times are longer, happier, more successful. I am doing well at uni, I held down a job, I’ve come so far since Daddy found me as a fucked up little whore who was mostly the mess and very little the normal. Now it’s mostly the ok and just sometimes this mess.

But I think I’ll always be this person underneath. Put me in a time of stress or just give me too long holding it together, and I can guarantee I’ll fall apart. I used to vow each time would be the last time. I realised that lie doesn’t help me. I ask Daddy if I’ll ever be ok. I think the answer is no. I’ll go longer still, and less people will ever even notice there’s a crazy girl inside… but it’ll always be there.

Sometimes while I’m like this I’m even glad I am how I am. To feel things in such extremes, it’s not all bad. I feel alive. Sometimes. Right now I feel dead. I feel exhausted from riding the rollercoaster of my emotions. I feel worn out from fighting the need to play with razor blades. I feel drained from trying to pull myself together and get back on track. It would be so easy to give up right now.

I’ll get there, though. I love my course. I love that maybe one day I’ll help people who are feeling as broken as I feel. I think the broken are perhaps the best equipped for that job. At least I know how dark the darkness is. I know my pain can help me make a difference to someone else’s pain. Life fucks us up and shit happens that breaks our minds. But I’ve gotten so much better with Daddy’s help these last 4 years. And I will keep fighting, keep getting better. Because this too shall pass. I just have to take it one day at a time.

Listen To The Voices

When your head is telling you crazy things, the best thing you can do is listen to it rather than fight it. This is what my therapist taught me… but sometimes you have a stretch of your head being mostly out of self-destruct mode, and it’s easy to forget the habits you learned back when things were more crazy.

The last week or so, my head has been telling me to self-harm. It does this most mornings at the alarm clock: this is a pretty clear sign that what my mind actually wants to say is “oh fuck, really?!” but the joy of Borderline Personality Disorder is your mind turns every “oh fuck” into an “I should kill myself.”

Trying to shut out the over the top things my mind is telling me is really betraying my very mantras. If I don’t like sedating it away with Quetiapine then why should I drown it out with keeping busy? Keeping busy leads to burnout so is a very silly way to deal with the over the top thoughts. But, as I say, I’m out of practise.

So, anyway, it started with just being a need to play with razor blades when the alarm clock went off. Then, as usual, it slowly dragged its lovely self further and further into the day. Yesterday at bedtime I was aware that the desire to cut myself had not left me once since I woke. I say desire, I don’t mean I think it would be a barrel of laughs, I mean my mind is constantly telling me it’s a good idea and to be honest it becomes a good idea just to shut my mind up.

But if the “I should cut myself” began at the alarm clock, as a response to the annoyance at being woken up, then it follows that the “I should cut myself” throughout the day is also my minds beautifully exaggerated way to actually make a valid point. So tonight I said sorry to the voice that was telling me to go get the razor blades. My experience is inner voices like being apologised to. Even just the apology begins to diminish their power.

After saying sorry to the voices (I know I’m sounding crazy now, but hey, I am, so let’s sound it, cos this is important stuff) I then invited the voices to tell me why they were so adamant I should harm myself. They told me I am going to fail my January exams. I thanked them again. They went quieter and I felt some peace for the first time in days. It’s not that I didn’t know that I’m stressed, but it’s that I hadn’t had the internal dialogue yet.

In therapy, we worked on mindfulness. Not trying to push down uncomfortable feelings or thoughts but to let them be, and learn from them. All insanity is just a sane reaction to crazy experiences. To try to change the way those things made you feel is futile. Simply by allowing the pain to be, and to tell me what it wants me to know, the pain diminishes. I spent years running from things that I simply needed to sit with. And the pain still comes. And I still sit with it. I talk to it and make it welcome. It had never been made welcome before, it cried through my eyes. 

Don’t run from your pain or your crazy thoughts. They want to tell you something, and when you invite them to tell you what they’re really saying in their broken methods of communication, they will then go quiet, just like a child who has been begging for attention and is finally listened to. When my head says “hurt yourself”, I ask it what it really wants me to know. And then I thank it for making me aware of the things that are troubling me, I value it for trying to protect me in its own misguided way. This way, me and the silly things my head says are slowly able to live in peace with each other. 

Merry Christmas?

Today was a day that goes back as far as I can remember: the day my family prepare the Christmas food. The cake, having been fed brandy for months, is covered in marzipan and iced, ready for me, once so small I stood on a chair with my nanna’s help, to decorate with plastic reindeer which mostly had only 3 legs even then. Mince pies are baked to an Italian recipe, mistletoe my mum has allegedly picked from climbing a tree but almost certainly came from a shop is hung. Sometimes, depending on how close to Christmas day this all occurred, even the trifle was made. This involved me promising to stir the confectioners custard all by myself, but getting arm ache 3 minutes in and my mum taking over so it didn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Idyllic childhood memories…

Until I was 11 and 3/4. Advent… the leading up to a cataclysmic event. No, not the birth of the Saviour of the world. The first time my abuser touched me. I wanted to get my parents a Christmas present that wasn’t actually just bought by one of them for me to give to the other. He offered to take me shopping. In the car he held my hand… in the shopping centre too. Was I so young he thought it could still look acceptable if someone from church saw us? I was almost prepubescent. My bra was only there because I was at secondary school now. My face, in photos from the time, was that of a child. I saw nothing alluring at all about me – even in my school uniform I was a scraggly mess not some underage nymphet.

We go shopping, we get home. My parent’s aren’t around so he pushes me against the wall and kisses me. I don’t think it was the first time I’d kissed someone like that, I’d had boyfriends at school. But it was the first time he kissed me like that, and he was 56 not 11. Open a few more windows of the advent calendar. You’re at the day my family cook all the festive food. Broken fragments of memory… I’m sitting on the counter in the kitchen and my legs are apart, around him. He probably kisses me again. He kissed quite a bit at the start, not like the end where he just shoved his hand down my panties then walked off when he was done. Another memory that day: I’m standing, pushed against the counter this time, his erect penis against me.

I get a camera for Christmas. He is a professional photographer, the person who will ignite my passion and teach me all I know. Its snowing on Christmas day, the first of four Christmas days he will spent at our house as he has no family to be with. We go for a walk to take photos in the snow. It feels romantic. He doesn’t touch me albeit I’m anticipating it. He hugs me, hugs I will be addicted to for most of the time I know him. He doesn’t even kiss me this time, maybe he’s already thinking of the phrase he’ll tell me so often – ‘there are eyes and ears everywhere’. Everywhere but my parents lounge for the next four long years, it seems. I dream of marrying him. I smile my naive smile. If only I’d not been so stupid as to fall for the romantic Christmas dream of someone too young to even know what love was.

 

Rearz Spoiled Adult Diapers – Review

Rearz are not all that new to the ABDL market anymore, but I realised I haven’t yet reviewed their colourful Spoiled diapers. After wearing one again this week, I realised what a glaring omission that is on my part: they really are worth writing home about!


The primary colours and all over print make Spoiled an eye catching adult nappy. The footprint pattern has always seemed a slightly random choice to me, however, they’re one of the liveliest diapers out there right now (as are the Safari also by Rearz) so if you’re looking for something to brighten your bum, look no further!

The two tape design makes for a great fit, along with the elasticated front and rear top edge which is a feature I’ve come to absolutely love. The thickness of these diapers is another winning factor, along with how soft the internal fabric seems to be. We don’t often think about differences in texture of the part that goes against our bottoms, but these diapers are noticeably fluffier than the norm.


Absorbency wise these diapers are as reliable as they are thick. They seem to be high wicking so when you’re super soggy you actually feel drier than top medical brands like ID Slip. The way the already plump diaper swells without leaking makes for a brilliant chance to waddle/crawl around feeling totally regressed.

Star Wars tape not included ūüėČ


At ¬£2 a diaper from ABDLfactory, I would say these are middle-to-high in price, working out about the same price as diapers like ABU Space, a diaper of equal quality, thickness, cuteness and absorbency. Unlike some other products on the market around this price, however, these are well worth the investment. I can’t wait to put one on again real soon!

Drowning Again

Something has been taken from deep inside of me
A secret I’ve kept locked away
No one can ever see
Wounds so deep they never show
They never go away
Like moving pictures in my head
For years and years they’ve played

I’m crushingly depressed again. It’s been a nice long streak of sanity, but all good things come to an end. All I feel is so much pain in my soul, choking me, robbing my energy and tainting my thoughts. And I know the source of the pain.

Therapy was great. I forgave my parents and people from my church… or more realised they didn’t need forgiving because they didn’t do anything wrong. I also forgave myself for loving my abuser despite the fact he fucked me up to the point I’m here again drowning in the ache of my brokenness. I lowered my medication which regained a lot of life. And I’m at university, which despite this current depression is still going well. In short, I made a shedload of progress.

So why am I back here suffocated by the memories of what happened to me? There are some things I can’t talk about, and moreover I don’t see the point talking about. People act as if just the act of saying out loud the most painfully impossible to speak things will somehow be cathartic. My reply is that that is the only thing I can imagine to be more painful than where I am now.

And what if I did speak these things to someone? I spoke… or wrote… then to the police in my statement. I told them to my ex. I’d tell them Daddy if he invited me to. I can just about find the words when with someone I trust. But randomly tell a stranger? The thought fills me with shame. 

Just having the thoughts in my head makes me feel dirty. I have to quickly diaper up if I’m not already so that I feel safe. The memories themselves are more faded each time. There’s little flashes but that’s it… the first time… I’m seated on top of him on the sofa. Age 12, keen as fuck. The last time, I’m pinned against the wall. Age 16, repulsed, scared, totally had enough. In between I’m sat at the computer doing homework with his hand down my pants. And the worst time, I’m lying on my floor trousers around my ankles, him doing new things to me as I watch from above like an out of body experience.

That’s about it for memories. I’m not sure what use speaking them is. The pain attached to them never gets any less. I go long periods without it at the surface but then it all floods back. And then it goes again, which is all I can hang on to as I ride this out. Sure, I’ll look at going back to therapy. Daddy said I should and I do as he says, always. But I don’t see how speaking the unspeakable will help. It won’t change that it happened and that it hurts. Nothing will.


ABDL Hypnosis MP3 By ABJane

Hello lovely followers.

I just wanted to tell you all about my exciting new project! I am making ABDL Hypnosis tracks for regression, acceptance, arousal and all of the above! My first track, a 5 minute demo, is available on Etsy.

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When I’ve hit my target sales for this track, I will release the next one, and onwards. All customers are welcome to send me feedback, requests and ideas so that the future tracks are tailored to YOU. You can do this through the Etsy messaging service.

The future tracks will be 15 minutes long, or more, and will be rather more expensive because of this. However I will be buying a new microphone and the most hypnotic of backing tracks, so the quality will be better than ever. This said, the 8 lovely babies who have bought my demo so far have found it delightfully trancey… so do grab your bargain and become part of my Beta community so that you get to have your desires input into my creations.

So with no further ado, here is the bio for my first ABDL hypnosis MP3…

Who owns you? Mummy does.

What part of you does she own? All of you.

Mummy infects your thoughts and takes control of your mind.

Submit helplessly.

Be transformed from a strong man into a submissive baby.

Don’t worry, I may be deep inside your head, but I’ll take perfect care of you from here.

Climb onto my lap and let grown up cares melt away.

This is a 5 minute demo track. It features my voice superimposed on the most relaxing music.

Let my words relax and regress you to a place where adult worries don’t exist.

Serving suggestion: best enjoyed in a diaper with your pacifier and plushie at hand.