The Semi-Erotic Fantasies Of A Wage Slave - Tae' B

11/26/2020 – 

              “Do you consider yourself to be a bad person? 

              In moments of panic, yes. That’s my answer. Am I actually bad? Probably. I think I’m addicted to pornagraphy[sic]. If being able to watch it- if my option to view it was taken away, I’d be ruined. 

              I want to mark down the day of 11/26/2020. 

              I don’t want to jerk off anymore. I want to like normal things again. 

              I’ve begun to romanticize my own assault. Not actual assault. But the theory of it. Getting assaulted in a back alleyway. Having some sleezy guy force me onto my stomach and use my uterus as a urinal. That has begun to appeal to me. Submission has begun to appeal to me. A knife in my stomach, repeatedly– I think that’s my brain’s last ditch attempt at being attracted to normalcy. Not the violence and stabbing, but the attempt at being the one stabbed rather than the one stabbing. Murder feels inevitable. 

              [There is a page turn here.] 

              I got accepted into EKU.” 

              Prior is an excerpt from my diary approximately three or so months before my most recent stint with being institutionalized. Four years have passed since my teal Paper Mate gel pen hit the notebook and scrawled the words above. It has been four-hundred and fifty-nine (459) days since I last jerked off to visually stimulating pornography. And I write this after having relapsed. 

              It’s atypical for women under the age of twenty to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder. At the time of writing the prior entry, I was seventeen years old. There were three people in the room during my diagnosis. Myself, the male doctor, and the female nurse that had to make sure the doctor wouldn’t violently rape me. This isn’t a ward they give to people with records or anything. As a woman with a diagnosis (vague) your chances just get incredibly bad. When men hear you’re bipolar, it alters something within them. Some neurons make a connection and their hands act quicker than their brains. The nurse isn’t even particularly there to stop the doctor if he were to rape me, simply report back whether or not I egg him on. 

              It is at this moment that I become uniquely disconnected from every woman on earth. I am no longer a woman. I am mentally unwell in a professional setting, as diagnosed by a professional, professionally. He tacks on an Attention Deficit diagnosis, rehashes the Obsessive Compulsive one, and tops me off with a couple of expensive drugs. 

              It is somewhere in this reddening string of information that he implies to me I am lucky I’ve never been sexually assaulted. 

              I go back out to the common area and eat my fries in silence. Despite all of this, I am delighted. If admitting to my porn addiction was all it took to get a diagnosis, I could’ve done that seven years prior and shaved less skin off my own back. Of course, it’s not that easy. I’d been fighting with adults for most of my life about how I wasn’t wrong in the normal, weepy, bitchy, bloody pussy way they all seemed to think I was. My disease was generational, cast in dead dogs being slammed against truck beds for eating chickens, and guns being held to the heads of spouses for chewing too loud. The doctors were the last to find out. 

              Admittedly, in comparison to those before me, my repertoire of bipolar outbursts lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. When juxtaposed with throwing your pregnant wife out of a moving car and stealing plane parts from the air force, my impulse control was embarrassingly average. The apple had in fact fallen farther from the tree, despite my mothers protests, by pure chance of me having a vagina. I would never steal plane parts from the air force. I’d look ant-ish near such things, and it would gross me out if I stumbled by a mirror. 

              I’d also been a functioning porn addict for a decade at that point. I’d been hiding videos of women liquidating in other women’s holes, fearful of my mother coming across the unclearable search history on the small red laptop she purchased me to play Flash games on. And flash games I did play. 

              That didn’t remove my wood chip covered hand from my Princess Ariel themed jeans, though. I recall my mother walking in on me touching myself multiple times. Porn detached. I could not, for the life of me, keep my hands to others. 

              I recall her holding my (probably) grool covered hand as she walked me into my elementary school. As I’m standing next to her, thinking about the yummy cafeteria food, she asks my after-school programmer if this was normal. Just how much I did it. 

              I cannot remember under what circumstances my mother decided to deny that woman’s advice and exclaim to me, “God, I knew that shit wasn’t fucking normal!” but I typically source this quote as the time I realized God was going to kill me for this behavior. We skipped far past blindness and hairy palms– God had it out for my six year old pussy. I was going to die if I continued to touch myself. My addiction was terminal. 

              At age seventeen this mindset had become ridiculous… sort of. Living with my hand down my pants for seven or so hours a day didn’t necessarily give me time to consider my biblical repercussions. I’d also been an atheist for seven years, so I had long since coped with hell. I think, other than having a single mother, porn is what drew me to atheism. 

              My suicidal machinations meant I needed to feel good to live. OCD draws funny red strings around those silly thoughts. I was playing priest by myself, no older boy to groom me. They didn’t need to. 

              “Well,” I’d say, looking at my chunky little face in the bathroom mirror. “God sent Judas to hell not because he betrayed Jesus, but because he killed himself.” 

                          “But I want to kill myself.” I’d say in turn. This created the problem. 

                           “Why am I so sad?” she’d ask. “How can I be happy like I’m supposed to be?” “Have you tried jerking off again?” said the demon inside of me that my mother was certain existed. It sounds just like myself– he’s just responsible for my fall damage.

                          “How would that help?” 

              “Well, if God hated Judas because he killed himself, I think he can forgive a little flicking if you stay alive.” So I became addicted to porn. You know, for God. And then I quit God. You know, for porn.