interdimensionalobserver's Blog

I just read a post on another website of a mom saying "Help! My 9 y/o son has a diaper fetish! What do I do?!" Got any cyanide capsules? Do him a huge favor and end it now.

Then I read another message board-- okay, just to briefly explain, these were all search results for "preverbal sexual abuse" and "diaper fetish"- just looking to find out if there's any correlation, since it makes the most sense to me that someone masturbates a preverbal child in diapers and voila! Diaper fetish-- anyway, this was some kind of women only message board where some chick was saying her boyfriend has a diaper fetish. The responses were basically "Ewww! What a sicko! I bet he was sexually abused! He sounds like a sicko! Leave him!" and all the other shit society really thinks about male sexual abuse victims, but pretends they don't.

And then another one, on yet another message board, who said he's: 1. Gay, 2. A pedophile, 3. Not sure if his dad abused him but partially remembers him playing with his penis, and 4. says he fantasizes about being 4 again so that he can allow his dad to rape him. Because of this, he says he wants to kill himself. He said he's never victimized any children, but would kill himself before it ever came to that, and in fact, that's why he wants to do it now.

All this has left me realizing suicide makes more sense than ever to me. I'm tired of waking up. I may not be a pedophile, but I will never escape, never experience joy again, and I can't face another day of pretending to enjoy anything. I don't want to be alive anymore. I will always be alone. The next best thing to having someone to be with- getting high- is something society is very offended by. Society: "Hey, you can't do drugs! Those are gonna kill you! How dare you!" Me: "It makes me happy and I'm not hurting anyone" Society: "Well, that shit's gonna kill you!" Me: "What are you gonna do if I don't stop?" Society: "Kill you" Me: "Well, what do you do for pleasure?" Society: "we don't. Life's not about pleasure. It's about contributing to society! You owe us!" Me: "So, you never have sex?" Society: "Well, yes, actually. In fact, you should get a girlfriend and have sex instead" Me: "I have a diaper fetish, and I don't want to lead anyone on, or lie to them about that" Society: "Ewww! You perv! You should kill yourself!" Me: "So, do drugs, then?" Society: "No! Drugs are bad! That shit will kill you!" Me: "So now you don't want me to kill myself?" Round and round the hypocrisy goes. Once you're ruined- TRULY at the very core of your being ruined- there is no point to life. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time, to when all of my peers were children, and do whatever necessary to ruin them this same way. Fuck the world. Fuck God. Fuck society. Fuck "normal"- whatever the fuck that is. Fuck whoever made me this way. Fuck God for making me the wrong gender. Fuck men. Fuck women. I hate all of you. From here on out, it's just gonna be about collecting my thoughts, writing them down, and finding and obtaining the best method to do it. And in the meantime, not giving a shit how much society cares about me ruining my body. Cuz you all care sooo fucking much about me, afterall. Burn in hell, you fuckers.

So, I just read the only serious psychological study I've come across about the correlation between paraphilic infantilism and childhood sexual abuse. The CSA group were the most likely to identify their preferred age of regression as toddlerhood (me), most likely to shun sexuality/sexual acts during regression (me. Icky.), and most likely to feel they'd always had these desires (as opposed to those whose interest was formed in teen years, for instance). The CSA group were a pretty small minority, but I agree with the (as yet untested) theory that the percentage is much higher due to forgotten preverbal-aged abuse not being counted. I guess I'll never be certain this is the case for me, though. And now my "want-to-be-murdered/want-to-bash-my-brains-out-on-the-wall" compulsion is feeling quite triggered. I'm so tired of being a broken record. Oh well. I'm getting a therapist soon, ironically in the same city as the scene of the crime(s).