#[I will clarify I have never been diagnosed with a dissociative disorder but I have done research and a lot adds up

[spikey-ghostz]

Im almost always dissociated, I never know who I am or what's happening, theres so many time gaps, memory loss, and just over all confusion, was better for a little bit but after some stuff I went through it got a lot worse

My life just feels like one big dissociative puddle, where I dont know who I am, whats going on, or whats real, im always just so disconnected from everything

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 5 - Knifeplay

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : Hey guys ! Happy Halloween to those of you who celebrate 👀. Here is what I wrote for the Knifeplay prompt ! It was inspired by that one Ask I got a while ago. I hope you enjoy it 😏

CW : DID - Slim Shady alter - Knifeplay - Jealousy

Marshall stared at the lake, its surface calm under the late afternoon sun, an ironic contrast to the storm twisting inside his chest. This weekend was supposed to be a step forward, a chance to show you that he could be the partner you deserved, that he could put you first for once. He knew being his girlfriend wasn’t easy, what with all the walls and boundaries he had built up over the years, and he was more than grateful that you stuck around, in spite of all the frustration you sometimes felt. Now, you had never been stupid enough to think that being Eminem’s girlfriend would be all fun and games. Sure, there were perks, like getting some previews of music he’d been working on, or him being able to treat you to sweet gifts and flowers on the regular. But deep down, both of you knew that some of these attentions weren’t exactly selfless, that they were nothing but an attempt to make up for all the things he wasn’t able to give you. To his credit, Marshall did his best to accommodate you and keep you happy. He was a good boyfriend, caring and affectionate, and he understood just how frustrating it was that he didn’t take you places or claim you publicly. As nice and understanding as you were, he also knew that you wished for more commitment, too. After all, it wasn’t exactly stupid to want to move in with your partner after two years of dating, and he couldn’t blame you. 

However, the rules were the rules and he was adamant that they be kept in place. No spending more than one night at each other’s place, and no moving in together. Ever. In the early stages of your relationship, he had played it cool, as if he were distant but, eventually, you had come to understand that there was more to it. After a while, he told you the truth : yes, he had trauma and he had built walls, but that wasn’t all of it. These walls and boundaries weren’t just for him. They were meant to keep you safe, too. When he first mentioned Slim, you thought he was taking the « alter ego » thing a little further but he clarified the situation for you : Slim was not just some artistic project. He was an actual person, a part of him. His alter. A distinct identity that shared his body, with its own personality and memories. He had tried to break it down for you explaining what dissociative identity disorder was, that it was a result of early childhood trauma and that Slim had emerged as a protective figure. They called it a « minimal system ». Most people with DID tend to have more alters but, in his case, it was just him and Slim. 

You had never met Slim and he intended to keep it that way. At the ripe age of 52, he had been alive and diagnosed long enough to know the damage Slim could cause. Sure, getting sober had helped keep him under control, but he didn’t trust him. Especially not around you. You were far too precious for him to take the risk of letting Slim ruin what you had, the beautiful relationship you had created. Hence the rules and his insistence on respecting them. However, you had been so sad, lately, that he wanted to cheer you up. And when you told him you needed more, that the only thing he could do to make things better would be to spend some actual time together, he ended up caving in. After all, Slim had not fronted in quite some time, and things were good between the two of you. So the probabilities that something wrong happened were quite low at the moment. He decided to indulge you and plan a romantic weekend not too far from home, taking you to his lake house. 

Yet, now that you were here, under the same roof for an extended time period, those familiar coils of anxiety tightened, making every breath a little harder, his thoughts jumpy and spiraling. Slim’s presence had quieted over the years, , but the more he felt for you, the more Slim became this lurking possibility. Slim was the hurt, the anger, the guy who fought back, and as much as Marshall cared for you, Slim didn’t trust you—or anyone else—to stay without hurting him. He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts aside as he washed a glass, hearing your soft laughter from the next room. He wanted this. He wanted to trust you. But that fear of Slim surfacing, of ruining what he had built, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. You deserved someone whole. But for her, he was willing to try. “Just keep it together, man,” he muttered to himself. You had stepped out to the dock for a bit, giving him a moment alone, and he’d almost relaxed, enough to breathe. But then he heard your phone chime on the counter beside him. The screen flashed with a notification from someone he didn’t recognize. It was just a message, innocent, probably nothing. But something about it twisted inside his mind, a taunting reminder of the betrayals he’d faced before, the people who’d let him down just when he’d let his guard down. He’d been cheated on and betrayed before. And Slim had been the one to pick up the pieces. 

The familiar cold slither crept up his spine. Slim. Before he knew it, that tense grip loosened, and the whole world around him shifted. Slim was fronting.

When you returned to the house, there was a lightness in your eyes. It had taken two years for Marshall to take you on a romantic getaway, and you were enjoying every second of it. Far from home, in the serenity of his secluded lake house, you were feeling at peace. As you kicked off your shoes by the door, you lovingly glanced at him. However, you quickly noticed that something was off. The way he was standing, holding himself seemed… different. There was something darker, more menacing about him, in the way he was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, his gaze hard and unyielding. You could see his mouth twitch into a smirk that was all but friendly. 

"Marshall?" you asked, your voice tentative, but you knew the answer before you even asked. Something in his stance, the dangerous intensity of his gaze, screamed Slim. Or, at least, the idea that you had of him, based on the description offered by Marshall.  He laughed, low and sharp, the sound echoing in the small room. "Marshall? Nah, baby. He’s… busy right now," he said, voice laced with contempt, eyes narrowing as he looked you over. There was an edge to him, a palpable threat that sent chills down your spine.

“Thought I’d fall for it?” Slim hissed, voice dripping with a venom you had never heard before. “Playing all sweet, acting like you’re different. Like you’d ever get him, really get him.” He took a step closer, his eyes dark and fierce, locking onto you with the intensity of a predator sizing up his prey.Your instincts were screaming for you to back away, to put distance between yourself and this stranger wearing Marshall’s face, but you held your ground. You knew this was part of him, knew the pain he carried, and despite the rush of fear coursing through you, you held his gaze.

“Slim,” you said, voice steady despite the trembling of your hands. “I know you’re just trying to protect him.” At that, Slim’s face twisted, and he laughed sharply, a humorless, biting sound. “Protect him? Protecting him means keeping you out.” In a flash, he grabbed the kitchen knife off the counter, the cold steel glinting as he held it up between the two of you. Your heart raced, and you pressed yourself back against the wall, body tensing as he moved closer, the tip of the knife grazing your skin. “You think you’re something special, huh? Like you’ll last?”.  He pinned you there, his free hand pressed against the wall beside you, keeping you locked in place as his dark gaze bore into yours. The anger radiating off him was electric, a force you could feel thrumming in the air between them.

“I know you’re scared, Slim,” you whispered, your voice still steady. You tried to ignore the way your breath hitched, the adrenaline making your heart beat so loudly you thought he could hear it. “I know you think you have to protect him. But I’m not here to hurt him. Or you.” For a second, the aggression in his stance wavered, his grip on the knife loosening slightly as his eyes flashed with something raw and unfiltered. But just as quickly, he shook his head, a sneer curling his lips. “You think it’s that easy?” he hissed, pressing a little closer, the blade still poised between the two of you.

Slim’s eyes blazed as he stared down at you, the tension thick in the air between you, knife gleaming dangerously close to your throat. “You don’t get it, do you?” he spat, voice a low, venomous rasp. “I’m here to make sure nobody hurts him again. Not now, not ever. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect him.” His grip on the knife tightened, but he never crossed that line into true harm. “I’ve never had to hurt anyone bad enough to get the message across,” he continued, eyes narrowing. “But if I have to, I will. Happily.” Your heart pounded, adrenaline flooding your system, and despite the danger, or maybe because of it, a strange thrill twisted low in your stomach. You had never felt this kind of fear—or excitement. Slim’s intensity, his protectiveness, and the gleam of the blade caught the deepest parts of you off guard. Your gaze lingered on the knife, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, and you knew he noticed.

Slim’s eyes sharpened as he caught your reaction, his smirk returning with a dark amusement. “Really?” he taunted, a glint of something new in his expression. “You’re a freak, aren’t you? Getting all hot and bothered over a knife?”. Heat flushed your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. If anything, you felt herself drawn in deeper by his dark gaze, the thrill of his proximity. You knew it wasn’t exactly Marshall you were looking at, but they did share a body, and he was still incredibly attractive. You had always loved his warmth, his kindness. But Slim’s temper, the danger it had to it, was a different kind of attraction. “Maybe,” you murmured, voice soft but unwavering. You knew better than to deny it; there was something about this raw, protective side of him that drew her in, just as much as Marshall’s gentleness did. If anything, it meant that Slim loved Marshall as much as you did. 

He raised an eyebrow, chuckling lowly. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin. “Maybe you’re not as weak as I thought. Maybe you really can handle this.” His hand shifted, pressing the blade just lightly enough against your throat to remind you of its presence, to push the line between danger and control. “We need someone who won’t be scared,” he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly whisper. “Someone who can take me just as much as they can take him.” Your pulse quickened, but you held his gaze, refusing to back down. “I’m not scared of you, Slim,” you said, your voice steady, eyes bright with both fear and thrill. “I can handle you.”

That was all it took for Slim to close the gap between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, bruising kiss, his free hand gripping your waist with a possessiveness that was rougher, hungrier than anything you had ever felt with Marshall. He moved with a raw intensity, a desperation almost, as though testing your resolve, pushing your limits. And you met him with equal fervor, embracing the dark, powerful energy he radiated. The cold steel of the knife on you was possessive and firm, as he pulled you closer, pinning you against him, as though he wanted to devour you completely, to test every limit. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp, both mocking and appreciative. He looked at you with something raw, a flicker of respect mingled with a dark desire. “Maybe you’re worth more than I thought.” But even as Slim’s rough, hungry kiss pressed you to the edge of your senses, you could feel hints of Marshall beneath the surface—the softness in the way he cradled your head, the familiar tilt of his head as he deepened the kiss. It was Marshall you loved, yet in Slim, you could see all those broken pieces, the fragments of him he kept locked away.

The intensity of the moment blurred your sense of time, lost in the way Slim held you, kissed you, made you feel alive in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. But then, in a flash, his grip softened, his lips pulling away as he blinked, looking around as though waking from a nightmare. Marshall was back.

He looked down at his hand, still gripping the knife near your throat, and his eyes widened in horror, the color draining from his face. He dropped the knife as if it had burned him, stumbling back, his breaths ragged and shallow.

“Oh God, Babe—” His voice was a strangled whisper, trembling as he took another step back. “What… what did I do? I didn’t mean-…Oh my God…” He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze darting from you to the knife, to the place he had just been, with no memory of what had just happened, only the knowledge that he had held a knife to you and the terror that he might have hurt the woman he loved.

Marshall’s hands shook as he looked from the knife  to you, horror contorting his expression. He could barely process the scene that had just unfolded—the knife, the intensity, the awareness of Slim's presence so close to you. And that he had been the one holding it—that thought alone made his stomach churn. “Babe…” His voice was barely above a whisper, raw with anguish. “I could’ve… I could’ve hurt you.” His breaths came in shallow, frantic gasps, and he ran a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “You need to leave. Now.” You took a step toward him, but he shook his head, stumbling back as if the sight of you near him only twisted the knife of his guilt deeper. “Don’t come closer. Please. I can’t—I can’t risk it, not after this. I don’t trust myself. I don’t… I don’t trust him.” His words broke your heart. There was nothing you wanted more than to show him that you were alright, that Slim had not harmed you. 

“Marshall.” Your voice was calm, steady, a soft anchor in the whirlwind of his panic. “I’m okay. I’m right here. I’m not hurt.” He opened his eyes, and they were red, glossy with a frantic kind of pain. “I can’t let you risk it,” he said, his voice breaking. “You don’t understand—Slim, he could hurt you. I thought I could control it, but I don’t know if I can. Not around you. I love you too much to risk it. Please, you have to go.” But you stepped closer, ignoring the way his body flinched, determined to close the gap between the two of you. You reached out, taking his trembling hands in yours, grounding him in your warmth. “I’m not going anywhere, Marshall,” you said softly. “I see you—all of you. And none of it scares me. I know you, and I know you’d never truly hurt me.” His hands shook harder, the guilt and disbelief warring in his eyes. “You don’t get it,” he choked out, staring at your joined hands as though afraid to accept your touch. “I thought that too, but-. I’m not worth the risk anyway.”

You tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at you, your eyes gentle but resolute. “Marshall, I see you,” you repeated, your voice unwavering. “Every part of you. Slim too. And I’m not afraid.” He searched your face, as if desperately trying to find some hint of fear, a reason to pull away. But all he could see was your unshaken gaze, your steady presence, a strength he hadn’t expected but needed so deeply. His breath hitched, the remnants of his panic still hovering, but your words sank into him, easing the frantic beat of his heart. “Nothing will drive me away,” she whispered, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Slim had the opportunity to hurt me but he didn’t. If anything… He might actually like me.”

His expression softened, the fear giving way to a fragile kind of hope, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as he absorbed your words. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his grip tentative at first but growing as he leaned into it, letting go of the guilt that had weighed him down. However, the relief Marshall felt in your arms was short-lived, giving way to an unsettling, creeping feeling. You hadn’t flinched. You’d looked him straight in the eyes, not with fear but with something else—something bolder, fiercer. He pulled back just enough to search your face, piecing together fragments of their brief, hazy conversation. His mind replayed those last few moments and he felt his stomach tighten, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with a suspicion he didn’t want to acknowledge. “When I was… gone—did Slim…? What did he do ?” He couldn’t finish, his words halting as he scanned your expression, looking for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted. Your eyes flickered with a hesitant vulnerability, your cheeks flushing as you bit your lip, unable to meet his gaze. You swallowed, then nodded, just slightly. “He… yeah. We kissed,” you admitted softly, your tone cautious, trying to gauge his reaction.

Marshall’s heart stuttered, the ground seeming to drop beneath him. A pang of jealousy and anger twisted in his chest, sharp and unexpected. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he took a shaky step back. “You made out with him?” he demanded, his voice low and tense. “With Slim?” Your gaze snapped back to his, your brows furrowing slightly. “Marshall, it’s still you—all of you. I see that.”

But his mind couldn’t process that. It was a part of him, yes, but Slim wasn’t him. Slim was the darkness, the rage he’d spent his life trying to keep buried. And now, the idea of him with you—kissing you, holding you—sent a possessive wave through him he couldn’t shake. “Y/N, you don’t understand.” His voice was tight, almost pleading. “Slim isn’t…he isn’t me. Not really. And now he got close to you. Too close.” You took a step toward him, but he tensed, his fists clenching and unclenching as he battled the feelings roiling inside him. Jealousy, betrayal, fear—all simmering together in a painful cocktail. Your voice softened, gentle but firm. “Marshall, it’s all of you I’m here for. I knew Slim was a part of you. I didn’t expect to meet him like this, but… but I chose to be here, no matter what. That doesn’t change.” 

“But you kissed him,” he repeated, his tone accusatory, a mix of anger and confusion. “You’re mine, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t handle the thought of him touching you.” His voice broke slightly, the vulnerability raw and unfiltered. You stepped closer again, reaching out to him, your hand finding his. “Marshall, listen to me,” you said, your voice steady, anchoring him. “It was you. Even if Slim’s different, even if he’s the parts of you that hurt and protect, he’s still part of you. And that’s who I love—all of you.”

He hesitated, his jealousy still sharp, but you could tell that your words were beginning to soothe him. You squeezed his hand, your thumb tracing small circles on his skin, and he let himself breathe, trying to absorb the truth of your words. It didn’t come easy, and a part of him still seethed, still wrestled with the possessiveness clawing at him. But he felt the strength of your presence, the certainty in your gaze. “You’re still mine,” he murmured, the edge of jealousy in his voice softening. “I just… I need to know that no part of me, even Slim, can take you away from me.” You smiled, your gaze unwavering as you nodded. “I’m yours, Marshall. And nothing—not even Slim—will change that.” And you meant it. Every word. Your heart belonged to Marshall, but you wondered if Slim was some kind of hope you could hold on to, a way you could finally have more of Marshall. 

[b6cky]

to people writing for moonknight! /srs

hello! i am diagnosed with DID and have noticed a little bit of a trend with some fanfic writers, so i wanted to address it just to help people that are not educated about the disorder.

edit: not that i need to clarify this but i am professionally diagnosed and have been in and out of therapy for several years. i would appreciate it if people could stop sending me anons or even just commenting shit saying “i’m faking this disorder”, this is a disorder that i have to deal with on a daily basis and it is awful to live with. it is not fun. it isn’t all “hehe people in my brain i get to leave whenever i want!” it is AWFUL DEALING WITH DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER. i know there are people who fake having this disorder, but that does not mean every single person who is open about having it online is faking it. i would appreciate it if people would leave me the hell alone - this post was purely made to educate the moonknight fandom and i’m seriously fed up with all the shit i have gotten from it, it’s affected my mental health and i’ve fallen out of love with writing because of it. i’m sorry if this post offended you for some bizarre reason, but i am sick of logging into tumblr and facing ableism just because i wanted to do something positive for this fandom. leave me alone.

why is ‘personality’ not okay to use when referring to steven, jake or marc?

the only thing people tend to know about DID is what it was previously known as (multiple personality disorder) this term has since been changed, due to the inaccuracy that the term ‘personality’ has in relation to the disorder. personality is the way that you act and present yourself, to say steven and marc are personalities, or even alter egos would be inaccurate, it is not one person changing the way that they act (or changing their personality), alters in a system are different people, separate from each other, but in the same body. the term personality implies that it is one person that is consciously changing the way they act, but DID is not like that at all. the different alters can have their own personality, but they themselves are not ‘a personality’.

what can i say instead of personality?

alters is the term commonly used for the different people in systems, although there are other terms, such as headmates that some systems prefer. i personally think people should use alters when referring to steven and marc, but never personality/alter ego.

i have seen some people compare norman osborn/green goblin to steven grant and wanted to speak about that too.

norman does not have DID, i’ve tried to research and all i have found that it’s said that norman suffers from a form of schizophrenia and that the formula he created worsened that schizophrenia and brought out the green goblin. i believe the green goblin in some sort of hallucination or delusion, but i couldn’t find any canon evidence, besides a fandom wiki suggesting norman suffers from schizophrenia. schizophrenia and DID do have a lot of overlapping symptoms, so i understand the confusion, however they are both very different and should not be grouped together/compared. DID is a disorder that comes from childhood trauma, to say norman and steven experience the same thing would be incorrect. in norman’s case, the green goblin wasn’t present during his childhood, instead came around later in life, whilst what steven experiences would have been right from childhood.

trigger warnings for DID

i have seen several people put warnings for DID and frankly i see this as unnecessary and ridiculous. i personally find it incredibly dehumanising, as this disorder already has such a bad reputation due to the representation in movies such as split. there is no warning in the show for ‘mentions of DID’, the only mention of DID the show has is in the description of the show. no one that is ‘triggered’ by DID (which they shouldn’t be) would be watching the show, let alone be reading fanfiction about the show. stop putting warnings for DID on your fanfictions. it’s unnecessary and hurtful.

some extra information to help your writing

in a system, alters can have different views on people, not every single alter is going to like the same people, so keep that in mind. if there are people shipping marc and steven (although i do not ship it myself), it is not selfcest or incest at all! alters in a system can have romantic, platonic or familial relationships and it is not selfcest/incest.

my dms are open to questions, along with the comments. feel free to ask any questions and i will try my best to answer them :)

thank you for reading!

[painted-crow]

Secondary Toast Revolving Door, Part 1

I guess I should start with a little about me, since that’s easier than making you pick through previous asks for information and some of you guys are new here. This one’s going to be heavily personal, so you can skip it if you want.

I’m a double Bird. My Bird primary system is heavily Badger influenced, and I also use Lion to support it by telling me when I should investigate something more closely. If we can dip into primary territory for a moment, I guess you can say I understand the world through systems that model things around me. But not all of those systems are things I’ve consciously examined, or fully investigated.

My understanding of how historical people dressed is pretty limited, for example, because I haven’t studied it in depth to get all the information—but I consciously understand what I do know about it. You could say this system piece is tiny but clear; I could expand it if I chose to find out more.

My understanding of how someone I’m not close to thinks might have more data to work with, but I haven’t consciously processed it; that’s the kind of thing where my Lion primary model will tell me to look closer if that person starts acting weird. This system piece might be described as huge but fuzzy; I could clarify it if I sat down and thought about it. I probably have more of these than I realize, but Lion basically takes care of monitoring those. I don’t have to investigate everything.

But some of my systems are both large and fairly clear, because I’ve taken the time both to gather data on them and to examine it. My understanding of myself is… well, I won’t say it’s terribly clear, because I’m in my early twenties and I’m still constantly getting new information, plus someone keeps changing the environment and mucking with my data (that would be me). But I have to examine it, because my brain is like a notoriously buggy piece of software and I’m the poor schmuck saddled with tech support duties.

Basically, the reason I’m good at playing therapist with other people is that I’m constantly doing exactly that thing with myself. (This probably makes me a very annoying patient for actual therapists.)

About that buggy brain, then.

I have major depression. That was professionally diagnosed when I was a teenager and it’s probably genetic. I take medication for it, when I remember to. It especially flares up in the winter or when I’m under stress. I probably have some kind of anxiety disorder too.

I’m almost certainly autistic, which I’ve never brought up with a professional—the first person to figure it out was the system I’m now best friends with, because they’re autistic and they knew I was within two weeks of talking to me. It took me two years to catch up with them and figure it out myself.

In my defense, I thought executive dysfunction, sensory overwhelm, dissociation, and hyperempathy were like… secret menu items for depression, because those only really bug me during depressive episodes. My current theory is that they’re related to autistic burnout instead.

I mask a lot, subconsciously—it’s actually really hard to turn that off normally—and I just can’t do that as much when depressed. If I do, my tolerance for everything else goes way down and I’ll go into overwhelm and start having shutdowns and dissociating. I recover pretty quickly (hours, not days), but if you’ve never spent 15 minutes standing in a Walmart aisle trying to decide whether you want a jar of peanut butter, but you can’t make decisions because you can’t access your emotions and you don’t really feel like you’re “here” but you kind of just want to go home… well, be glad I guess.

Of course, I have other autistic traits that show up when I’m not under stress, but they’re seldom associated with autism because most people don’t know what autis are like when we’re actually happy. Like, hyperlexia? That’s not even an “official” word, the auti community just uses it because “official” literature hasn’t caught up. I taught myself to read at age three (according to my mom; she says I was reading news headlines and stuff, not just books I’d memorized) and wrote a 35k word novella when I was ten, with no external prompting. My audio processing used to be terrible, but I routinely tested at college age reading levels as a kid.

I also might have ADHD? If so, it’s also mostly just noticeable if I’m under stress, and then it’s hard to tell if that’s the issue or if it’s just autism/depression again.

You might be getting a clearer picture of how my secondary and its model end up burnt so often!

(Resisting a very strong urge to cut stuff from this post.)

In short, I was a Gifted Kid. I spent a lot of my teen years biting off more than I could chew, honestly. I felt that I should be able to do more, and I wanted to be taken seriously, but I had basically no idea how to take care of myself because my needs are different from everyone else’s. I’m still figuring those out.

I’m kind of like an orchid plant: incredibly picky about conditions, wants a different “soil” and watering schedule, gets stressed if stuff changes too quickly, but when everything is just right and it does bloom, it goes all out.

I’m not kidding when I say that I have odd needs. One of them is the need for creative work, which seems to be hardwired into me. When I say that art or writing keeps me sane, I often hear back “oh yeah! I’ve heard that can be very therapeutic,” which is an innocuous reply, but it’s always bugged me, and I think I’ve figured out why.

First, because that’s not the reason I make things… I just… have to. Second, I can’t “make up” not doing creative work with some other kind of therapy. Third and most importantly, I’d much rather think of “artist” as my ground state, and depression as a condition that happens when my needs aren’t being met, rather than thinking of depression as the default that I’m just using art to escape from. That seems to me a healthier way of thinking, and probably a more accurate one, but I’m probably the only one who can see that distinction.

If life gets in the way and I can’t make space for creative work, it will actively make my depression worse. I know this because, multiple times, I’ve been unable to pinpoint why I’m feeling shitty, and then I go back to my easel or my writing or (ukulele, cooking, even just taking care of houseplants) and realize I haven’t done anything creative in like a month and thaaaat’s the problem.

I crack open a bottle of gesso to prep some canvases and it smells like… well, I don’t think you can get high off gesso? But it’s not like when you’re out of it on painkillers or cold medicine or whatever. It’s incredibly grounding, like the world snaps back into focus but it’s also oddly euphoric. Or I write ten thousand words in a couple days and it just… I don’t know what that does. I’ve never run across a word for it.

The writer of Smile at Strangers (a really good memoir centered around women, anxiety, and karate) describes a similar feeling in relation to her martial arts practice.

It’s also a bit like when all the snow melts after winter and you step outside and there’s the smell of wet soil under sunlight and I’m not sure if this fully translates for people who don’t have seasonal depression. Sorry.

Dammit, I want to paint… I haven’t had space to set up for like eight months. I’ve been nose-deep in writing projects since last summer for a reason, but right now my friggin Ravenclaw secondary is off angsting about something because of Life Stress Bullshit, and I don’t have the focus to work on any of my writing projects. Apart from this one. But it’s not really what I want in terms of creative work.

*velociraptor screech*

Oh, yeah. I guess I could mention this is why my nickname is Paint. Not sure if that was obvious before. The header image (which is more visible in the app for some reason) is one of my paintings. It’s a tiny one and it’s not one of my favorites, but I had the photo on my phone and the colors work well enough for what I needed.

(restrains self from negging my own painting ability)

This is starting to get into spoiler territory for what burned Ravenclaw secondary looks like, huh? It’s peaced out for a couple weeks at this point. I’m trying to write about what made it take off, but my ability to think of words and form a coherent sentence kinda flew out the window when I approached it directly.

Let’s just say that around the start of the month, someone I was talking to online (if you’re reading this, it’s definitely not you) kindaaaa hit a nasty depression trigger of mine. Not their fault—it’s very specific to me, and I struggle to explain why I can’t really talk about it. Basically, I spent years studying programming and web design, and due to several different but related issues during that experience, it’s now a trigger for me. I very much want it not to be, but trying to train that out of myself has induced more than one panic attack and I’m stuck between giving up on it or figuring out a way to go back to it that doesn’t totally shut my brain down.

That paragraph took forever to write, by the way.

I think I have to end this here. I… am going to go take out the trash, and water my plants, and make my bed, and file some paperwork, and maybe I’ll even mix up some bread dough or do some laundry. Spoiler alert for what it looks like when my Hufflepuff model takes over, I guess.

Oh. And I should maybe probably eat something. I almost forgot about that... again.

[misterspectacular]

SEE (Hannigram fic)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23033302

         Summary:            

"Will felt himself lose form until he was transparent; a spectre, that only Dr Lecter could see. He lowered his eyes from the ceiling. The blue curtains in his window parted, letting in amber rays that pressed warm kisses to his soul, some of which had the power to ignite him. Each kiss left a burn that read, in perfect cursive writing, I SEE YOU."

Set between S01 E07 (Sorbet) and S01 E08 (Fromage).

                 Notes:    

This is after Will has taken notice of the stag statue in Hannibal's office. This is after he's bared witness to Hannibal's surgical skill. This is after he's returned Hannibal's friendship. This is before Will kissed Alana. This is before he's had the brain scan. This is after Hannibal has smelled the Encephalitis. And before Will knew Abigail killed Nicholas Boyle.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

______________________________________________________________

Will Graham, over the years, had stepped into the office of many psychiatrists, and he'd never liked a single one of them.

He could see them flashing before his mind's eye; all of them different yet somehow nauseatingly similar...

The bright, white light shining through the windows; from the ceiling; from the lamps tucked into the corners... All pointing to him, like flash lights in the hand of a diver looking to explore the dark waters of his mind. No where for the sharks to hide.

The chair he sat in, as icy as the air that surrounded him; freezing him to it like the tongue of a rebellious kid who'd decided to lick a street pole in the middle of Winter. Or the couch, hot enough that he turned to liquid and seeped into the cushion, trapped within the fabric beside another coffee stain.

The smells, so sickly-sweet that the scent of decay would appeal, or chemical enough to be the embalming fluid injected into those that had decayed.

The rooms reeked of intention. SHOW YOURSELF, the lights demanded. STAY PUT, ordered the chair and couch. RELAX, commanded the scents; YOU'RE SAFE HERE, they tried persuading.

Even the plants in the corners all grew mouths and desperately screamed, LET ME SEE YOU.

Will Graham had never been a fan of being seen. He'd never been a fan of seeing, either, but there was no working his way around that one, try as he might. A single word was an autobiography. One glimpse was a biographical film.  Most days, he would avoid those windows into the soul. Other days, his own trembling one would reach out, searching for a sturdy hand to hold on to... but his reach was never met. Through those windows and into the house, spelled out on the fridge in alphabet magnets, were the words I WON'T UNDERSTAND YOU.

The doctors had gone to school, they knew mental illness, they'd read books on psychology... but they didn't have experience, not with people like him. Nobody did; even he couldn't find any information on what he was. He was alone. He couldn't tell them that he'd lie awake most nights, living in his mind as somebody else; multiple somebodies... Criminal somebodies, ranging anywhere from burglars to serial killers. He couldn't tell them that each night he'd dream of strangling innocents. Slitting throats, breaking necks. They might say he had a form of Dissociative Identity Disorder. They could say he was suffering from Schizophrenia. Borderline Personality Disorder. Most likely, they'd deem him a Psychopath. He'd be put on medication, he'd lose his job and be sent to a psych ward. He'd live surrounded by the insane, for so many years that it would come to the point that he could no longer differentiate. He'd become as psychotic as the psychiatrists who'd diagnosed him believed him to be.

A glance and they'd see what was lurking through those windows, hiding behind the curtains. They'd see, and they wouldn't understand. No one ever had.

Up until he met a certain doctor.

"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.  No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love."

______________________________________________________________

   One of these things is not like the others    One of these things just doesn't belong    Can you tell which thing is not like the others    By the time I finish my song?

______________________________________________________________ 

Being in Dr Lecter's office was as comforting to him as being on a boat in still waters. The very air surrounding Will gingerly caressed him rather than shocked or sedated him. The room was in equal parts light and shadow; in lieu of the flash light was a lighthouse that took on the shape of a man. The scents were unique but subtle; refreshing.

There wasn't a plant in this room (at least, not yet), but there were many other things; one of which was a statue; a statue of a stag. It whispered to him, and it told him, I SEE YOU, AND I UNDERSTAND.

Will sat in the comfortable, black leather chair across from Dr Lecter. It was 8:30 in the morning.

Hannibal was still as he observed the dark-haired man before him. Will Graham was looking without seeing out the window while unconsciously rubbing two fingers of his left hand over his chin. His breathing was slightly rapid, shallow. He was exhibiting signs of anxiety... but it wasn't where he was, or who he was with, that created it. Will Graham wasn't present, and the rest of his body was still; the hand gripping the arm of the chair was relaxed. His legs were spread wide apart, open and inviting.

They had exchanged pleasantries, and though Will Graham had started to become comfortable enough to initiate conversation when meeting with Hannibal, to seek his help, to confide in him, this time he was more withdrawn. The circles under his eyes were darker, his lids were heavier, his skin was paler; all of which pointed to a lack of sleep. Hannibal waited patiently.

Will was trapped in an echo; a memory of the dream he'd had the night before. Or at least, what felt like a dream; it could have been his imagination, he wasn't entirely sure. He saw Hobbs in his kitchen, white-eyed and rotting, slitting Abigail's throat. He saw Hobbs on his own front porch beside a barking Winston, white-eyed and rotting, slitting Abigail's throat. Then he saw himself on his porch, bright-eyed and golden-skinned, slitting Abigail's throat. He watched as the blood sprayed from her carotid artery, drenching him in red. He watched as she fell to the ground and bled out, looking up at him with wide, blue, questioning eyes.

Only once Abigail was dead did Will stop reverberating. Slowly, the raging ocean that was his porch became the calm waters that made Dr Lecter's office. Will blinked, eyes scanning his surroundings, before landing on the lighthouse. The light momentarily blinded him. Dr Lecter saw him; Dr Lecter knew. Will quickly shut the windows to his soul.

"Sorry. Uh... didn't sleep well, last night," said Will, breaking the silence; scratching a forehead that did not itch.

Hannibal saw, and he knew Will Graham knew he saw, so leaned back further into his seat, crossed his legs and folded his hands on top of his lap; expressing his lack of discomfort. Relax, he told Will with his body. I see you, and I understand you. You are safe here with me.

Hannibal had a long list of questions in mind; each one to be asked only when the time was right...

"Do you still see him behind closed eyes?" was one of those questions.

Will Graham momentarily froze before lowering his hand to his knee. His brow twitched in mock confusion. Hannibal saw himself in the gesture; Will was so used to hiding that it'd become second nature to feign ignorance.

"Garret Jacob Hobbs," Hannibal clarified; feigning ignorance about Will Graham's feigning of ignorance.

Will's automatic reaction was to snort. It came off as if directed at Dr Lecter, asking him, what do you think? But in fact, it was directed at himself, asking why do I even bother? Dr Lecter had a way of seeing right through him... whether or not Will wanted him to was yet to be decided.

The YES wasn't spoken, but Hannibal didn't need a verbal admission.

"Why do you think that is?" he asked.

Will chewed on his bottom lip before responding, "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"I could tell you what I think," Hannibal started. "But doing so has the potential to reshape your perspective. Speaking aloud what we are thinking can aid us in coming to our own conclusions... and those conclusions may be more accurate."

Hannibal let Will Graham consider that before he continued.

"What are you thinking, Will?"

Will took a deep breath.

"I..." he began, and he felt his face twitch. Stress, he told himself, as he rubbed it with a hand, as if the touch would help to ground, or shield him; either from Dr Lecter or himself. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

"I think... doing what I do... Profiling killers. Being the way I am..."

He lowered his hand and gripped the arm of the chair. He watched as the fingers of his left hand twitched. He made them stop by clenching his fist.

"... makes separating..."

He released his grip and looked up at the ceiling; sighing.

"... difficult."

"You profile many killers," said Hannibal. "What makes Garret Jacob Hobbs different?"

Will felt himself lose form until he was transparent; a spectre, that only Dr Lecter could see. He lowered his eyes from the ceiling. The blue curtains in his window parted, letting in amber rays that pressed warm kisses to his soul, some of which had the power to ignite him. Each kiss left a burn that read, in perfect cursive writing, I SEE YOU.

Will saw his own eyes through Dr Lecter's; they responded. I WANT TO BE SEEN.

"... I killed Hobbs," whispered Will, unable to look away. To be seen was... relieving, as much as it was unnerving. He was almost disappointed when Dr Lecter broke the spell by letting his eyes lower to Will's hand. It was then that Will realized he was rubbing the fingernail of his pointer finger over the pad of his thumb, over and over; it was the same finger he used to pull the trigger on Hobbs. The same motion. He tensed his jaw and stopped himself.

"Is that why you have difficulty separating? Because you took his life?" asked Hannibal, looking back into Will Graham's eyes once the motion ceased.

Will met them, close to eager.

"Yes..." he said, softly.

Dr Lecter's head tilted to the side very slightly but he did not so much as blink otherwise.

"But you don't regret it," he replied.

Will Graham laughed; he wished he regretted it.

"No. No... It's not regret that keeps him swimming around in the dark waters of my mind," said Will, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully. Calmly; thoughtfully.

Hannibal's lips were still, but his heart smiled, overcome with glee; this was the Will Graham that hid behind the mask. This was the Will Graham that Hannibal was working hard to rescue; to pull out from the depths of conformity. Here he was, the magnificent beast lurking within, and he was unmistakably beautiful.

Will was the one to break eye-contact, this time. Seeing himself through Dr Lecter's eyes while he confessed to such things was distressing. He didn't see the man he wanted to be; he didn't see the man that he saw through Alana's eyes. He saw a beast; a monster with black antlers, dead eyes and blood dripping down its chin. He looked back up at the ceiling and let out another sigh.

Hannibal sighed along with him, but only inwardly; the monster was back in hiding. Hannibal was disappointed but continued on; he knew it was only temporary.

"Then what is it?" Hannibal asked. Will Graham's blue eyes flitted around the room.

"Fear," he responded.

"What do you fear?"

There was a hesitation; Will looked at the loft above Dr Lecter's head, met his eyes briefly, before looking down at the shoes the doctor wore. They were pristine and perfectly symmetrical; Dr Lecter was an idealist. They were black on the outside, with the slightest bit of salmon peeking out from the underside of the lace guards; Dr Lecter was composed but not immune to excitement. They must have been ridiculously expensive; Dr Lecter had a taste for the finer things in life. He appreciated elegance. He WAS elegant. Graceful. Shoes said a lot about a person. Although, so did anything else.

"Likeness," Will answered at last, unmoving.

"You took his life, just as he had taken many lives, himself," said Dr Lecter; hitting the nail on the head, as usual. Will raised his eyes up from Dr Lecter's costly shoes to his thin leg; 'I'm very careful about what I put into my body.' From his thin leg to his luxurious tie. He let them run across Dr Lecter's full, pink lips. Let them trace his cheekbone, rise up into his hair, sink down over his forehead and rest on those warming, firy mirrors. They showed nothing but understanding. They were encouraging.

"I feel... like he's a part of me."

Will Graham's eyes said many things, but screamed just one; HELP ME. Hannibal would not allow him to go unassisted.

"He is what you consider your own darkness. A darkness you cannot escape," said Hannibal, and he let his brows crease slightly; intended to convey feelings of sympathy.

Will Graham's jaw shifted from side to side. He nodded once, a jerky movement, then he shut his eyes, long and thick lashes fluttering against soft cheeks, as he reached up and rubbed his neck and shoulder. Hannibal watched a moment longer before he spoke; falling through branches of scenarios until he landed on one sturdy enough.

"You carry the weight of your troubles on your shoulders. Your trapezius muscles hold the same tension that is present in your mind," said Hannibal, pausing before he continued. "Releasing that tension can be beneficial."

Hannibal waited for Will Graham's eyes to meet his; the connection would enhance feelings of trust when he said, "I can help you, Will."

Will's quivering soul reached out and was, this time, grasped.

"How?" asked Will.

Dr Lecter leaned forward, palms pressed flat against the arms of the chair and elbows bent, as if he were preparing to get up. He looked at Will with a smile that reached his eyes.

"Shiatsu massage," he said.

Will's brow twitched, his head jerked, and one corner of his mouth turned upward. He laughed a laugh much different than the first; it was almost a question.

When Dr Lecter stood up from the chair in one swift motion, hands running down his suit to flatten the wrinkles, Will lost his smile and his eyes widened. Question answered... but he asked, just for good measure...

"You're not serious, are you?"

He turned in his seat to follow Dr Lecter as the man walked behind him.

"Of course I am," Dr Lecter replied, resting his hands on the back of Will's chair. He smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Will blinked rapidly; he couldn't hold Dr Lecter's gaze and instead lowered his head to look at the salmon-colored pocket square. It matched the color hidden inside his shoes... was there anything Dr Lecter did that wasn't intentional? Did he do anything spontaneously? Will's lips twitched; alternating between a smile and a frown.

"Ah... not the therapy I was expecting...?" he said, turning back around, if only to keep Dr Lecter from witnessing his discomfort; he imagined his efforts were futile.

"Wellness of the body and wellness of the mind are of equal importance for a happy life," said Dr Lecter.

"Well, in that case, I'm screwed," Will scoffed, eyes widening before he ran his hands over them. The motion said 'I can't believe this is happening'.

"I think fate has other plans for you, Will," said Dr Lecter before hesitating. As Will anticipated contact, a butterfly fluttered wildly within the cage of his ribs. With each beat of wing, a question arose; the same one, over and over. WHY? WHY? WHY?

"This is more effective if done in a lying down position, but it is not entirely necessary," Dr Lecter said, subtly leaning over Will, as if he thought if he were any further away, Will would not have been able to hear him. The butterfly went through reverse-metamorphosis and became a caterpillar; a caterpillar which crawled up Will's oesophagus and made its way to his throat. He swallowed it back down.

"I'll sit," he said, voice hoarse.

As soon as Dr Lecter's hands grasped his trapezoids, Will stiffened, shut his eyes, and nearly choked on his own tongue. Though he knew the hands of a man were on him, he felt something else entirely. The Ravenstag came around the corner, big and black, and nuzzled his hand. It was trying to SHOW him something. Why? What was there to see? What about Dr Lecter had provoked the Ravenstag? What was it trying to tell him?

When Dr Lecter spoke, Will lifted his heavy lids and stared ahead; there the stag statue, behind Dr Lecter's chair, on the pedestal against the wall. That explained it; the statue must have been the last thing he'd seen before shutting his eyes. It had no meaning. Will rubbed his lips together. Fear had become a familiar friend; it came to him and asked him, ARE YOU LOSING YOUR MIND?

"Shiatsu massage is based on the same principles as acupuncture," Dr Lecter informed. "Instead of thin needle, the hands are used. Or more specifically, the fingers. 'Shiatsu' is Japanese for 'finger pressure'."

Will shut his eyes, and this time, he saw Dr Lecter wearing a black kimono; felt Dr Lecter's dichotomous hands on him. They were as firm as they were gentle. Dr Lecter took on the shape of a blue crab as he pinched, adding to Will's agony, and transformed into a raven when he released; flying away and taking all of Will's suffering with him.

"You apply pressure to remove pressure," said Will.

"Yes."

Hannibal went back in time until he saw himself preparing a pair of fresh, healthy, and beautifully pink lungs for consumption. Cassie Boyle. He'd placed her in the middle of a field in Minnesota, fully exposed; nothing to hide. The crime matched the punishment; she was stripped of all decency. Skewered, not unlike a shish kebab, by the antlers on the head of a stag. Three and a half hours from Garet Jacob Hobbs' address, found only because the stag head had been stolen about a mile from the scene. It could have easily been mistaken for a crime committed by Garet Jacob Hobbs; easily mistaken by anyone but Will Graham.

The stag was considered a messenger to the native tribes of North America, and it had delivered the exact messages that Hannibal had intended to. It said SEE ME and SEE HIM simultaneously; this 'copycat killer' - Hannibal - looked at his victims as if they were pigs; Hobbs did not.

Hobbs loved his victims. Hobbs loved women. Young women; daughters. Hobbs consumed them to keep them with him; he couldn't bare separation. He couldn't bare separation from a daughter.

Will saw; he received the message. 'Practically gift-wrapped', he had said, and that's exactly what it was; Hannibal's gift to Will Graham.

Cassie Boyle initially helped to tell Will Graham where Garet Jacob Hobbs resided, and the phone call that warned Hobbs set in motion the first stage of Will Graham's becoming.

Hannibal took a deep breath and exhaled; he disguised it as a sigh, as if massaging Will was taking a lot of effort, but what he was doing was detecting - Encephalitis, to be precise. The sweetness and the heat of it was still present; the scent of it had started to become more potent. Soon, Hannibal would move onto stage two; he would use the Encephalitis to aid Will in his evolution.

It was common for victims of Encephalitis to experience seizures do to abnormal synchronized activity in the brain cells; they were also apt to be photophobic. Hannibal planned to use this to his advantage. He would use flashing light therapy to overwhelm Will's already-overwhelmed brain, inducing seizures, and subject him to psychic driving.

'You're a killer, Will,' he would say. 'You killed Cassie Boyle.'

He needed Will to believe. It wasn't enough for Will to see. He had to become; only then would true understanding manifest.

Once he accepted what he truly was, Will would emerge from the chrysalis as the God he was meant to be; taking the lives he deemed fit to take. It wouldn't be long before he added the finishing touches to the painting of the Chesapeake Ripper, and once he saw it in full, glorious detail, tears of joy would stream down his blood-stained cheeks. He'd see Hannibal, and in Hannibal, he'd see himself.

The broken tea cup that made Will, the broken tea cup that made Hannibal, would join together. Pieces would be left behind, but that mattered not; this new, amalgamated teacup would be superior.

Will and Hannibal, together, would become a whole teacup once again... and Abigail would be the psilocybin mushroom tea that filled it.

And this... this was Hannibal's gift to Will Graham.

"Mild discomfort may be present as pressure is applied... but if you are resilient enough to withstand it, you will emerge a new man."

"Hm," uttered Will, brows raising even with his eyes shut. Behind closed eyes, the Ravenstag returned, so vivid that he could see his and Dr Lecter's reflection in its big, brown eye. Will could feel its breath on his cheek. SEE? it asked, then demanded; SEE. SEE WITHOUT EYES.

Will kept his shut as he said, "Not unlike psychiatry."

Hannibal's smile flatlined while his heart began to chortle. He did not discontinue his massage because he knew, for someone like Will Graham, it would be as good as a confession.

Did Will know?

"Do you feel pressured, Will?" Hannibal tested.

"I feel an astounding amount of pressure, Dr Lecter," Will Graham responded.

Hannibal, unsure as to whether or not Will was being deliberately vague, responded without giving anything away;  "How does that make you feel?"

"Like a volcano on the verge of eruption," said Will, and he saw himself, bathed in blood under the light of the full moon.

Synchronously, Hannibal saw Will, bathed in the light of the full moon, blood as black as the night sky coating him from head to foot. He thought, perhaps Will didn't need psychic driving. Perhaps he just needed a nudge in the right direction...

"Volcanoes can be destructive; their eruptions devastating anything within close distance - except for other volcanoes."

"Mhm."

"Eruptions also help to create minerals such as gold, silver and diamonds, create rich agricultural soil, and were responsible for most of Earth's water."

"What are you saying? That I should erupt?"

"I'm saying you shouldn't fear eruption; it might not be as destructive as you think. And... it would release a lot of tension."

Hannibal rested his hands still against Will's trapezius muscles, indicating that he was finished.

"Do you feel like a new man?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm getting there. Thank you," Will replied, keeping his eyes shut even once Dr Lecter removed his hands entirely.

"The pleasure was all mine," said Hannibal Lecter.

______________________________________________________________

                             Notes:  

I have so many things hidden in this story, and I was actually going to point them all out, but I decided against it. I thought it might be more fun to let you find them, yourself.

[werevulvi]

Splitting and merging

I've done a lot of inner work to figure myself out, in my detransition and prior to it. I randomly started reflecting over it again, and this is the (really comprehensive) result. When I look at my gender expression as a spectrum from the most masculine I presented as in my trans man days, to the most feminine I presented as in my pre-transition and early detransition days, I feel that both of those extremes are uncomfortable for me. I've lived most of my life through differently gendered personas. It's been three of them: Kazanndra - was the name I created at age 12 for a self image I wanted to become. She's a hyper-feminine version of myself. We're talking long hair, shaven body, no facial hair, big boobs, narrow waist, big butt, heavy makeup, short skirts, tight tops, high heels, painted nails, etc. Personality wise she's melancholic, submissive, self-harming, and hyper-sexual in a way she tries to take back control by never saying no to any man and being very submissive. She is, in fact, a slave to her own pain and a pawn of patriarchy. For many times in my past, I felt like she was the only kind of woman I could possibly want to be, and if I couldn't be her, I'd rather be a man. Everyone kept telling me I shouldn't be like her, which was one of the things that drove me to transition. She is the mental image and tragic manifestation of my internalised misogyny. She's a trauma queen. John - was the name I went by as a trans guy, and thus he was the persona I tried to become in my transition. He's not so different from Kazanndra in his personality, but copes with the same issues through a lens of false masculinity instead. As he's also hyper-sexual in a very similar manner, he's submissive with men in a way to try to erase his femaleness by fucking away the pain. He is more so a manifestation of my internalised lesbophobia, a combination of the misogyny and homophobia I turned towards myself. He attempts to always be the polar opposite of what I actually am, he's the brick wall to my vulnerability, the anger to my fear, and he's the "masc gay man" to the femme lesbian I really am.

These were not actual alters, but rather like roles that I acted out, or different masks that I put on, taken to an extreme. I was never diagnosed with a dissociative disorder, but I highly suspect I had OSDD, cause of my actual alter. I knew I did not meet enough criteria of DID to be diagnosed with it. Just to clarify. Both of those two personas are my most extreme states. I lived through them at different times of my life thinking they were the real me at those times, but they always pushed each other away which created a huge inner conflict. When I first figured I might be transgender at age 15, I was terrified of transitioning and flipped over into playing out and almost becoming Kazanndra, as a response to my fears about transition and my past traumas, until I was 19. During those 4 years, I lived most of my life through the Kazanndra lens, but on rare occasion John peaked through and that messed with me. I used to refer to those 4 years as my "trans denial" period. At age 19 after more abuse I flipped the switch and instead lived through John believing I was him and that Kazanndra had just been a persona and a coping mechanism, which she was, but she was also me. While seeing myself as a trans man and living through my John persona, Kazanndra would pop up on occasion just like it had been before, but in reverse. That too, messed with me. Anna - was my only actual alter, and I didn't live through her but rather side by side with her, as if we were two people sharing one body. She was very different from both Kazanndra and John, she was feminine but not to an extreme and much more natural in her expression. She was happy to be female, but also very dominant and assertive in a way I could described as "masculine" and her trauma showed through a complete lack of sexual interest, bullying and violent tendencies.

I'm no longer split into those three parts, but have become somewhat of a mix between them. But I also have aspects that neither of them had, the aspects they all existed to eliminate: my vulnerability and my lesbianism. Both John and Kazanndra drove me head first into seeking out men sexually, in very self-destructive ways, while Anna attempted to stop me with a trauma-induced asexuality, but neither expressed even the slightest hint of attraction to women or any actual attraction at all. They covered it up, and quite effectively, but my genuine self did shine through every once in a while, as a form of forbidden longing for the warmth of my actual attraction to women. And by the end of the time that I had with Anna as a separate entity alongside me, I for the first time ever noticed she was not against me dating the person I was into: my current girlfriend. She was only ever against me being with men, and now I know, she was trying to protect me.

Now I'm no longer split, but I'm only beginning to realise what kinds of effects that has had on me. Basically, John merged with Kazanndra by the end of last year when I started having a beard as a woman, my lesbianism emerged from my depths, and together they became Laura. And by spring this year Laura merged with Anna, when I started incorporating her style into my own, found more strength in my vulnerability, and I yet again became Sara. Laura was a sort of transition in itself. She was definitely on the right track, my first agonising steps to accepting my femaleness and coming to terms with my transition and my sexuality. She was not a persona, but also not the full me. She was a gateway, or a path, that I much needed to travel through. I was healing through her, but she was not my end goal. Sara is more than just my birth name; it is the name of my whole child self before I split. And I think that's why I've been starting to feel connected to that name again since around spring this year, which was when I fully merged. Perhaps the reasons I could not connect to it before was related to how split up I was as a person. But now, as a whole person again, I realise that all of my personas and alters smacked into one coherent personality, is me, Sara. So to be Sara is my ultimate goal, but that too is a work in progress.

I do not remember much of the child that I was, before the age of 9 when my traumatised mind split into two halves: me and Anna, and then continued to fragment into personas as I grew up. She's too young for me to fully reach within myself. Although I do keep trying, cause I think reaching her is an important puzzle piece in my further healing.

How Anna is connected to why I transitioned is, I think, more indirect than anything. She was never male-identified. In fact she was closer to the genuine me than ever I was myself even (which is a scary thought, but true), and she was the aspect of me that was the most connected to my femaleness and very defensive of it. However, her existence was a direct response to my traumas, and my transitioning was another direct response to my traumas. So they're indirectly connected cause they stem from the same source. They were two different escape mechanisms that clashed. Anna was against me transitioning. She felt it as a direct violation of her autonomy and as me destroying her (our/my) body. It was a huge conflict which even led to her raping me, one desperate night back in early 2011 when I had been self-medicating with testosterone for some 6 or 7 months. My transition created a huge inner conflict within myself, to say the least. I didn't take Anna's existence into account that she was still somehow... me. I wanted to erase her, not merge with her.

Since my detransition now, I can no longer think of myself as "non-binary" but I'm rather just trying to find a healthy balance between my extreme masculinity (John) and my extreme femininity (Kazanndra), to have them co-exist peacefully instead of fighting and switching back and forth, while also taking what once was Anna into account. I've discovered that for me I best express that healthy balance as a bearded, deep-voiced, hairy woman with an affinity for red lipstick, dresses and long hair (yeah I'm saving that fucker out again). It's me being assertive, strong-willed, logical, a realist and not afraid to take space; while also being emotional, dreamy, vulnerable, nurturing and creative. It's me combining dominance with submission in a healthy and playful way that feels enriching and healing, and what it actually is, is me combining familiar comfort with going outside of my comfort zone and finding healthy ways to express my sexuality with another woman as a woman myself. To listen to my boundaries but also dare to explore my desires. Instead of searching for gender labels anymore, I'm finding harmony in my androgyny and coming to peace with my biological female sex, and with my homosexuality. The only labels I do and will wear are woman, detrans, lesbian, femme and I may on occasion describe myself as androgynous or gnc. My healing began in early 2017 when I broke up with my ex and became friends with Anna. I swung to the most masculine extreme of my John-persona I had ever been. During that year I rejected my attraction to women completely and planned on getting SRS to rid myself of the last remaining visible aspects of my femaleness. It was my ultimate denial, a strong reaction to my tapping into my traumas and little by little sorting them out. Then in early 2018 I started vaguely connecting to my body as I began to listen to it. My mind had finally started to let go of its tight grip on my denial. Mid 2018 I swung back to my Kazanndra-persona as I detransitioned. A few months later I merged my Johh-persona and Kazanndra-persona together and discovered my true lesbian sexuality. A few months after that, I merged with Anna and felt a new, stable calm within myself and felt myself grounding more. I started missing my birth name, and eventually took it back. Alongside all that, I've been working hard on my relationship issues in the past and now believe I have the most solid, healthy relationship ever, with my girlfriend. It all started with one idea, two and a half years ago: I'm gonna start listening to myself, allow all and any kinds of thoughts and feelings to exist within me, and not push any of them away. They're not dangerous, and I know I know that. I followed that idea through, made it into a promise. Eventually it led me here, to my utter astonishment. I do not regret that, but it's been a very difficult journey that I was not prepared for at all. I believe it's all connected. Why I transitioned, my personas John and Kazanndra, my alter Anna, my internalised lesbophobia, my intrusive sexual thoughts about men, my traumas, my (birth) name, how I struggle to figure out what is my authentic self, even my style and gender expression, and so on. And detangling that massive heap of psychological wounds for the past couple of years has almost become a bit of a hobby for me by now. It's no longer terrifying, but exciting instead. It's always been rewarding, seeing my true self shine through the cracks and form into a more and more solid and clear image in my mind, slowly over time. I did most of that inner work myself and had very little help from any actual therapy; although my girlfriend has been an immense support and invaluable help in giving me advice, listening to my endless rambles, comforting me in my panic and helping me stay on the right track. For that, and much more, I am forever grateful for her. The rewards I’ve gotten have been a newfound ability to ground myself and finding peace, comfort and love coming from within myself to protect and care for me. It will always be worth it.

[lizbwitch]

Diary Entry #14

I ruined everything.Today was one of the worst days I’ve ever lived.

I’ve never written about that here bc I wasn’t sure and every time I thought about it, I omitted bc “it wasn’t confirmed”. Let me fill in the blanks:

The psyquiatrist suggested me that I could be diagnosed with Dissociative Disorder: I could be switching identities when stressfull situations arised. I thought it would explain a lot of things since I’ve been losing my memory recently and that I’ve been hearing a voice in my head since a recent anxiety attack I experienced. The voice has been telling me that he wants me to be healthy and fine so we did a few things. I’ve changed little things but it seems like I improved some aspects of my life: I can now talk to people without problem and chores don’t feel like a nightmare anymore. I thought he has taken control a few things since I end up some random place doing something random I can’t remember. I trusted him since he appeared a nice, educated guy and me, as a trans girl in serious need of affection, I enjoyed the company of a man, even though he was in my own head. Even if I lacked the proper diagnosis, I was almost completely sure I has another person in my mind. But then, today in the morning, the other “personality” showed its true colors. Here’s what happened:

I went to sleep last night. But I kept waking up bc I kept dreaming about the ther guy telling me I should cut a very good friend of mine of my life. We argued about it bc I didn’t want to do it. He’s been a lot of things to me: first my friend, my boyfriend and lately... I considered him some kind of brother. I was up since 5 am, arguing and discussing with the voice about all this. At some point, he got angry and told me that one day, he would take control of my body and would hurt my friend so he could teach me a lesson. And me, emotionally vunerable and afraid of seriously hurting my best friend in the world, I accepted. Now how I hate that fucking voice. But even more, how much I hate myself for not standing up to a voice in myself. 

I wrote a few texts expressing that maybe end that relationship was for the best, logically. But emotionally, it didn’t felt right. It felt like I was stabbing my friend in the back for someone that no longer wanted my best interests at heart.

I tell my friend that I cannot see him anymore. I came up with the bullshit that I can’t stand not being in a loving relationship with him and that bc I’m still in love with him, I cannot be there anymore for him. The truth is that I no longer see him as a boyfriend. It hurted like hell when our relationship ended, but I’ve made progress and I started looking at him like a brother. That guy that you could see growing with you. Each on their own paths but we would always be there for each other. We’re not blood related but we both had similar struggles: we’re both trans. And trans people have to stick with each other.

Hearing his arguments, I realized he was right. I felt ashamed of myself. I still do. Even as I type all this, I’m still shaking and crying for how it all ended. Then, he told me that I always did this kind of thing. I would go with him so he could pick me up and made him feel miserable. And, to be honest, he was right on that too. I’ve been on a dark place that I constantly try to crawl out of but somedays I fall and I look for someone to give me strength. I now see that it’s irresponsible of me to do that and I won’t do it again. 

Then I start trying to please both sides: telling my friend some unjust deals and to the voice, telling him he will be happy. I wasn’t ready to lose him so I tried to keep things in the middle. I made things worse and then, to end up fucking everything up, my good heart told me I had to tell the truth. After all we’ve been through, he deserved the truth. 

So I told him of the voice, of the “other guy”. He’s confused at first but I try to clarify what it does.  He’s in shock and I try to calm him down in my panic too while the voice starts screaming at me that after all he’s done to help me, I reject his counsel. I start to panic and I start telling that this is part of the treatment: to tell other people about my possible condition. I do that. Is at this point that my friend starts getting angry with me.

Then, in an act of desperation, I tell him the real truth: the other voice threatened to hurt him bc he doesn’t like him.

Now, a little bit of context here: my friend has survived abusive relationships. So me, as a friend, telling him that a voice in my head wants to hurt him, makes him scared and activates his instincts of fight or fly.

He changes his posture and decides that I’m right. He no longer wants anything to do with me too. I says that he doesn’t care if it’s the other voice or it’s me: He no longer wants anything to do with me again. At this point I start to cry bc I fucked up the trust I never had with someone else. He starts dissmissing my claims that I didn’t wanted this, ends up calling me a very deranged person and that he no longer wants to be associated with me. He ends up blocking me in all social networks.

I cried so hard bc I ruined everything for a voice in my head that used my emotional vulnerability and my hopes of getting better for unknown reasons. He still talks to me and I don’t want to answer no matter how much he screams and curses at me. I blame him but I blame myself more for thinking my friend was the problem.

The problem is me. Me and my guillable personality of giving the benefit of the doubt to strangers and weird stuff that I end up always alone. I don’t want to but I always end up like this. 

A little bit later, after crying my eyes out and worrying my entire family, I end up getting a zoom call with my psychiatrist bc today it was also my medic consultation. Since I really don’t want to go through this again, I tell him everything. His observations? 

That it was too early to diagnose me with Dissociative Disorder. That he needs more info on that and that he apologizes if I got the wrong idea of the possibility. That yes, it was possible but it was also not. Also, that some things don’t add up like me remembering when the “other guy” did something for me. 

There’s also the idea that I also hallucinate things that are not there. I do see and hear things but they’ve always been the usual stuff. Nothing too real and alive like the voice that has been talking to me for this few weeks. The doctor the told me I’m suffering from Severe Anxiety Disorder and that everything I’m experiencing is my brain adapting to my new reality in which, for the last 6 months, I’m about to lose my place at my University bc we lack the money to keep paying (thanks covid), I ended my 2 year relationship, I got kicked form my home bc of defending my mother on a familiar discussion, I’m a trans girl that hasn’t transitioned bc of fear of not being accepted and that I constantly struggle with social anxiety.

He gave me some new type of pills to reduce the hallucinations, including my “friend in my head” and I should be good. He then asked me if I ever thought in hurting someone. I told him that yes, who never wanted to kick your bully’s ass back in high school? But to use violence to defend myself or a friend to actively use it to hurt someone? Never.

I’ve done things in the past that I’m not proud of but it has always been to protect, never attack.

Today I feel like an important person died. And I feel like I killed him for nothing. I don’t want to remember him for what he said at the end. I want to remember him as the supportive person he was. I wish he could read all this. Because I ruined everything out of fear and despair. Because I was a sentimental that tried to be cold bc I was pressured to do so and out of fear, I pushed everyone away. I scare everyone away.

I wish I could tell him that I would never do something to hurt him intentionally. But I did nonethless. I keep thinking that I also don’t want anything to end like this. But I can’t change that. 

I just have to keep going. One day at the time.

The fucking monster that scares everyone away, Lizz </3

[how-to-disable-your-text-blog]

HtDYT Guide: Writing Borderline Characters

Hi all, Mod Amaranthe here with another guide. I only recently accepted that I am borderline and I don’t have some of the most notable traits of BPD, so I’m sorry if I miss something here.

What BPD is

Borderline personality disorder, also called emotionally unstable personality disorder, is…well, it’s a personality disorder, so I will describe what a personality disorder actually is. Personality disorders are inflexible patterns of thinking, feeling, and behaving that are inherent parts of the people who experience them. Like with any mental illness, personality disorders have to cause significant distress and difficulty engaging with society in order to be diagnosable.

The borderline community is fairly split (ha; I’ll tell you why that is funny later) on whether or not “emotionally unstable personality disorder” is a respectful or even accurate label, so I’m going to stick with “borderline”. Whether or not borderline people use “borderline person”, “person with borderline/BPD”, or both mostly depends on the person, and I polled some of the Facebook groups for borderlines that I’m in and found out that most borderline people say “I have BPD” and “I’m borderline” interchangeably. (I am usually a fan of identity-first language. I might do a post on why later.)

What being borderline feels like

Being borderline feels like you don’t know who you are and everything around you has the potential to change, especially for the worse, at any time. Half the time you hear a friend or family member—especially someone you care about—sound disinterested, bored, or, powers that be help you, angry, you become paralytically terrified that they are going to leave you alone forever. You spend a lot of time desperate for others’ approval, seeking validation by any means necessary, because if you don’t have proof that you deserve to live, well, you deserve to die. You may feel like there’s nothing to you that doesn’t change; you can’t pick a career or a fashion style or a favorite genre of music. You find yourself imitating fictional characters or acting entirely different based on whom you’re interacting with. You might fill what feels like a vacuum where your soul should be with impulsively spending tons of money, getting high, or overeating.

I also wrote a song about how it feels to be borderline. I’m the enemy of my own mind. Always walking on the borderline. The void in my head has me paralyzed. Behind my eyes, there’s no one inside.

I paint my face up like a mask so you think there’s a person behind it. Don’t tell me about that time I cried it off, I don’t want to be reminded. There’s nothing you can do to me I haven’t done to myself. Don’t tell me I’m on my way there; I’m already in hell.

I’ll put you on a pedestal Then smash it and laugh at your funeral. Bathe myself in high-end perfume Or seal my wallet; who knows what I’ll do.

I paint my face up like a mask so you think there’s a person behind it. Don’t tell me about that time I cried it off, I don’t want to be reminded. There’s nothing you can do to me I haven’t done to myself. Don’t tell me I’m on my way there; I’m already in hell.

I’m the enemy of my own mind. Always walking on the borderline.

I paint my face up like a mask so you think there’s a person behind it. Don’t tell me about that time I cried it off, I don’t want to be reminded. There’s nothing you can do to me I haven’t done to myself. Don’t tell me I’m on my way there; I’m already in hell.

That is a fairly extreme version of what it’s like to be borderline. Some borderline people experience this kind of instability almost all the time, some just enough to cause a significant disruption in their life. I am led to believe that it doesn’t always suck this much. My borderline traits are exacerbated all to hell by my comorbid conditions.

Common borderline traits

Here is a long list of traits a borderline character might have or behaviors they might engage in:

-Fear of abandonment -Splitting (to be explained later) -Self-hatred/feelings of worthlessness, possibly suicidal ideation -Self-harm -Unstable sense of self/being easily influenced by other people’s ideas -Fear of the future -Frequently changing appearance, hobbies, and jobs -Constant feeling of being mistreated, misunderstood, or victimized -Unstable interpersonal relationships (neediness, mistrustfulness, anxiety in interpersonal matters) -Extreme perfectionism -Unusually intense emotions, especially rage; this usually happens in response to outside stimuli, not semi-randomly like bipolar or cyclothymia (I get deeply annoyed when people call borderline “bipolar lite”) -Underreacting when you’re not overreacting -Disordered eating patterns -Using sex as a coping mechanism/to prove to themselves that they’re desirable -“Favorite person” attachments (to be explained later) -Impulsive behavior, especially when it comes to spending money or doing dangerous activities -Substance addiction -Constant need for validation, especially proof of other people’s positive feelings about them (I literally forget that people care about me if they’re not actively demonstrating it; yes, it sucks) -Dissociation when under stress -Difficulty retaining information about people and events -Lack of awareness of how their actions may affect others -Crappy executive function, especially if you have no idea what your feelings are doing and have to spend all that time you should be spending cleaning the apartment wrestling with your brain -Dermatillomania or trichotillomania as a stress response

Favorite person attachments

A favorite person, or FP, is someone a borderline person is obsessed with. Borderline people may think their FP is better than everyone else. A borderline person would walk to hell and back for their FP (well, unless they’re splitting on their FP; more on splitting in the next section). Having an FP is also sometimes called “imprinting” on someone.

Having an FP is simultaneously the best and worst feeling. It’s the best feeling because when they smile at you or say they care about you, it’s like everything is right with the world and you feel amazing. But you’re also constantly afraid of your FP abandoning you, and if your FP isn’t actively demonstrating that they care about you, you are probably wringing your hands about how they probably actually hate you. You also may be jealous of or even hate the other people that your FP interacts with.

Another downside to having an FP is that, most of the time, a borderline person will forgive their FP even if their FP is seriously hurting or abusing them. Mentally ill people are more likely than mentally healthy people to experience abuse (and not more likely to be the abusers), and the borderline tendency to forgive your FP for anything is definitely a predisposition to experiencing abuse.

A borderline character may spend a lot of time thinking about their FP and seeking their approval, and even more time worrying that their FP hates them now. The fear of abandonment will get especially strong when the character reaches out to their FP and their FP doesn’t respond right away, e.g., if the character calls their FP and the FP doesn’t pick up. A borderline character may or may not have romantic feelings for their FP. A borderline character will also be also quick to passionately defend their FP to other characters.

Many borderline people form FP attachments, but not all.

Splitting

Splitting is best described as black-and-white thinking about people. To a borderline person, most other people are either perfect or completely terrible. When a borderline person says they’re “splitting on” someone, though, that usually refers to thinking that that person is The Worst. Borderline people can split on anyone, including their favorite person and themselves. (I spend most of my time splitting on myself, thinking I am The Worst and don’t deserve to continue breathing. It’s very irritating.) Splitting on someone ordinarily happens in response to something the target of splitting does; it isn’t random. Splitting on a favorite person often happens because that person has already been on a pedestal, and when the pedestal gets shattered, a portal to hell opens under it. (Yes, borderline people can either split on their FP over practically nothing or forgive them for abuse. You read that right.)

Splitting on a person and feeling like they are The Worst is often accompanied by feelings of intense rage and hatred. If a borderline person is splitting on their favorite person, there also may be feelings of betrayal. Splitting may often include fantasize about being angry and violent; these thoughts are usually cathartic and help the borderline person calm down without actually lashing out. (Borderline people split; assholes lash out. Sometimes assholes are borderline, but not all borderline people are assholes, and BPD does not turn someone into an asshole.)

When a borderline character splits on someone, don’t write about them acting on their feelings of anger and hatred. Keep it in their head. As I said above, splitting is a borderline trait; assholery is not. If a borderline character’s splitting-related thoughts extend to violence, make sure to clarify that the character would never actually act on these thoughts. They may also feel guilty after the splitting goes away (I know I do). A character will probably only be splitting on someone for one scene; it doesn’t last long. If a character is not splitting in the “I hate you now” sense at the moment, they still are likely to categorize other people as “overall great” and “overall terrible”.

Splitting is a very common borderline trait, but not all borderline people split.

Self-harm

This isn’t exclusive to borderline people, of course, but self-harm isn’t just white high school cis girls cutting their wrists with scissors. Self-harm can take the form of cutting, of course, but here are other forms of self-harm:

-depriving oneself of food or other necessary things like medication -unsafe participation in extreme sports -scalding/burning oneself -banging or hitting body parts -ingestion of toxic substances

A borderline person may self-harm when they are splitting on themselves or otherwise suffering from feelings of self-hatred.

Unstable sense of self and relationships

This has already been touched on a little bit in the list of common borderline traits, but it’s likely to come up when writing a borderline character, so I will go into more detail.

A borderline character with unstable sense of self may have a good amount of trouble deciding what they want to do with their life. They may job-hop or have a hell of a time deciding what they want to study in college, vocational school, or whatever equivalent of tertiary school exists in your setting. A borderline character may throw themselves wholeheartedly into new studies or career paths, love it at first, and then rather suddenly find themselves disliking it. They probably also get varied results on personality tests and those aptitude tests that are meant to help people decide what career to pursue.

Another thing I mentioned earlier that a borderline character might do is change their appearance. Your borderline character may go through many different hair colors and styles and have a giant wardrobe because they rapidly cycle through fashion phases. Characters with facial hair may do many different things with it. When writing this kind of behavior, it’s good to point out that the character isn’t doing it just for the sake of trying new things, but they feel like their new look is an accurate reflection of how they’re feeling.

A borderline person may also frequently change their political stances, religious beliefs, diet, taste in music, etc. These changes may be influenced by the people they are spending time with, but not necessarily. But your borderline character may go through a lot of changes. Expect criticism of your character being inconsistent from people who don’t get it.

Unfortunately, the unstable sense of self in a borderline person can result in them being taken advantage of, because shady and manipulative people might see how a borderline person is easily influenced. (Said shady and manipulative person doesn’t have to be an FP.) A borderline character might end up spending most of their time with someone who is controlling and isolating them. What I’m saying here is that borderline people are susceptible to being abused because of our unstable senses of self. Because of that tendency, we may have unstable relationships with people who hurt us but we aren’t secure enough to permanently leave.

On a slightly less depressing note, unstable sense of self can also result in a borderline character frequently changing the crowds they hang out with because they feel like they have less in common with their former friends. This can also happen with romantic and sexual relationships and QPs, and even with the borderline character’s FP. The people a borderline character interacts with may point out this behavior or how different they seem/how frequently their likes and dislikes change.

What to avoid

When referring to borderline people, avoid saying “borderlines”. That’s kind of like saying “the gays”. Also, it’s language that people who are actively engaged in perpetuating saneism use. The safest language to use when discussing a borderline character is to say “person with BPD”, since borderline people who are okay with using identity-first language for ourselves may not like someone else referring to us as such, and few borderline people object to “person with BPD”.

Don’t write criminals with BPD if you aren’t borderline yourself. I’m writing a story about a vigilante who kills rapists and whose identity is so subsumed by her vigilante/superhero identity because she is borderline and had an extremely unstable identity to begin with. But I can do that because since I’m borderline, I have the knowledge and experience required to separate the character’s disorder from her actions.

Don’t write about “toxic borderlines” or how being borderline affects how an abusive or toxic person acts. Do personality disorders affect pretty much everything about how a person with a PD acts? Yes. Should people without the disorder in question write about that in terms of abuse? NOOOOOOOOO. (This is especially relevant to NPD—the idea of “n*rc*ss*st*c abuse” is an extremely ableist one that floats around abuse survivor circles and drives my abuse survivor cluster B ass up the wall—but BPD gets that kind of crap too.) If you write a borderline character that ends up accidentally hurting someone, you should 1) have them understand what they’ve done wrong, apologize, and not do it again and 2) get a sensitivity reader to make sure you’re doing that right.

Final notes

There’s a lot of diversity among borderline people. There’s no one right way to write a borderline character. However, there are a lot of wrong ways, and since borderline is so ridiculously stigmatized, I would be tempted to suggest that anyone who isn’t borderline and wants to write a borderline character get a sensitivity reader.

*crickets* Erm…yeah, that’s all I have.

-Mod Amaranthe

[thesyzygysystem]

So I'm fairly certain I have some form of DID. I'm 18 but I live with strict parents that dont believe in mental illness so I cannot go get a diagnosis or see a psychiatrist. The thing is, I'm terrified. What I'm guessing is an alter has introduced himself to me and I've been co con with him, again, I'm not certain that's what he is as I'd never self diagnose something of this level. I'm terrified and constantly fighting him but it makes me feel awful... I dont know what to do.

This sounds like a very difficult situation and I’m sorry that you’re going through this. Without access to medical help, I’m not sure what advice I can give you other than to be strong and to look to the future - to when you’ll be away at college or when you’re able to move out.

I am not sure if this would work, but would your parents be okay with you going to a general practitioner or primary care doctor if you say you are feeling sick? You can then tell that doctor about the symptoms you’re experiencing and, as an adult, you can ask them to keep it confidential. They may be able to help you in some way. (Sorry if this is very unhelpful; I don’t know what country you’re from and what healthcare is like there, or if this may be received badly.)

For now, I would recommend doing some research on the symptoms you’re experiencing (there may be more that you’ve noticed by haven’t mentioned here). This is not to self-diagnose necessarily, but to educate yourself on the possibilities.

Look for ways to help your symptoms - seek out online support groups and education, or even call hotlines. Many DID/OSDD/DDNOS communities are open to helping those who are unsure about their symptoms, and someone there may be much more help to you than I am!

Self-advocacy involves doing what you can to alleviate certain symptoms, while keeping an open mind to the idea that you don't know for certain what is behind them. It’s a good way to keep yourself going if you don’t have access to professional help.

I’d also like to clarify what you mean by “fighting” with the maybe-alter. Is he telling you to do destructive or negative things, or insulting you? If he isn’t, then fighting him may not be the most effective idea. In dissociative disorders, repressing alters can cause more problems than it fixes. Alters are not inherently bad, and they form as a coping mechanism to protect you, so he may be trying to help.

Of course, many disorders can cause you to hear voices. Again, do all the research that you can, and keep an open mind. I hope you’re able to find a way to get the help that you need!

- Andrew (and Zen)

[quietborderlineinfo]

Hi I have a question or want your perspective on something please. So I've seen myself in other people's descriptions of bpd for a long time. My t thinks I might have it. If I have it it's the quiet type. But there's just some things that I can't see fitting? Or understand how they would be "quiet"? And some of the criteria I only experience very rarely or with certain people. 1/?

alright hey stargazer!

i can totally appreciate how much thought and detail you’ve put into this - i remember being in that place, and its so confusing and frustrating and frankly exhausting. breathe; from what youve said it sounds like your T is paying close attention and wants the best for you. over time, you’ll figure out what diagnosis & treatment(s) may work for you. until then, just focus on getting better one step at a time.

keep in mind that below i just discuss how the things you said relate to the diagnostic criteria, but no one here can diagnose you. definitely talk to your T (and if theyre not a psychiatrist, try to talk to one of those if you have access to a good one, since theyre more inclined to diagnose, in my experience)

also remember that you only need 5/9 for a diagnosis - so two people w bpd may have only 1 overlapping symptom. (so if you dont see yourself in everything you read, thats normal)

For instance 1 (frantically avoid abandonment) only w/ 2 relationships I’ve ever had, and these are more feelings than actions I take 2 (pattern unstable intense relationships) I’ve only had one significant relationship in my life and it was very intense and unstable, but I have no history of it but I also have no history of what I would call “close” relationships. I’m mostly avoidant of them) 2/?

1 & 2: saaame. i once asked a T if never letting yourself feel close to people was a form of attempting to avoid abandonment, and was told that it can be, if that’s why you do it. it can be hard to figure out why you do something you may have always done though, so it helps to both try to analyze past experiences and definitely to try to look at your feelings and how they’re motivating you as you go forward.

I’m not sure on the whole feelings vs actions thing; ask your T cause i think there can be a lot of grey area. and for #2, i had the same experience too; everyone who treated me seemed to think that the one relationship was enough evidence, i guess considering that avoidant behaviour. 

3 (id disturbance) I’m not sure exactly how this manifests or is separate from depersonalization. Like I don’t feel real when I try to engage in hobbies. I only exist when I’m doing things with others and then I feel fake and two dimensional (but this is getting a lot better and I’m afraid that means the symptom isn’t real) I’m not sure of my own hobbies and I have no internal motivations or knowledge base to make my own decisions. 3/?

. I can hardly tell right from wrong a lot of the time and use clues from others to help me. And I can change depending on the people I’m around. Is that what this means? This isn’t all things but some things 4 I am not in the slightest impulsive except if you count the impulsive texts I would send to that one intense relationship to make sure she didn’t hate me every few weeks 4/?

3. so depersonalization is a type of dissociation, so that’d fall under criterion 9. symptoms can get better and that absolutely doesn’t mean that you are now or have ever been faking; remission of symptoms with time and/or therapy is actually more likely than not. not knowing right from wrong is interesting cause at first i thought that was entirely unrelated, but realized it could come from not having an internalized moral system, which would definitely sound relevant.

what does fit the description is both not being sure of your hobbies (esp since it sounds like means youre not sure of what you enjoy/care about?), and changing depending on the people you’re around (if you feel like its more of an internal change than say, changing from business-appropriate speech patterns to something more casual when around friends vs at work).

the wiki page describes ID disturbance really well i think, but if you still have questions, definitely send them your T’s/our way.

4. neither am i, and i was still diagnosed. some people seem to think that it’s one criterion that has to be met though. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ it is possible that it manifests only very specifically, like w me I’m only impulsive w self-harm or recklessly crossing the street.

5 (self harm) I’ve cut in the past but I can go years without cutting, but the urge to cut will always surface every few weeks whether I act on it or not 6 (affective instability) not sure I understand this. My emotions are so intense that I have a hard time doing anything but engaging in avoidant behaviors. Focusing on school and work is extremely difficult around my thoughts and feelings, Is that what this means? I can change really quickly too based on one thought or one outside occurrence5/?

Hi stargazer anon again. Sorry I’m all over the place with this I just get confused. So missing might be the part that addressed diagnostic criteria #7. basically yes I experience emptiness. I think The end of message 5 is relating to diagnostic criteria #6 (instability of mood) and message 7 is relating to diagnostic criteria #8 (anger). Sorry it’s a mess. But I don’t think there is anything important in the missing piece. I was just going through each symptom and comparing my experience w/ it

5. that certainly counts! (proud of you for keeping it to a minimum, hope you’re working w your T to eliminate it entirely!)

6. “Patients often describe affective instability as an “emotional roller coaster” that relates to a subjective sense of strong affects and emotions experienced in an uncomfortable, rapid sequence.”

what you described sounds intense, and to clarify the changeability i think it can have a lot to do with reacting really strongly to things in the environment/in relationships. you didnt talk too much about the changes, so id say it sounds like this likely fits, but warrants more discussion just to clarify.

7. aight √

But i don’t get angry at people usually. I used to have this pattern of withdrawing from my relationships because I was convinced they didn’t really like me and I wanted to see if they would come talk to me to sort of “test them” but knowing the whole time that I was a horrible person who didn’t deserve their love anyway and if they didn’t really love me then I didn’t deserve it (though have gotten way better at this with therapy). Is that what is meant by the cold shoulder? 7 I think/?

8. see idk, it’s possible that that’s anger for you, but it sounds like you’ll wanna think more about it. i think cold shoulder is more about refusing to engage someone because you are upset at them. to me, what you described sounds more like fear than anger, but only you can know that. idk about other quiet borderlines but for most of my life I’ve had anger far repressed 🤔

9. (for the sake of completion) depersonalization, which you mentioned in part 2, is a kind of dissociation

Sorry for this essay if not ok just ignore and delete. Sorry I’m just having a hard time cause so much of this feels like me but then so many of the hallmarks don’t at all, or only rarely appear. I think I have aVpd too and it makes it hard to know because some symptoms cloud each other. Thanks can please tag stargazer if you do answer it? 8/8 I think it was?

sorry for taking so long to respond! yeah its useful to have a full discussion with a psychiatrist about this especially when multiple disorders are in question. also remember that as much as we may seek the sense of identity labels can give us, you dont need to fit something specific to have valid pain that deserves to be treated and warrants a break from work.

please let us know if you have any follow-up questions. good luck - it’ll get easier with time & work!

[softened-hearts]

I had a therapist I just left because while she was pretty great in every other way, she invalidated me both times I was seeking diagnosis for different things.

The first time was my autism (which I have self diagnosed, but just pretended to be "highly suspicious") and right off the bat that she didn't think I had it. There wasn't much explanation, but that "technically having both ADHD and ASD could be possible, but I just don't see it." But still wanted me to go through a $750 out of pocket testing process that no insurances covered. Over the years I've gotten incredibly adept at masking, and I KNEW she didn't really get to see me unfiltered (I have a hard time forcing myself not to do this in front of most people. I just freeze). And from then on, when I came to her about issues, there were times she'd talk to me about how it would be a good time to have an official diagnosis but she can't give advice without it since she didn't know what was going on internally. This had never been an issue before, and I'm not exactly enthused over me and my parents coming up with $750 for a diagnosis test by someone who said they didn't think I was autistic to begin with.

I was uncomfortable, but continued seeing her. I've had worse therapists before anyways.

Then, a string of events made me much more keen on paying attention to my thoughts (I've been unhealthily relying on drowning everything out with media for the past 3 years), and made me realize that while I don't know what, I'm pretty sure I have a dissociative disorder. I frequently stress about bad memory, and had always had conversations in my head but never thought anything of it, up until this point. I started recording when I noticed something afoot, and texted her in advance that there was something I wanted to talk to her about.

Day of the appointment came around, 2 weeks later, and I was significantly more suicidal than my baseline. The fact that I'd been using distraction as my singular real coping skill came crashing down, and I NEEDED more coping skills because while I wasn't about to kill myself, that level if you've ever experienced it, is excruciating to deal with (also for loved ones, my poor partner). I told her this. Then, without resolution, she switched to asking me with what I had wanted to talk about. We had like, maybe 15-20 minutes left of our session.

And so, I told her. Read from my logs for some parts, I can kind of remember but things are fuzzy. I (read: WE) were super resistant to saying anything to her. I had to barter in my head to let myself speak (though, weakly, I didn't quite much want to either). Again, I self edited a bit (referring to myself and the other(s?) as just myself, not as what the other happened to), and clarified that this isnt me "wanting" to have OSDD or DID or anything.

And, in response: "well I'm glad you didnt waltz in here like 'yeah I have DID' Haha! Because like, no, you aren't. " (Way to mock people who are firm in what they think they have) "I don't think you have anything like that. Like, you don't dress any different. I'd be concerned if you came in full goth or something but nah, it's just you."*

When I tried explaining I have screenshots of chat logs when I was not fronting, and how my partner said it was like talking to a different person, how the syntax and vocabulary and punctuation were different, how she has a deeper voice in my head. My therapist said that was no clear indicator.

And last of all: "I'll refer you to someone else [once I asked] because I don't feel qualified to ethically diagnose you." Like, yay, I'm glad you're aware of that. But then why do you feel so confident in telling me that I AM wrong, how I don't have enough evidence (we barely touched on what I had), telling me I don't have this because I don't fit into an obvious stereotype (more on that as according to above asterisk, later).

She told me to fight any potential switches and not let it happen, drown everything out with distraction coping skills. I never got help with those skills I needed for my suicidal ideation. I was, and still am, DESPERATE for guidance with that. And out the door. I understand she had a following client but... she changed the subject for the topic I desperately needed help in, and left me feeling lost with both.

[*: I do NOT have a consistent fashion sense. How is flowing floral 2 piece sundress with bronzy sandals beach waves and golden makeup at all the same fashion style as a pastel rainbow sweater and big childish pink sketchers sneakers and cutesy makeup and cute hairpins?? And I DO dress goth sometimes, I just don't have much of my wardrobe suited to it so it's never full goth since my gothest pants are sporty black leggings. It just looks dark casual. Also that requires, if my dressing IS an alter thing, that I be various alters when getting ready to see my therapist every single time. Getting ready to see her was always the *same* type of stress, and was always with my partner who is generally calming. It's a clockwork schedule, it would make very little sense for a switch to happen to the same stimuli, as far as I understand. So yeah, shes entirely wrong about me dressing consistently, and even if she weren't, to discredit a patient on one stereotypical symptom is ridiculous.]

Hey! To all present and future therapists/counselors: Don't freakin invalidate your client's experiences!

Times this has happened to me(paraphrased):

Tw: ableist/dismissive language and abuse mention

1. Me: I have this guy who I talk to a lot but he's just in my head. He's really nice, though.

Counselor: Hmmm... interesting. We're gonna move on from that.

2. Me: *talks about how my dad is abusive*

Counselor: Well he has been through a lot. I'm sure he does love you he just doesn't know how to show it. (FYI. Even if that is true, it doesn't make that person's actions any less abusive)

3. Me: I got diagnosed (or believe I would be diagnosed) with "x."

Counselor: I disagree with that because I just don't see that in you.

4. Me: I have these voices in my mind that will talk to me.

Counselor: Yeah. You've reported that before. *changes subject*

5. Me: I'm concerned I might have some type of schizophrenia or something like that.

Counselor: I don't think so. People with those types of disorders never know they have them.

6. Me: I sometimes deal with terrible gender dysphoria.

Counselor: I don't think you actually want to change genders.

This is such a terrible experience to go through. Especially when it deals with some form of abuse. Because people who have been abused were usually simultaneously taught to not talk about it/not believe it's actually happening. So if we open up about something and you dismiss it, it often brings back a rush of unpleasant memories and/or feelings. A counselor is someone who is supposed to be able to help you. So when feelings or experiences get dismissed, it feels like a slap in the face.

Feel free to add your own experiences with a dismissive therapist/counselor