Wasn't sure where to post this, but then I figured that this could be considered something in which I could get some advice/support from. So, please read, but beware that It is a bit heartbreaking (at least, it hurt to write a bit)
Sad But True
“Sad but true.”
That’s the only phrase I can tell myself no matter how many times or from how many perspectives I look at myself. I know what I live with, what I face. I face the reality that I’m different. It’s not every day that you meet an infantilist. Or at least, not every day that you meet an out of the closet infantilist. You can meet homosexuals, drug addicts, drunks, homeless people, and other types of people who live a lifestyle that is widely accepted (or at least acknowledged).
To tell you the truth, though I’ve come to terms with what I am, I can’t seem to fully accept it. Part of me wishes if I wasn’t born to be this way, because I’m afraid that it will do more harm than good to the people around me if they ever found out. Sometimes I hate it when I see a child being babied by his mother and I get jealous and feel alone. Fear grips me when I think of being with somebody again, because my brain tells me that she would call me a freak and walk out on me. It also grips me when I think about people discovering this very real part of me. What would they do? The only thing I think of is a large group of people pointing their fingers and laughing at me. Since this isn’t a widely accepted lifestyle, I feel like Kevin Costner from “Mr. Brooks”, having to hide a whole part of my life from everybody, having to seek refuge in isolation. Having to clear out my browsing history and change the name of my story in order to avert suspicion.
And yet, simultaneously I feel happy that I’ve found a part of me that is unique. I’m happy to know that a few friends have accepted me, even if they don’t understand the frustration of not having an intimate relationship out of fear. They told me I’m admirable for being honest and that I shouldn’t call myself flawed for being an infantilist. Hell, one friend even told me that she thinks whoever “the lucky gal” is, she will “have fun with me” and that “the sex life will be more interesting”. Quite frankly, I’m just glad to know that I’ve found something about me in which I believe if I ever do find a woman who wishes to partake in this part of me, then I’d become a new person from the amount of happiness I’d feel. It’d be the perfect natural high that would do all sorts of things to my brain. Maybe I’d write something new and better. Maybe I’d look at life with a little more appreciation.
A bittersweet trait is the only way to describe what I have. Bitter in the sense that it has the risk of destroying many bridges, but sweet in the sense that it’s the only part of me that can make me feel the most innocent and carefree. But I struggle with it at times. My yearning to be babied sometimes devolves into an urge, and then I feel guilty about it. My ability to control it is still a work in progress, but I feel that with enough support and help that I can live with this without feeling ashamed.
Sad But True
“Sad but true.”
That’s the only phrase I can tell myself no matter how many times or from how many perspectives I look at myself. I know what I live with, what I face. I face the reality that I’m different. It’s not every day that you meet an infantilist. Or at least, not every day that you meet an out of the closet infantilist. You can meet homosexuals, drug addicts, drunks, homeless people, and other types of people who live a lifestyle that is widely accepted (or at least acknowledged).
To tell you the truth, though I’ve come to terms with what I am, I can’t seem to fully accept it. Part of me wishes if I wasn’t born to be this way, because I’m afraid that it will do more harm than good to the people around me if they ever found out. Sometimes I hate it when I see a child being babied by his mother and I get jealous and feel alone. Fear grips me when I think of being with somebody again, because my brain tells me that she would call me a freak and walk out on me. It also grips me when I think about people discovering this very real part of me. What would they do? The only thing I think of is a large group of people pointing their fingers and laughing at me. Since this isn’t a widely accepted lifestyle, I feel like Kevin Costner from “Mr. Brooks”, having to hide a whole part of my life from everybody, having to seek refuge in isolation. Having to clear out my browsing history and change the name of my story in order to avert suspicion.
And yet, simultaneously I feel happy that I’ve found a part of me that is unique. I’m happy to know that a few friends have accepted me, even if they don’t understand the frustration of not having an intimate relationship out of fear. They told me I’m admirable for being honest and that I shouldn’t call myself flawed for being an infantilist. Hell, one friend even told me that she thinks whoever “the lucky gal” is, she will “have fun with me” and that “the sex life will be more interesting”. Quite frankly, I’m just glad to know that I’ve found something about me in which I believe if I ever do find a woman who wishes to partake in this part of me, then I’d become a new person from the amount of happiness I’d feel. It’d be the perfect natural high that would do all sorts of things to my brain. Maybe I’d write something new and better. Maybe I’d look at life with a little more appreciation.
A bittersweet trait is the only way to describe what I have. Bitter in the sense that it has the risk of destroying many bridges, but sweet in the sense that it’s the only part of me that can make me feel the most innocent and carefree. But I struggle with it at times. My yearning to be babied sometimes devolves into an urge, and then I feel guilty about it. My ability to control it is still a work in progress, but I feel that with enough support and help that I can live with this without feeling ashamed.
