So, here it is—attention, my fat belly! I promised in my last post that no one would ever see it. But then I thought—this page is for me, and I’ll use it for myself, so why should I feel ashamed?
I wish I could say that I hate what I see and despise living with it every day. But that would be dishonest and exaggerated. I see a person with excess weight, maybe even first-degree obesity. I see the effects of a sedentary lifestyle and, even more so, the effects of cortisol.
I don’t hate or despise this person. If I saw these photos online, I’d probably stare at them for a while, thinking how beautiful this nymph is—a literal goddess—and then save them to my gallery to admire later. In the photos, it looks beautiful. On me? No.
A fat belly, fat legs, fat arms. An old, faded tattoo. Years of battling excess weight and a lifetime of EDs. Fasting and losing weight down to skin and bones with grueling daily workouts, a fleeting glimpse of happiness and fake beauty—only to gain it all back and become fat again within a couple of years. Hopelessness, but also personal growth.
Now I don’t have an ED—I’m in remission. I don’t binge until it hurts, I don’t purge, I don’t starve. I go to the gym. If I weigh myself, it’s only to adjust the fitness equipment. I buy pretty clothes in my size. I do my makeup. It seems like I’m beautiful, and I truly believe that.
But it’s just the surface. Underneath, I know how sad I feel. It’s sad to see folds, cellulite, a thick, flabby belly. It’s sad to see bitten-down nails, scars, and dark pigmentation in my groin from pulling out ingrown hairs. A wretched pig, a heap of folds.
I’m a liar. I’m pretending, trying to fool myself, but it’s not working. Maybe I really am just disgusting. I’m used to this feeling—it’s not sharp or shocking anymore. It’s just normal. It’s such a part of me that I barely even understand it anymore.
At least I managed to squeeze into these tiny thong panties—barely. Unfortunately, when I bought this set, only the tiniest size was left, but I bought them for the sake of the matching set 🥴.
Well, I don’t think I’m exactly model material (no one will ever make me take a photo with my stomach exposed), but it still turned out pretty decent. Either way, it was interesting to see myself from a different perspective.
Wonderful. On top of my idiot brother, my moron of a father has also shown up at home. I hate that, after tormenting the family for over a decade and breaking us completely—while literally living with another woman—he still allows himself to come into our house, drink coffee, stomp around, make a mess, and slam doors. But he’s tied to my mom through work and helps with house repairs when needed, so we’re still dependent on him.
Meanwhile, my brother and his daughter are waiting for his wife—they’ve decided to stay the night. Just like that, without any warning. This pathological audacity is both paralyzing and horrifying.
I’m going to the garage to help my friend change the tires on her car. I feel so bad that my mom is stuck in this madhouse for the evening. We had such nice plans.
My friends, this is going to be a post full of pure hatred. I sincerely hate my older brother. I can’t fathom how someone can grow up to be such a spineless, shameless creature who completely changes his personality depending on the woman he’s dating, while being such a vain attention-seeker who thrives on validation from incompetent people. It infuriates me that he went to a “gentle” kindergarten where he didn’t even want to leave because he felt so comfortable. Meanwhile, I was in a kindergarten where they wouldn’t let us go to the bathroom during nap time, and those who misbehaved were publicly humiliated by having their underwear pulled down in front of everyone.
He went to a regular school with project weeks, shorter days, lenient and kind teachers, where getting a grade of 6 (on a ten-point scale) was considered amazing. I, on the other hand, went to a school with 8 -9 lessons a day where teachers mocked you in front of the entire class if you got an 8. My brother did whatever he wanted—skipping classes, trying new hobbies, hanging out with friends, playing computer games. My every step was controlled by our parents. My free time was taken up by tutors hired to pull my grades from 8 to 9, and the rest of the time I did homework. I skipped school only once in 12 years.
Then my brother entered medical school, where students had endless chances to pass exams, and even there he managed to drink, do drugs, throw wild parties in the apartment our parents bought for us, and get married to his first wife, who also started living completely at our parents’ expense. Yet, he had the audacity to blame our parents for not giving him enough.
When I finished school, I also moved into that apartment, but it was a disaster—a literal trash heap. I couldn’t even live there and returned to my hometown, where I enrolled in biology. After my brother finally vacated the apartment, I moved in and entered the same medical school. By then, the university had become much stricter—only three attempts for each test, more material, and a much harder program. I dove into the material and got excellent results, all while dealing with the slow, painful death of my grandfather and my drug-addict father finding a new woman. All of it crushed me, and I ended up with clinical depression, even though I had never planned to take a break from my studies.
Now, I’m lying upstairs feeling bitter. I can hear SpongeBob blasting at full volume downstairs because my brother and his 1.5-year-old daughter showed up unannounced again. Neither my mom nor I have the nerve to just kick him out. Unfortunately, the men in my family have no sense of tact or ability to think ahead; they only care about themselves. My brother doesn’t consider that my mom worked all week—he doesn’t care. He’ll bring his kid whenever he wants, and if she dares to ask him to schedule visits in advance, he gets offended and starts a real drama. For context, this “man” is over 30 years old.
He destroys everything around him. The guest room where I usually take photos is trashed, and he doesn’t even have the decency to make the bed properly when he leaves. And as a doctor? He’s brilliant—he literally wrote on Instagram that he cured his depression by plunging into cold water (I doubt someone without a brain can even have depression). Once, while talking to a patient on the phone, instead of answering her question about side effects, he said, “Well, life has side effects.”
This guy can barely name a couple of neurotransmitters, his first wife wrote his thesis for him, yet he’s a wildly popular doctor. Why? Because he’s a tall, well-built man with a beard who spouts meaningless but grandiose statements. WTF?
I usually try not to think about this, but still—how? Call me hysterical or jealous if you want—this is my page, and I have every right—but he doesn’t deserve anything he has. His success is a mix of luck, good timing, people who carried him, and pathological narcissism. Meanwhile, I work so hard, and my achievements feel like tiny steps forward. Most of the time, I crumble under the weight of how much I do and how much I care about doing it well and qualitatively.
I know none of this makes sense, and the world often forgives negligence in favor of attractive traits, but I can’t help it. I envy my brother. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could feel 100% confident in any idiotic thing I say. I wish I could believe the world owes me everything. I wish I could throw tantrums and guilt-trip people for not giving me what I want.
My fruit salad! I didn’t wash the apples well enough because I thought they had a natural pigment, but it turned out to be wax and dirt. Guess I’ll die.
Sorry not sorry for my fabulous, incredible, and utterly breathtaking pajama pants, which are hiding underneath them no less incredible high-waisted cotton underwear 🥴
Last night, I had an absurdly long dream about Zelensky and Valuev coming to clean out the sewer system at my summer house. Valuev, in a rather heroic display, literally descended into the manhole and cleared it with his body, while Zelensky stood above, keeping an eye on him to decide when to pull him back out. To make things even stranger, my entire family and extended relatives gathered to watch this spectacle.
I have serious questions for my brain. Why can’t it give me dreams about, say, flying on a dragon, a romantic encounter with a dark lord, breathtaking landscapes, or mastering new, fascinating skills? They say dreams reflect what’s on your mind. I never realized my subconscious was this deeply preoccupied with politics and plumbing.
Went to the gym with my mom today. I hadn’t been there for two months because of my illness. It’s nice to feel that my body can still lift a few kilograms. I don’t have any hopes of losing weight, but moving and keeping myself in relative shape feels really good. It was scary when I first got sick and felt that working out didn’t bring me any joy, only drained my energy. Today, it wasn’t like that, and I’m really happy about it.
I’m still learning to draw and write with my left hand. We got a lot of snow—it’s insanely beautiful. My brother’s dog has been staying with me for the second week now. I wonder if they still remember her?
Hello, my friends! Since I’ve gained a few followers recently, I thought I’d share a bit about why I’m on OnlyFans. In my very first post, I mentioned that I planned to use this page mainly for myself—to share my thoughts, the things that weigh on me, and what I keep hidden from people in real life. This platform gives me a sense of safety and anonymity, which is why I chose it. But recently, something changed, and I found myself wanting some virtual company here, so I broke my own rule and started looking to connect.
As you can probably tell by my figure, I’m definitely not starving, so I don’t see this platform as a way to earn money. I lack the courage or skills to promote myself here. I’m quite shy and awkward, and also very self-conscious about my body. Posting a photo in underwear was a huge challenge for me. I rarely wear makeup or dress up somehow pretty, I don’t own much aesthetic clothing or lingerie, and I’ve never really posted my photos online before. I don’t see this space turning into a commercial page where I’d sell anything intimate.
But, in any case, I’m always happy just to chat, get to know new people, and give or receive a bit of support. Love you all, kisses to everyone❤️❤️❤️
I’m practicing writing letters with my left hand before bed. It’s been a long time since I felt this calm. In case you’re curious—my eyes are always lined because it’s permanent makeup. I was too lazy to draw anything with my left hand today, but that’s okay. There’s always time to do it later.
I absolutely love cleaning floors! And just cleaning at home in general. There’s something so satisfying about the order and organization, the harmonious flow of effort leading to something useful and complete. Each step naturally follows the last. My love of order naturally led to a love of anatomy in university, while everyone else seemed to struggle with it. I studied it like I was reading literature—no matter how you look at it, everything just works.
In previous posts, I’ve written about my persistently negative feelings toward my university; the curriculum feels like it was thrown together by a neighbor lounging with a bottle of cologne in the bushes under the window. The sheer volume of material is enormous (anyone who’s studied medicine in the former Soviet countries knows this). Every second professor thinks they’re a genius, having written their own textbook for the course—often a blend of poorly translated Russian, English, and German textbooks that contradict each other and themselves (this sounds exaggerated, but you can literally trace sources by Googling phrases that have been directly translated through Google Translate🫠).
But anatomy… there’s no way to ruin it. Like an engine, a car, or an airplane, it just works. With its million intricate details, anatomy justifies every second spent learning it. It isn’t mindless memorization of someone’s nonsense, but a science of deeply embedded logic, where any mistake or guesswork would stand out in the otherwise perfect symphony.
I’m really, really sorry—I honestly didn’t expect something like this to end up on my page 👉🏻👈🏻🥺 I guess I’m in a super good mood, and I feel like my makeup turned out really nice. I was just looking at the pages of people who looked so beautiful, and I wanted to try too. I just hope I don’t start regretting this photoshoot later. But I really, really love the first photo; I absolutely adore it. Thank you to everyone watching, and sorry again!
My drawing today with my left and right hand. For some reason, the randomizer really loves insects. I keep getting messages suggesting I promote my account, and it’s honestly making me curious.
I heard that OnlyFans is for posting explicit content, so I’m sharing this extremely erotic (no) photo without underwear. I was so lazy to get dressed after my shower that I went to carry pellets for the boiler like this.
So I traced this irrational pattern of avoiding and realized that my already low self-esteem seems to have taken a sharp, pathological nosedive for some reason (maybe due to medication). And, well, there’s actually a good chance that someone were genuinely interested in talking to me, though it’s hard for me to accept that. But either way, everything that happened yesterday was completely irrational and unreasonable. And it honestly bothers me because all my life I’ve been very tough and had a clear understanding of my emotions, the rational aspects, the objective and subjective sides of things. But in recent months, due to illness, it feels like I’ve lost that skill and can’t understand what’s going on—almost like my own mind has become unreadable to me. And the worst part for me is that I always try to appear really cool to others, like this kind of superhuman persona, and suddenly I’ve become this cringey version of myself. It scares me because what I fear and dread most in life is being out of place and awkward.
A few days ago, I met someone online—a guy who, from the start, seemed genuinely charming. He had humor, intelligence, creativity. We started messaging, but I was too insistent, too focused on myself and what interested me rather than on him. Without really noticing, I kept pressing forward, oblivious to how it might seem. He answered regularly, even asked questions, but eventually, I felt a sharp pang of awareness that I wasn’t truly interesting to him—that he was replying mostly out of politeness.
Yet, through him, I felt something delicate, a strange kindness from the world itself—a feeling I could hardly bear, something both tender and cutting. In the past, feeling even a glimmer of that delicate kindness would have kept me lingering for years, clinging on just to experience it again. But that longing has cost me more than I ever expected. And yesterday, I felt that same sensation rising again. It wasn’t about romance or attraction; it was about the way a stranger’s simple decency can reach you. For him, it was probably just common courtesy, yet in me, it awakened something raw and guarded. A part of me felt torn—one moment wanting to lash out at this gentle hand, the next to flee from it entirely.
So, what did I do? I told him I didn’t want to talk anymore, made it as clear as possible, leaving no room for misunderstanding. I could have tried to explain, to ask how he felt, but I didn’t. It was just me, acting on impulse, already overthinking after only two days of talking. I had been forward enough, already sent him foolish messages. I ran from a connection that hadn’t even been made. But the fear of being intrusive, of being unwanted, felt so much worse than any regret. The dread of seeming pathetic—it’s almost unbearable.
This kind of feeling doesn’t happen often, but every time it does, it’s as if I lose a little something. My chest fills up with scar tissue, leaving less and less space for a heart.
I can admit to myself now that he might have actually found me interesting, that he could have been genuinely open to getting to know me. If that’s true, then I truly regret leaving so abruptly.
When I draw with both my left and right hands, I choose an animal for the task using a random word generator. Today, I got campodea. I felt annoyed and disappointed, thinking, “What a disgusting cockroach.” I would have preferred to draw a wolf or a deer. But a task is a task. While drawing, I looked at photos of the campodea and started to feel sorry for it. This tiny living spark, almost transparent, just trying to find food and hide from predators. Such a delicate creature. And here I am, some arrogant person who decided to draw it, causing more harm than good, and thinking I have the right to find it repulsive. Now, I actually love the campodea.
My father became an addict more than 15 years ago, starting with prescription drugs, as he himself is a psychiatrist specializing in addiction treatment. Then he became an alcoholic and smoked inside the house, then hit my mom and me during an alcohol- and drug-induced psychosis, cheated on her, and left to live with a new woman—someone troubled, who’d also used drugs with her former partners—all while my mom’s father was dying. As my father puts it, he felt “empty,” so he started using. This makes me sick. It’s absurd to me because he had everything—a fantastic job with a high salary and flexible hours, a wife who also worked in psychiatry, constantly developed new hobbies, pursued interesting activities, and planned things for the family like trips, events, and special getaways for just the two of them. He had healthy kids—kind, talented, polite, helpful, and grateful children. A beautiful apartment, a private home, money for any hobby. It was idyllic. Literally a paradise on earth. I would look at my classmates’ families and think, “How lucky I am; I live in heaven.” And yet he felt “empty.”
And then he started using. Gradually, our family began to disintegrate from the inside. But, honestly, I hadn’t intended to write about this. Since I’m currently not studying or working, I manage all the housework. Although he no longer lives with us and the house is far cleaner now, my daily cleaning and laundry still take me almost two hours. When he lived here, I had to constantly clean up after him—he left a mess everywhere, dirtying every clean space: dishes everywhere, the sink overflowing, mud tracked on the floors, a filthy toilet. Whenever I complained to my mom (talking to him was pointless, as he didn’t accept criticism and did only what he wanted), she would say that he earned a lot of money and provided us financial security. And yet, he worked only until noon at best and would then go to cafes or come home to watch comedy shows, eat, and lounge until two in the morning. I can’t help but feel that if he washed his own dishes ten times a day, he might not have felt so “empty” in life—he simply wouldn’t have had the time. Financial security became the absolute value in our family, overtaking trust, safety, and respect, and in the end, creating a monstrous glutton who had lost all sense of boundaries.
I went to see the animated movie 10 Lives. It’s a very sweet film for kids with a wonderful message. But there’s something that bothers me—I often notice that in animated films, couples are portrayed with the female character having a proportionate figure, a round head, and a pretty face with childlike features (tiny nose, huge eyes). Meanwhile, the male character often looks like some kind of mutant, with an eggplant-shaped nose, an odd-shaped head, a thin, crooked body, and an awkward lack of coordination. The female character is usually kind, sweet, serious, responsible, and organized, often working at a challenging job that she’s earned through long and diligent effort. Meanwhile, the male character simply has a “good heart”—whatever that’s supposed to mean—and perhaps some sort of inborn genius. I feel this approach is problematic, as it instills in children skewed ideas about expectations for both genders and about relationships.
By the way, in the photo, you can see the result of my long and dedicated relationship with burgers.
Oh gods, I truly can’t understand how anything could be as dense as my brother’s dog. She stays with me often, since my brother and his family aren’t exactly far off from her in terms of responsibility or foresight—they’re operating at about the level of a fish. But as a committed dog lover, I still can’t fathom how something like her even manages to breathe on its own and walk this earth.
Her name is Risa, though she has no clue. If you call her by name, she’ll just stand there and look off in another direction. Well, in two directions, technically, since her eyes wander off to the sides—but never towards you. She’s supposedly over three years old, and my brother’s wife has been taking her to dog school, but she hasn’t learned a single command.
When I go to the forest with my dogs, I let them off-leash without a second thought—they’re tuned into me, always keeping eye contact, and respond easily to my voice. They understand the basics of speech, know what’s dangerous, and what not to eat. Risa, on the other hand, I drag along on a leash the entire way—if I were to let go, she’d just wander off into the sunset without even a backward glance. Or worse, she’d run straight up to strangers and start barking at them. Calling her back is pointless—little bro even doesn’t know she exists.
When a car pulls into the driveway, Risa just stands there right under the wheel. You can’t call her or make her move. I have to get out, pick her up like a piece of furniture, carry her inside, and then park.
This morning, she woke me and my dogs up by stomping all over us on the bed, and then circled around the bed for twenty minutes at 4 a.m. I thought she had to go outside, so I finally got up and made my way to the door—only for her to flop down in her bed and start snoring. Safe to say, I promptly put her outside. And she also tries to hump everything in sight—the pillows, her octopus toy, my orange dog. It’s hardly surprising that my brother and his spectacularly clever wife decided to breed her, likely celebrating her one talent. Because, naturally, the world definitely needs more dogs just like Risa!
I absolutely love how I look in glasses! I used to need them for my nearsightedness, but a few years ago, I had eye surgery—which I still consider one of the scariest experiences of my life. But the outcome was worth it. Some people say they’ve gotten so used to clear vision that they don’t even notice it anymore. Not me—being able to see every single leaf on the trees still feels like pure bliss.
My drawings with both left and right hand. I’m not sure if this one was just easier, or if my left hand has gotten a bit stronger, but it looks pretty good.
