I’ve been a Masochist user for more than a decade now, but I’m afraid that my time on this platform has come to an end. The Masochist app has seen me go from a young, single, childless person to an older, less healthy person at the tail end of my first divorce, with two, maybe three, kids.
I’ve really enjoyed sharing my posts (“cries for help,” as Masochist calls them) with other “masochists” whom I’ve come to know through this platform. And I’ve loved seeing all of your cries for help as well. Whether I was simply making sure that you were also miserable or berating you for your content, at Masochist I always felt like I was part of a community—a deeply unhealthy family, if you will—that I will keep with me as I venture forth in my offline life and try to figure out exactly how many kids I have and what their full names are.
I joined this online dungeon to connect with other martyrs who were on their own journeys of truth-seeking and self-inflicted pain. It’s been quite the adventure! The first time I used Masochist, I was taken with its ability to make me feel as if an anvil had come down right on my head. I had no idea that being flattened by a blunt-force object could feel so right. Through the years, I’ve returned, again and again, multiple times every day, to get that bone-crushing rush, just to know that I’m alive.
But, as with all things, there comes a time to admit that the rush just isn’t doing it anymore. I’ve experienced more low-key trauma on this site than I could ever hope for, and it does not please me to announce that I am now completely desensitized to the anvil that used to bring me so much sweet, sweet pain.
I will miss the reliable torture I received on Masochist—be it from strangers calling me horrible names, or from friends and family, also calling me horrible names. And I will miss reciprocating that pain, as is the way in a true community.
And, while it’s true that my Masochist account never was verified, I truly relished every moment of spiralling to hell behind the parasocial leeches that did have verified accounts. It was from verified Masochist accounts that I received countless pieces of advice—from people who were absolutely unqualified to dispense it. It was also from these accounts that I learned of late-breaking news events that were either grossly mischaracterized or, as I would later come to learn, completely made up. We certainly had our fun.
Without the help of verified Masochist accounts, would I ever have misdiagnosed a serious infection, leading to a lengthy hospital stay and irreversible symptoms? Unlikely. Would I have sunk half of my family’s savings into immaterial investments with no objective value? Also unlikely. Would I have engaged in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to join together with dozens of like-minded people in Washington, D.C., smearing my excrement on the walls of a government building? O.K., that one might have happened on its own. But still.
I’ll never forget the day I upgraded to a terminal membership on Masochist. Just a monthly fee and a DNA sample? Where do I sign up?! I don’t know whether I’ll find a better use for my money going forward, and my DNA has likely been used in more than a thousand evil robots by now, but I’m damn sure going to try and take what I’ve learned here and implement it in the real world, much to the detriment of everyone who encounters me.
If you see me out there in society commandeering a good-faith observation by pointing out how it’s irrelevant to my highly specific experience and, therefore, hateful, or if you happen to overhear me accusing all who disagree with me of pedophilia, only to have them accuse me of being a pedophile in return, so that everyone’s calling everyone else a pedophile and our discussion has lost all relevant meaning, know that this ex-masochist is simply trying to relive the best years of their life.
If you’d still like to keep in touch online, you can find me over on Facepalm, where I have traded my privacy to be flattened with a different anvil on a regular basis. ♦