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Warning I promised with my last story that I would post a short warning before I posted the first chapter. As with my previous stories, this one contains several elements inherent to the pre-established Diaper Dimension. These include, but are not limited to: Diapers Using Diapers for Their Intended Purpose Non-consensual Mental Regression through Various Means (Including Possible Drugs, Hypnosis, and or Surgery) Graphic Imagery Associated With Any of These Warnings Humiliation Female Domination Babying of adults Violence (pertaining to weapons, assault, or harm of others) For those readers interested or do not care about the warnings listed, please enjoy this story.

This was an exercise my therapist asked me to do, to write my my thoughts out without filtering them and to share them with people that are important in my life. This community is the only thing I have that isn't a direct part of my day to day life, so I'm sharing it here. It's not a fun read and you can't fap to it...I mean, there's something deeply wrong with you if you can, but anyway, it's a thing and whether anyone reads it or not is irrelevant, I did it and this is it. Slip By: RambleLamb I feel it coming before it happens. It's never enough warning to do anything about it, not that I could anyway, but it's the early warning that makes it all the more frustrating. It starts as this sort of hum in my brain, like the sound power lines make but a physical sensation rather than auditory. The hum isn't big at first, just a background process my brain starts to run like a virus scan on a computer. If I'm alone when the hum starts I pack everything away that I don't want chewed on or damaged and sit quietly to try and will the hum away, this has yet to work, but I haven't been able to fully resign myself to the transformation yet, so I try and force it to stop. As the hum builds things start to make less sense. Letters become hieroglyphics, numbers become squiggles, my tactile senses get turned up to eleven and touch and taste become my sole means of discovering objects. My words become smaller and less coherent, broken little things barely above monosyllables, often words disappear entirely to be replaced with the grunts and gurgles one would expect from a preverbal infant, the thing I'm to become for an indeterminate amount of time. It's the times that I'm alone that make it hardest, though that's becoming a rarer and rarer circumstance the more often this happens to me. The space between the slips, the times where I'm functioning at my normal developmental level are becoming the exception and not the rule. As the hum grows I look around the room and feel the tears start to form in my eyes. I had a room that was made for an adult once, a bed that I engaged in adult activities in, a bookshelf full of tomes that proved how smart I was, how diverse and broad a spectrum of understanding I possessed, but then everything fell apart. My room now is indistinguishable from that of a toddler just starting their journey from their infant beginnings. My bed has a protective railing on the side to keep me from falling out, a compromise made when the suggestion of a full crib was met with protestation from an indignant version of me that existed before the slips started to become commonplace. The cream carpet is dingy in the spots where I sit and play with the brightly colored bits of plastic that entertain me during my slips, those are being gradually replaced with softer colored things made of softer materials like cloth, things that I won't hurt my teeth on or swallow when they inevitably end up in my mouth. The diaper pail beside the window used to be a more clinical device, one that served to dispose of the inevitable wet and messy garments I was unable to stop creating since the accident. The plain diaper pail, the one that had blended into the wall when I moved in disappeared at some point, replaced with a fingerpaint smeared, sticker adorned one that proudly proclaimed itself a necessary fixture in the nursery the room was gradually becoming. When I write or read it gives me a sense of control over myself, a semblance of the life I once had where my freedom of choice dictated if and when I regressed and I chose who was allowed to see me at this most innocent and vulnerable state of being and if I wanted them to participate by being my caregiver. My reading and writing are often interrupted now by unannounced diaper checks or changes when it's apparent to everyone but me that I've soiled myself. This all feels like a cruel joke. One day I was happy to allow Her to see me in my diapers, to watch me pretend to be a helpless baby or curious toddler, I would smile and coo as I consciously let myself go in my diaper, feeling this warmth fill my heart and soul when she praised me and lovingly changed me into a clean or dry diaper. The days after Her became a funhouse mirror of that life, a parody of make belive in the realm of reality. No longer do I decide when I use my diaper, no longer do I choose when the role of helpless baby or curious toddler becomes my station in life. The day before I lost Her we made love. The noises she made as I satisfied her gave me that feeling of satisfaction I got when she took care of my littler side. She tasted like the watermelon I'd eat as a little girl, sweet but with salt sprinkled over it to expand its flavor. I told her she was "Summer" as we lay in each other's arms that night, straddling the line between sleep and awake, talking to each other in hushed tones coded in weariness and post coital bliss. She giggled. I giggled. She kissed my forehead. I nuzzled her bare chest. She asked what I meant when I said she was "Summer". In the dark of the room she couldn't see my blush, but I knew she could feel my face growing hotter against her bare flesh. I told her the watermelon story, shy for some reason at allowing her access to my personal thoughts, worry that my brain's insistence on overcomplicating things will make my comparison not make sense to her. She rubs my back and tells me she understands. She thanks me and we fall asleep together for the last time. Tears aren't as rare as they used to be for me. I cry when I think of Her which is all the time. I cry when I feel helpless which is all the time. I cry when I'm reminded that I'm not the woman I used to be which is all the time. I hide this new normal from people. I've shared bits and pieces here and there, but the assumption is that I'm lying, that I'm living in a fantasy world I've created because I'm one of those people that can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not. Someone once acted like they were jealous of me because I was living their dream lifestyle and it hurt so much, the reminder that aspects of this life I'm forced to live now used to be something I would write about and pleasure myself to but now just feel like bitter resentment crystallized into this cold lump in the pit of my stomach. When the slips happen I go away, not even a passenger in my own body, just losses of time and memory that are seldom described to me once I return. When they first started I was told about how I'd laid on the floor drooling and babbling incoherently, shown videos of myself throwing a tantrum, my cries sounding smaller in my own ears, more infantile than I could have ever faked before. I feel like a nesting doll, the largest outer doll hiding facets of myself until the tiniest and most fragile one is exposed, trading places with the rational adult doll and banishing it to an inescapable prison of infancy that it's powerless to escape from. How do you run away from something when you can't walk anymore? How do you establish your desire to be seen as the adult you are, regain the independence you once had when at any moment you could devolve into a squalling infant trapped in an adult body? How can anyone be expected to value your requests for freedom and the responsibility of making your own decisions when you have to be told that you've messed your diaper? She would know what to do. She was so smart. The double edged sword of irony is a fucking bitch. I want my adulthood back and my normal life back and Her back so all of this can go back to being fun, an occasional indulgence that allows me to unwind with Her after a hard fought day at work being a responsible, productive member of society. I want to stop being a helpless baby so I can go back to playing make believe games where I'm a helpless baby. Her baby. That's the variable that changes everything. She made everything safe and happy, reassuring and comforting. My family doesn't love me like she did. They tolerate me because I'm pathetic, a broken girl with a missing leg and a damaged spine. They'd put me in a hospital if the guilt of the idea that family actually means something didn't spur them to let me live here. They judged me for being an adult baby. Judged me for being bi and then again for going full lesbian. They hated what my life choices did to my mother and never could see that I wasn't hurting anyone and didn't want to in the first place. I wonder what She would think about my blossoming intimacy with my cousin. Would she be disgusted knowing that we've kissed? Would she hate me for giving the same secret kisses on the tenderest of lips to my blood relative? Would she feel like I was cheating on Her? I miss Her so much and maybe it's that deep longing that's making my already skewed and confused mind see love where it shouldn't. Is incest still so wrong if you can't create a horribly deformed baby from your union? It's not like I can feel anything below the waist anyway, how wrong can it be? I spend so much time now crying and feeling sorry for myself and lamenting what a shit hand I've been dealt in life that I lose sight of the truth that someone still loves me enough to take care of me, loves me enough to shoulder the burden of protecting me when I've slipped so far that I can't do anything but cry. She loved me that much. I tell myself that but I can't know it for sure, and Her lips are sealed on the matter. When I told Cousin that I loved her, that I was "in love" with her she didn't run away, she kissed me the way She kissed me, her velvet tongue inviting mine to dance with it as she pulled me close to her and then she said it back. Can I be happy despite all of this? Can I cobble together a semblance of the normalcy I had with Her with Cousin? I worry that I'm a curiosity to Cousin, a pleasant tingle in the secret part of her that will fade once she realizes that our relationship is far more mother/daughter than lover/lover, but she knows what I am and what my limitations are and she still said it back. I hate having trust issues because She died. I hate that I resent Her for lying about being together forever. She couldn't have known that our time together would be over so quickly, I know that, but emotionally I'm very much a child and it hurts and I hate it and I can't make sense of any of it so I throw a tantrum about it. I haven't thought about suicide since She died. I want to be proud of that, other people are, but the truth is that I had an epiphany and it's really fucked up so I keep it to myself but rules are rules so, yeah, I don't think about suicide anymore because the me that was happy and had her shit together died in that accident. I'm a ghost in my own life now, just a phantom trying to get someone to listen to it and right a wrong so it can rest in peace, the thing is that the wrong can never be righted, my brain will slip more and more often, the slips lasting longer and becoming more intense until the ghost of me is gone for good and all that's left is an adult sized infant that offers nothing to the world aside from used diapers. It's not "giving up" if the game is unwinnable. I'm being realistic about my situation and that won't sit right with people so I just keep it all to myself so no one gets upset. The humming is starting again. Maybe this will be the last slip? Does it really matter?

Katherine Holmes, she goes by Kit. She has an introvert personality, very shy and stubborn . Her parents put her into daily counseling/ therapy, so Kit has an outlet and isn't isolating herself all the time. She has no choice since her parents are concerned for her health. When Kit starts to go to therapy, day by day she is subtly treated like a child and furthered back into babyhood where there were no worries or cares in the world. After all, that's all her parents want for her. Is too no longer worry or stress and just be there happy little baby again. I need someone to play the therapist that babies Kit. I will be playing kit. This roleplay is open. But message me first if you're interested. Also 3-4 sentence replies are required, as well as playing in 3rd person and this is non sexual.

Hi All, I wanted to let any of you in the New York City area know that there is now an AB/DL aware psychotherapist available to see any of you. She is located in the Flatiron district of Manhattan and offers sliding scale fees. She is super empathic and understanding and won't make you feel awkward about being AB/DL and the challenges in dealing with acceptance, finding happiness in relationships, and overall life when dealing with these issues.

I've been fascinated with diapers for as long as I can remember, probably since about age 3.

I have an anxiety/panic disorder that has really be acting up lately so I think it is time to find myself a therapist in my area(I have moved recently). Anyway, I would really like to find a therapist who is AB friendly. I would like to be able to discuss diapers as one of my coping mechanisms without the therapist trying to "fix" the AB part of me that I have no interest in "fixing", and have that distract from the real issue of the anxiety. So if anyone has any experience with this I would love any advice I can get. And if anyone knows of any AB friendly therapists in the Bay Area private message me and let me know. Thanks for your help!