I am an impure being. Physically, I can be beautiful, but inside, I am rotting.

Self-harm has been a part of my life for years. It often serves as a form of self-punishment when I don't feel pretty enough, when I hate my body, or when the disgust I feel toward my own mind eventually turns into an urge to self-harm.

I am a nymphomaniac. I always have been, even before I was raped. From a very young age, I developed a dependence on masturbation and pornography, and my relationship with desire became deeply distorted by my fantasies. I started consuming pornography when I was very little and I was never able to quit. Nothing that has nothing to do with my fantasies seems capable of satisfying me.

I am a virgin and, paradoxically, I have no real desire to have sex. I don't like the idea of being watched or touched by another person, and I am convinced that nobody could give me the same pleasure I find in my own mind and in my own body.

For a while, I thought I was a masochist. When I started cutting myself again after several years without doing it, my relationship with pain, self-hatred, and sexuality became particularly unhealthy. I let myself be completely consumed by my fantasies and eventually accepted the idea that I was simply a bad person.

That led me to become involved with extremely disturbing communities, full of people who had also decided to identify themselves with the worst parts of who they were. Instead of making me feel understood, it only dragged me further down. I ended up participating in sexual situations I didn't even want, simply to fit into the miserable place I had chosen for myself. I even became involved with adults who sought out minors, deliberately put myself in situations of exploitation and humiliation, and allowed myself to be consumed by them just to belong.

Eventually, I understood that all of it was destroying me, and I distanced myself quite a lot from that world. That doesn't mean my self-esteem magically got better. It's still in the fucking gutter. But I can't stand continuing to sink in the same way anymore.

I also thought about suicide many times and even attempted it. For a long time, I interpreted my inability to do it as cowardice, as if even dying were something I didn't deserve to achieve. I am currently much farther away from that mental place, but that part of my history still exists, and I don't intend to pretend it was never there.

I was raped when I was very little. One of the most disturbing parts of my relationship with what happened is that for a long time, I felt a strong desire toward my abuser. That desire deeply embarrassed me and ultimately turned my sexuality into something shameful and sick. Over the years, it stopped being directed specifically toward him, but it still appears transformed within my fantasies.

I suppose my mind tries to repeat the scenario over and over again, but this time under circumstances in which I can have some kind of control. I remained trapped in that moment even though I don't have complete conscious memories of what happened. I only have a fragmented image that I confused with a dream for a long time.

Sometimes I even think the abuse might never have happened and that my mind invented everything to justify my fantasies. I think that is quite possible. Even so, when I was in therapy, my therapist was convinced that the abuse had happened.

Speaking of therapists: I hate them. I was never able to truly open up in therapy. Confessing what goes on inside my head feels extremely shameful and uncomfortable to me. There are things I can't even say out loud in front of someone who is supposedly there to listen to me. I'd rather hide them than allow another person to see them.

I am also obsessed with my scars. I find them incredibly attractive. Ever since they appeared, I've stopped hating the parts of my body that bear them. The scars transformed those places into something I can look at without feeling disgust. To me, they have something of body art about them: physical marks loaded with trauma, history, and pain.

I like taking pictures of them and showing them on the internet. For a long time, posting pictures of my body, my scars, and my sexuality was a huge source of self-esteem for me. I've been creating pornographic content for almost a year, and for a while I even incorporated fresh wounds into it. I do it much less now; I suppose I simply got bored of it.

Being watched doesn't necessarily turn me on, but I deeply enjoy being desired. There is something about knowing that another person finds me attractive that feeds my ego in a way very few things can.

This is probably the part of me that I could never show anyone.

It is not everything that I am.

Nor is it necessarily who I am now.

It is simply the place where I keep everything I was ashamed to admit existed for so long.