girloftheforest

I’m curious, would any of my followers be interested in seei..

I’m curious, would any of my followers be interested in seeing a short room tour video? I could make one sometime this week.

I want🥲

I want🥲

I went to the gym. There’s a very interesting dynamic about ..

I went to the gym. There’s a very interesting dynamic about this place—women usually just come to work. They do a set, take a break, stretch, drink water, do another set. They might greet someone they know, but overall, they’re focused and productive.

Men, on the other hand, do something strange. They occupy machines for half an hour or more, scrolling through TikTok or chatting loudly with their friend during breaks. Loud enough for the whole gym to hear. Then, they load up an obviously inappropriate amount of weight for themselves and, with groans that sound like someone’s stretching their ass to the diameter of the universe, attempt to lift it. When they’re done, they often drop the weights, turn their red faces like bulldogs, and sit back down to scroll through TikTok with dramatic, sighing breaths. Of course, this doesn’t apply to all men, but it happens quite often.

In post-Soviet countries, there’s an interesting phenomenon—women are incredibly well-groomed, strong, and intelligent, yet they often have shockingly low self-esteem and a desire to seek approval or please others. Men, on the other hand, tend to be more hysterical, aggressive, often unattractive, and have pathologically high self-esteem.

What’s curious is that, in my experience, I’ve never come across such characters when chatting with foreigners online. But when it’s locals? Threats, demands, insults—that’s the standard. That’s just how it goes.

Well, my little fat-loving enthusiasts, here’s a new photo o..

Well, my little fat-loving enthusiasts, here’s a new photo of me with makeup that makes me look like an aging representative of the world’s oldest profession. And with the photo, a fresh hate post! See the room behind me? Keen observers might recognize it—I’ve taken a couple of photos here before. Lovely room, isn’t it? It would be, if my brother could master the basic skills of politeness and…well, maybe just using his hands? Unfortunately, that’s beyond us. He managed to graduate medical school, become a psychiatrist, aim for a seat in the government, have a baby—but cleaning up after himself in someone else’s house and making the bed? Nope, not in the skill set. Oh well, the boy is only 32 years old; he’s got time to grow up, our little darling 😍.

And now, unexpectedly, a little irritation directed at my mom. I wouldn’t call it hate, because usually she’s pretty considerate, but today was…something. I was on my second floor dressing up and trying to take this very photo in a way that didn’t make the fat spill out from every angle. And then I hear my brother’s daughter trying to climb the stairs, with my mom encouraging her. I ask her, “Please don’t bring her up here.” I ask once. Then again. And she still brings her up. Into my room.

In my room, I have perfumes on a low shelf. I was so stunned—because I’ve asked many times not to have people in my room—that I just sat there on the bed watching it happen. And of course, the baby broke one of the bottles. Mom got scared, apologized, and left, but…what the hell was that?

I get that Mom doesn’t guard her personal space at all. My brother and his baby literally barge into her room and sprawl on her bed whenever they want. But I’ve fought hard to reclaim my room from their invasions, and now they only enter with my permission and under my watch. Seeing this kind of behavior from my mom and feeling so powerless—because I didn’t want to be rude—was just strange.

What’s weirder is that my whole childhood, and even now sometimes, I’m accused of being rude, tactless, overly blunt. I don’t get it. Maybe I have schizophrenia and just don’t remember, or maybe I lack self-awareness, but I overthink everything I say and do, terrified of hurting someone’s delicate feelings or violating their personal space.

I literally started this OnlyFans to vent about things that bother or upset me because I never express these emotions in real life—I try to resolve conflicts with compromises or prevent them altogether. And lo and behold, all my friends and acquaintances outside the house think I’m sweet, kind, supportive, reliable. But at home? I’m apparently some kind of goblin who won’t let my totally out-of-line relatives walk all over me.

I’ve spent my whole life thinking I’m some kind of moral freak, ashamed to speak up in front of others, deeply embarrassed by my emotions and myself, feeling like I’m inappropriate, laughable, shameful. I’m sorry it’s taken me until this ripe old age to start realizing that maybe I was fine all along.

Watch me as I take a really massive cock in my mouth 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🐓🐓..

Watch me as I take a really massive cock in my mouth 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🐓🐓🐓🐓🐓😍😍😍😍😚➡️➡️➡️

So, here it is—attention, my fat belly! I promised in my las..

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 ..

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 ..

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. ..

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.

That’s the recipe for success.

Why am I not like that? Why am I the failure?

Wtf is this shit, also my idiot brother ate my chocolate I h..

Wtf is this shit, also my idiot brother ate my chocolate I hate him day ruined

My frens look what I have I will show what’s inside later

My frens look what I have I will show what’s inside later

My fruit salad! I didn’t wash the apples well enough because..

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 bre..

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 t..

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.

Please pray for my dog. She’s fine, she’s just very ugly😭😭😭

Please pray for my dog. She’s fine, she’s just very ugly😭😭😭

Me, who’s super self-conscious about my body, at 11 p.m.: ea..

Me, who’s super self-conscious about my body, at 11 p.m.: eating sandwiches and watching a film about the Gulag.

I’m still learning to draw and write with my left hand. We g..

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 recentl..

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...

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..

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 ..

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!

Flying obesities for years destroying my morning sleep.

Flying obesities for years destroying my morning sleep.

My drawing today with my left and right hand. For some reaso..

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’..

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..

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 sta..

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 a..

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 ..

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.

My new drawing with left and right hands🥺

My new drawing with left and right hands🥺