VANESSA'S STUFF @sharingvanessa - Tumblr Blog

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I am finding it a bit hard to be alive.

I can’t find truth anywhere, and i’m afraid to die.

some times, like right now, i want to cut myself so badly.

its not out of sadness, despair, no.

i just am really bored, and want to feel something.

i’m lazy, and i like to see blood and feel pain.

I could experience “feeling” in some other way, but no way will be intense enough.

The worst part is the scars. Not for me, but for other people.

I can’t fuck for at least a few weeks. I just don’t want too go to the trouble of explaining why i do what i do. So many people wouldn’t understand why i do what i do,

I just don’t feel enough to stay motivated. I want to hurt myself for fun.

I want to ruin an older man’s life, aren't I horrible?

I don’t feel proud, I feel upset and excited.

I am so young and beautiful, your dick gets so hard. Right?

Do you text me with your wife in the room?

I truthfully don’t know.

You could be alone, with a dog, or nothing.

I have no idea but I don’t care.

Just surrender your most precious morals to enjoy a moment with me.

To enjoy a moment of me.

I’ve gone too far!

Lord have mercy and focus me.

I’m still coming 30 minutes into post masterbation, a ceremony my body forces me to partake in. If they knew about this i’d be immediately thrown into the hole, or worse, put on as a slave. Ever since the integration, robots have been appearing in very unlikely places. Robots can tell other robots from human people. Please, don’t ask me how. A year ago, i would have had to kill you on the spot for already having too much information. But now; pleasured and broken, it makes little difference to unveil the secrets that i used to clutch so tightly.

If a robot takes one look at another robot it immediately knows it’s character. Unlike robots, humans cannot tell a robot from a human. This allows us to slink into character and comfortably observe and act on the mission. I haven’t had contact with them for 9 months, 3 months after I started leaking.

Leaking sums up my existence now. Fluids and hot long pools of watery mucus seem to be infinitely flowing. There was a warning, followed by a recall, for all broken bodies. If the leaked came with human emotion, you're expected to abort the mission and kill your own human body.

From there on your wavelength will do the rest. The management has suggested ways of ending. They favour the silent, unnoticeable ways. downing was highly suggested.

They are morally against using the Reboot Sequence. They don’t believe in restarting. They don’t tell us why.

I know i can get back to my pure form, which tastes less of salt and smells less like bile. Pinpointing the exact moment of my downfall is difficult since i have made many mistakes. Being inside a human enclosure you can start thinking like a human. In the training sessions it was much easier, to stick your tongue out like a feeler and get nothing but stale air and a gawking “What the Fuck is wrong with that person” In return. In the stimulation room, we are put into a multitude of human tests. But they don’t know what its like to seep so deeply into your defend self.

How to deal with people who feel comfortable in sexuality

Let me be clear, it is a privilege to hang out with me. It is a sweet heaven for you to spend a moment with me.

Let me say this, I am not perfect. I had a certain flare up of derma. I am usually very good at controlling my hands, but I know, not negatively but precautionary, that I will always return to derma. Or derma will always return to me. It will take a long time to completely reverse the habits, but it goes away in large periods. I am in controll for months at a time. But then, just recently. My thoughts started to change after just one pick. I was looking at my skin and feeling bad about myself again, picking when I know I CAN put my hand down. Again though, even with the most recent bout of derma, I refuse to fully step into the cycle of shame. I will not get stressed out about my skin.

I spent a night with a boy. We were at a hotel post fucking and I needed a shower. The makeup came off. The skin was not in the best shape. Sometimes it’s hard to tell because you can really think you look a lot worse than you do.

He said nothing, he kissed me, and touched me, and loved me, and looked at me, and held my hand. It's late, write more tomorrow.

Fashion Style

I'm jerking you off in the drivers seat of my parked car. My freckled arm peeking above my windbreaker to grab your cock. You ask me if I could take the windbreaker off because it looks like an old mans death bed windbreaker. I think that's funny so I scamper the windbreaker farther down my hand, covering it completely. He doesn't think it's very funny, and slides it back up. He must think it's a bit funny though, as the erection still firmly stands. "That would be a fun game" I say "To see how close you could get to Cumming when I'm in an old man disguise" He stops, his face turns sideways and crunches. I really thought he would be ready for that one; I thought he would be quicker with a response. I thought he could handle it! "That's fucked up" "Oh, you're fucked up."

tropicri

sharingvanessa

not mine

My time will run out and i will be done, dusty and unable to keep up with the forward motions.

You’ll see me there, in some futuristic spectacle. I know, i just fucking know, i’ll be left with 1% conciousness, just enough to hear the onlookers whipsers, just enough to know that i haven’t died yet.

The robotic tourist guide will start up again, after the sanctioned 45 minute robot break he has. His words, forever repeating “Here is a bog lady from the 21th century!” Mothers will sheild eyes. Curious children will peek through them, to catch of glimpse of the metal and leather embedded into the ducts of my skin. My morning mist outfit was my last.

The mothers will look and think, My God, what was she like as a young woman? Was she beautiful underneath all that bog, leather and metal? Did she love? Did she accomplish? Was she smart enough to mesh these two ideas?

What they don’t know is that i have always been this way. Bogged at birth. My soul has always had a snag, I have jumped deep into pools of blood and spent full days immersed in liquid glass, admiring the permanence of darkness. The scratches the well walls leave on my hands, they remind me i can feel so much. I could spend weeks in the dark, crying and praying.

I don’t have a rope hidden anywhere. I switch so fast between heaven and hell it would disgust you. I can close my eyes and be riding a pony, with cotton candy clouds swirling around me, the dewy grass tickling my sun kissed toes. I close them again and i’m back, savouring the sound of every animal’s most painful cries and trying to capture the feeling on a paper screen.

You pick me up in that big yellow school bus, and i can tell you just got it cleaned, i will give you money for that.

You park it just outside the coldasac, on the edge of the last piece of ice.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and wave, i’m coming! i’m coming!

I slam the screen door and run with my chunky boots to the foot of the driveway.

I dive into the water that seperates us.

The first merge is like a a wake up call.

I wiggle around the shards of ice leftover by winters visit, i find a log and wrestle with it until i am resting on it.

I look for your body and i see it on top of the bus in a position like sailor jerrys, your beard stained in mustard and your hat twisted backwards.

You lower your glasses a few notches and look in my direction to say

“You know, Vanessa, that water looks dirty.”

At this point, i have mentally already pushed you into the water. I say nothing.

my OCD story.

I have a form of OCD called dermatillomania. This is an overwhelming compulsion to pick at your skin.

I remember once working at a retail store. It was closing time and the staff was all in the staff room. We are all waiting to leave and one girl is washing all the plates, tidying up.

She says

“Sorry guys, i am SOOoOOoOo OCD when it comes to cleaning!!!!! i swear i am so ocd i have to be so neat and tidy with everything in my house!”

I was laughing so, so hard inside at this.

At this time in my life, my compulsions knew no bounds, i was “mangled” in my opinion. I was in HIDING. Compulsive picking at my body. Wounds. Huge wounds. Lathered in heavy make-up. Fresh and new in therapy. Fresh and new to my OCD diagnoses, and here is a stupid fucking little girl, laughing at my condition, claiming it as the reason for her Positive behaviours.

It was funny to me.

Once i had picked so, so badly at my hands it looked like i had been in a chemical accident or something. Once at a party a boy looked at me and said “ I don’t know how you could do that to yourself. That is so disgusting, i would never do that!”

I was silent, because i agreed. It was disgusting. I felt shame everyday for it. I should have spit on him, in retrospect.

It’s hard to say when it started. I would pick out my hairs as a kid. I would bite my nails all the time. A ton of body focus repetitive movements.

The shame from skin picking kept me from seeking help and telling anyone other than my parents about the problem. It is a dirty, perhaps disgusting habit to some. Society shames spots of imperfection, and so did i. I thought i was a fucking piece of shit, to be honest. Physically and mentally. I thought i just sucked because i couldn't stop.

Soon i was harming myself in other ways and starting to feel suicidal. I started to seek out help from school counsellors at the time. I would get advice like “Try sitting on your hands!” “Try playing with a gadget or something!”

I tried these things. It did nothing to solve my problem.

I would tell them, even though i want to stop picking, i. can’t. stop. i physically could not put my hand down, even though my inner self was screaming “STOP!!!!!!” my hand would keep pinching, keep digging deeper.

I remember the lowest point. I would not leave my bed. I would not brush my hair. I would not change my clothes. I was physically and mentally DESTROYED. Like a giant self induced rash all over my body. I called my mom at work barely able to talk through my crying. I need help, its getting bad, i want to die. I don’t want to leave the house. I want to heal. I need to heal or Die. My mom and dad listened to me.

My thoughts would fight against themselves. On one hand, i would scream at myself to stop picking while picking. On the other hand, i would do intense justifications. “It doesn’t feel tight to stop right now. It feels like you have done only half a job. You need to finish the job. You need to just take that one layer of skin off. You need to just dig into that one corner and it will look better and feel better. Just finish this one spot, please!”

I would pick in the middle of the night when i woke up to go to the bathroom.

I once had a dream i ripped my skin off my entire face and body like one whole sheet of human rice paper.

Once my dad was giving me a ride home from work and i started picking. He physically removed my hand. I raised my hand after a few seconds to continue picking. He hit it away again. I was getting angry.

He said “Just try and stop right now. Just stop picking for this moment.”

He held my hand down.

I accepted this.

With his hand holding mine down, i started to hyperventilate and have a panic attack, crying.

My dad was so shocked.

I did not understand this emotion at the time. There was a hurting inside of me when i was forced to stop picking. The feeling was like A bubbling explosion inside. A hot nervous must-take-action feeling; like your mom is about to die in front of you, and you NEED to save her but you are not allowed too. That is honestly how it feels. It feels like masturbation. It feels like an edging orgasm. You don’t stop masturbating until you orgasm. You don’t stop picking until you see and feel blood and pain.

I had an anxiety attack in the car. My compulsive behaviour was being blocked physically. This was a huge step in realizing the severity of my problem.

I went to therapy and it changed my life.

Dermatillomania no longer controls me.

I have come to terms with the fact that i will always have urges, and some days will be better than others.

But i will NEVER go back into the cycle of shame. I will never feel shame for my disorder or the damage that has stuck around. It is important to beat the cycle of self hate and shame.

I would pick consciously and subconsciously. I still raise my hand every 5 minutes seconds to pick (instead of every three second) most days ;). The difference now though, is i can put it down 1000000000000000000000000 times easier.

I still have obbsessive thoughts over my skin. I still crave granite skin and get upset when i see imperfections. But i am aware that those are my obsessive thoughts talking. I can deal with them. Compulsions are very easy to control for me right now, but the obsession still can clog up my thoughts.

I was put on anti deppresents but i am now off them and moved to medical marijuana.

Overall Therapy was the best medicine. I strongly encourage you to get therapy if you struggle with skin picking and it is taking over your life. They give you the tools you need to deal with this problem.

A support system is also key. My family is the best family. If your family isn’t the best family, I’m here for you. I am here to talk about your skin. You can come to me. Ive been there and through it all. The bfrb community is a beautiful community.

Aaaahhhh..it feels good to tell my story.

#dermatillomania #ocd #derma #skinpicking #exortion #trich #bfrb #skin #skin picking #picking #compulsive #healing

You can’t grow Bananas here

But a plantation grows in our oasis

Low and Ripe Hanging Fruit

Our Imagination Races

You can’t let the dogs out

Without Telling Them to “Sit”

But we own monkeys

That understand the toilet shit

You can’t Be Inspired

By Blood Stains on the Sidewalk

But the grey and red combined

Can Heal Our Heal Writers Block

In Preschool I decided to have a crush on a boy because he looked like Corey Mathews from Boy Meets World.

The red hair marked him like scar’s scar, I would make a habit of keeping track of him, I could crane my neck and see a spark of that red firey hair regardless of where i was. The sandbox, The Colouring table, The monkey bars. I could find him.

I invited him to my birthday party at the biggest, coolest, most fly jungle gym in the city.

There I was, in full tilt child beast mode, braids swinging, screaming and flying around, unstoppable and eager to play a part in the contained chaos.

Someone taps my shoulder.

“Hey Vanessa, Happy birthday! See Corey over there? Would you show him that the glow in the dark slide is fun and not scary?”

She points to corey. There he is, jammed in the corner on the floor, face and hair deep crimson red, chest heaving and nose leaking. Tears and Crying.

I took him on the slide but i didn’t have a crush anymore.

In first grade I decided to have a crush on a boy because he was funny and talked shit to the teacher. We had played community soccer together the previous year. We were an inclusive pair because of this. We would say to eachother, “Hey, remember when you scored that goal in the last game? Remember when you ate 10 orange slices with the rind still attached?”

The crush went on for a while. He sat in the desk behind me and pulled my hair, whispering crude jokes in my ear. The jokes were never about me. We liked to test eachother and tell eachother shocking stories. He once said to me that it was possible to get your Ass peirced.

In third grade one of the teachers was reading a story about two parents Divorcing. My crush held his head down during the story. He put up his hand and asked the teacher is she would stop reading it, beacuse it was making him sad. She asked “Why is it making you sad?” He replied “That is my family in the book.” He stayed in that recess.

Through 5th to 6th, i had my first real, real, real crush. He was polish and very good at sports. We would walk home together slowly, racing, doing somersaults, stealing eachothers hats, sitting on curbs and going through his wallet. I remember he had some funny cards in his wallet. One said “Female Body Inspector” I had a secret crush on him. He would show me his abs on MSN messenger. I never showed my tits because i didn’t have any. He ended up dating my best friend for a short time. I cried about it.

In Early Junior high i had crushes on slews on boys in higher grades, I would dream of them while listening to Chris Brown. I had an intense desire to hold an older boys attention. I think they know this. They would play with me. They would toy with me.

In Ninth Grade I found love in an unlikely place.

It rocked my world for years to come.

That’s all I want to say about that one.

I found my now dead boyfriend in tenth grade. We were twins, though black and white, night and day. He was an inspiration to me, his soul, a beautiful thing. He saw my shell and he cracked it. A twitchy lost and underdeveloped girl, brought to life by a beautiful creative force of a man. I Can’t think of this too much either, because i don’t want to cry about it any-more.

Please God Forgive Me.

Please God Take My Guilt Away.

Eleventh and Twelve I started to even out. I didn’t have a mate in those years. I dated a boy for 3 days and had sex with another boy during that time. I was frothing at the mouth for dick.

During Graduation I had a steady friend who doubled as a pleasure-maker. He was my bestfriend, no question. He inspired me to be kind and natural. To put my most positive foot forward. To love with no boundaries.

Something happened and we dissolved easily, both not wanting to commit.

to be continued