I feel like I should apologize for writing so much in the last few days. I just haven’t been well, and writing is one of the ways I’ve always dealt with it.
It’s 4:30am as I start writing this. I haven’t slept. I took two Klonopin and they made me sleepy, but inside my brain it felt like a caffeinated squirrel was bouncing off the walls. I think I shall name the squirrel Glinda. Glinda won’t let me sleep. Glinda’s kind of a bitch.
I think about gender a lot. Comes with the territory of being a non-cis person. Hell, I have to think about gender every time I go to a public bathroom. which one do I use? I’ve gotten where I choose almost at random. I prefer the gents, but I feel safer using the ladies’ because I can point to my crotch if necessary. Sigh.
Anyway, the thought occurred to me that if it wasn’t for having the wrong body parts and lacking that intrinsic feeling of womanhood, I’d be perfectly content with being a butch not-really-a-lesbian. I feel more kinship with women. I spend most of my time with women, and prefer it that way. But I just don’t quite fit in. And that’s not including the whole body dysphoria thing. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have sex again, between the dysphoria and the performance anxiety. The Valkyrie and I find each other really sexy, but I’m so uncomfortable in my skin that I have no idea what I want in bed. Add to that the fact that her dysphoria has meant I haven’t been able to give her what she wants… I feel like I’m not even a good kisser, much less a good lover. If I had to be single I’d probably stick with celibacy because it’s safer than a partner finding out I was terrible in bed.
I would pay good money and give up a few organs just to be more normal for a while. I don’t hate myself, but I hate everything that’s wrong with me.