What is it like to be a Hikikomori?
The Japanese term hikikomori refers to people who avoid personal or social contact and live in self-imposed isolation for an extended period—six months or longer, as defined by the Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare. The same term refers to the phenomenon of social withdrawal exhibited by these individuals. The recluses commonly live at home with their parents, holed up in their bedrooms, neither supporting themselves financially nor functioning independently.
I was 16 when I dropped out of public school to finish up online. That is when my prolonged bouts of social isolation started. I had friends, but these friends were people I abused drugs with (to cope with our life circumstances), as they weren’t socially adapted like most people our age.
As time went on I ended up cutting off all contact with them and haven’t contacted them since age 18. I haven’t had a social outing in 5 years. It’s liberating but embarrassing at the same time to be saying that.
I moved out a few days after I turned 18 into an apartment paid for by my parents. I’ve been here in this 2 bed apartment for 5 years. I can go months without leaving my apartment.
I’m so pathetically apathetic/majorly depressed/self-hating/unmotivated that I have allowed and manipulated/encouraged my mother to come over and pre-make all my food for me (salads, pre-cooked meat, etc) for a few days at a time.
She comes over every 3-4 days to clean my entire apartment (dishes, trash, etc) and drop off my food. She’s been doing this the past 5 years so I don’t have to leave my apartment, even if it’s something trivial like bringing in a case of water; she does it ALL. She’s running out of energy and she’s getting reoccurring back injuries and shoulder pain from all the lifting she does. I can’t honestly tell you I feel sorry for her or guilty for her pain. I simply have removed all empathy from my being as a way to look out for myself and my “selfish” needs in order to minimize suffering and cope with my dissipating youth.
I literally do nothing to help her but retreat to my room where my computer is and wait patiently for her to leave. I can’t bare to see her. Although I am minutely thankful for her “helping” me with the necessities, I genuinely deep down have an innate hatred for her. She is arguably at the epicenter of all my suffering in life.
I am Hikikomori/NEET because I absolutely hate the way my face looks and I feel as if I’m not tall enough or robust enough body-wise. I have no motivation to better myself because the foundation of my life (my body/looks) is fundamentally flawed and subhuman.
I hate her because I inherited her objectively unappealing features via genetic recombination.
I can say — with confidence, that I just want to continue to be left alone. I can’t stand to face reality or the outside world and all the difficulties that would inevitably await me.
I do think about suicide a lot but I wouldn’t do it because I have a strong survival instinct and I would only be open to suicide via a certain pharmaceutical that is virtually unattainable.
It’s kind of liberating — to give up all hope in life. I feel so old. The past 5 years have flown past me in the blink of an eye. It’s all such a blur. The entire 5 years was spent watching youtube videos, playing video games and sleeping. The entire time, literally.
Everyday is the same, there is no difference as the days go by. What I do today Is the same thing I did 5 years ago when all of this started to get serious.
It’s hard to find people online who live such a life like me. There are days I want to cry but I can’t get anything out and it leads to anger.
What is it like to be a Dominatrix
Watching the physiological flash that accompanies an erotic experience of pain is like watching someone get hit by a car. And when it happens, I can taste the adrenaline in my mouth.
Even as a child, I understood the erotic charge in a misbalance of power. In my games of soldier, someone would always end up getting tied up. My first experience with sadomasochism, I was submissive. But after five seconds I knew I wanted to be on top.
I’m not a very bitchy dominatrix. I don’t yell. If I have to raise my voice, I feel like I’ve already surrendered power. Everything I’m doing — what I’m wearing, who I am in the room — should enforce the fact that I’m in control. I’m more than six feet tall, but I like to wear six-inch high heels just to be mean. I wear a lot of latex. If I’m coming from work, I’ll leave on a white oxford and put on a black undercut leather corset. The overall effect is very schoolmarmish. I like that. Clients do, too.
Last week I tied up a client in a Japanese mummy harness, which runs from your ankles to your neck. I clamped his tongue between two chopsticks and put clips on his thighs. He got pretty gaspy, so I put water in my hands and let him drink it off of my fingers. After that, we did a very controlled, ritualistic piercing session on his chest. He had the most calm, blissful expression, and I could tell the endorphins were really flowing. I blew on the ash of my cigarette and brushed it against his nipple, then finished off the session by covering his wounds with hot wax. The look on his face when we were finished was unbelievable. He was so relaxed — like a child. When that happens, I feel like a therapist.
The first time I dominated was in a session — for $250 an hour. It’s not prostitution. It’s not anywhere close to that. It’s an art form.
During the day, I work in corporate America, in television. I went to a good school. I play the cello. Financially, I’m at the point where I don’t have to do this if I don’t want to. I wouldn’t be involved if it wasn’t fun.
What is it like to be a kleptomaniac?
I didn’t steal because I was destitute. I stole because I had different emotions — fear, anger, frustration, and desperation — all banging up against one another. Shoplifting became the release, and the release became an addiction. I felt entitled to shoplift because I felt that I had suffered unfairly in my life and that stealing redressed these wrongs. Let someone else be the victim.
I thought about shoplifting before I got out of bed in the morning. I’d go on binges. I’d lose myself. I stole from so many stores that I literally lost track of my whereabouts and relied on merchandise tags to tell me what store I was stealing from. I wasn’t aware of what I was taking, just grabbing things off the shelves.
Look around your house: Everything you’ve paid for, I stole — camera equipment, houseplants, paintings, shoes, CDs, videocassettes, DVDs, mouthwash, aspirin, batteries, film, lightbulbs, a fan, towels, gift wrapping, coats, sweaters, books, magazines, envelopes, and children’s toys. I had a twelve-by-twenty-foot storage room filled with things I’d never use.
I wore a baggy coat, and in summer I wore loose-fitting clothing. I’ve heard of people who line shopping bags with aluminum foil to scramble electronic sensors. I always carried razor blades, a pair of pliers, and a screwdriver to remove security tags. I preferred stores in older buildings because they weren’t designed with shoplifters in mind, and I looked for places in the store with columns where I could hide from cameras.
One time, I was trying on shoes in a department store and deceived the saleslady into going to the back room. While she was gone, I put a pair in a bag and walked out of the store. I should have never looked back, but I immediately returned to the store. The saleslady must have been looking for me because when she saw me, I was surrounded by sixteen store detectives. I knew they had me. And they took me to a jail cell that was right on the store premises. I wasn’t alone. I had lots of company in there.
I’ve been arrested five times. Each time I asked myself how I could do it better the next time so I wouldn’t get caught again.