I have this fear that I will never get better. This fear that maybe I don’t want to get better. It’s the borderline talking, of course. Even if I am borderline, which every mental health doctor and councilor I’ve talked to has said I have Borderline Personality Disorder except for one. My new one. My trauma therapist who is now becoming my marriage therapist is on the fence of my diagnoses. She is for sure about my bipolar. I’m classic Bipolar I, she says.
But my Borderline, which I cling to that label so hard that it just proves that I have BPD, is such an important part of what makes up Icarus. It’s important to what connects me to Anakin Skywalker, BPD at it’s finest. But again, me mirroring myself off of it is such a borderline trait that I don’t know why she’d question it? Several times through the session today she was like “hmm, that is borderline.”
Like why she’s becoming my marriage therapist now… I cheated on Aunna. But it’s much more complicated than that. I made myself the victim, as she said, in a sex act that I didn’t wanted right after Aunna and I closed off our marriage and stopped the whole poly thing. I told Aunna about it right after of course and I used the sex as a tool to get something back from someone who was holding my Star Wars DVDs over my head. Saying I’d fuck him was the only way to get them back so easily. I manipulated him with sex to get my way. I hated every fucking moment of it. Faked my way through it. Hated me for doing it.
See, I wanted to self harm but my blades are dull and I have only one left and it barely makes a scratch, so I found another way.
It’s not an excuse, it’s my reasoning.
Aunna isn’t mad nor does she love me any less. She’s more angry at Nick (the someone I fucked. Who I have a history of fucking for when I crave attention and self harming. And oh look, there’s another criteria right there that I fit for having borderline.)
I still hate myself.
My other therapist thinks that I’m afraid of getting better because then I lose the attention that I so desperately need. Yet I’m ignoring the attention I get from my wife. Today was a lot of “Icarus you’re selfish”
Trauma therapist said it right out that I was being selfish. That every suicidal thought and self harm attempt and thinking of my pain was selfish.
Of course it is. It affects me. Deeply.
But then she tells me I need to make myself number one. I have to be honest about how I feel and validate my feelings, wrong or not.
But puts me down for being selfish.
She said if I was truly Borderline I’d probably end up dropping her.
If Aunna would let me I would. But I need a therapist for my trauma and I need a marriage councilor. I need to show that I want to get better. She congratulated me on being so aware of my faults. (“See you must not have borderline then. Oh but you could be a high functioning borderline…” )
I Want To Get Better. Here is me trying. Here is me crying for help. Manipulative or not I don’t know any other way because me saying “I need help” doesn’t make people take it more seriously. When I say “It’d be better if I was dead.” I’m not trying to manipulate you, I’m being dead fucking serious. That is what I think. Put me down and tell me I’m being manipulative all you want. I’m being truthful.
And here is where being truthful is hard and it hurts.
My gender is so fucked up. Completely so.
Right now I identify as Non-binary.
I don’t want to be male or female but everyone insists on me being female.
Guys, let’s get down and dirty. I wish I had a fucking penis. I wish my breasts were smaller and/or gone. But I want a penis. I have this intense penis envy that when I’m home alone I pack my panties or boy shorts with a sock to give me a bulge. When I’m horny I stick our double-sided dildo inside me and pretend the other end that’s hanging out is my cock. I love the feel of it being contained by my clothing. When I have sex with my wife I wear a strap on and I’m the male to her female. (but I’m not male enough and it hurts, but I don’t want to be male. At least I don’t think I do.)
This afternoon I took a nap even though I should have not. (Sleep medication isn’t working) I had a very real dream that on the couch I fell asleep on where Aunna was working on her homework that suddenly she pulled down my leggings and pushed up my sweater and started sucking on an invisible penis where if I had one might be. We had this deep conversation about how it’s okay that I want to be “a real trans person” to start hormones, to start T. That maybe it would make me happy. I know the side effects of T and I don’t want all of them. I don’t want to grow facial hair at all. I don’t want my voice to change. But I would love or my clit to get larger. It’s so small as it is that I feel like being on T wouldn’t change a thing for it and I’d still be a miserable penis-less person.
Sometimes I think maybe I’m just a pervert. I look at trans girl porn and their bodies are just so beautiful. Very beautiful. I look at my wife who is a trans woman and she is so beautiful. With her penis and small breasts. I would still find her just as beautiful if she did get bottom surgery. I love her so much.
But looking at those pictures I look at myself in the mirror with a sex toy jammed up me and my fake penis with no balls (which oh I ache to have those to play with when I play with myself) and my heart aches. My body isn’t right at all. I don’t belong in this skin. I don’t belong at all. I don’t want to be here any more.
I don’t want to be in this body.
I don’t want to be alive.
Can I fix my brain and body?
What the fuck am I even?
Is it Anakin inside my head that fucks my gender into someone who is a mix of male and female? Should I take it seriously? Fuck.