#diary shit

Last year when I brought up to her that I think I’m autistic, her response was that I couldn’t be because I have an excessive amount of a empathy. And I did explain to her that lack of empathy is not an autistic trait & that it’s a classic ableist mischaracterization, which she SEEMED to be open-minded about at the time. But consistently whenever my BF comes up in convo (he’s diagnosed with autism) she makes it a point to remind me that because he’s autistic he lacks empathy. That’s one thing that really REALLY started to grate on my nerves. It wasn’t relevant and it was factually incorrect. And I guess it hammered in that I will never be able to discuss with her the possibility of me experiencing undiagnosed autism.

Another problem is that still to this day, despite NEVER knowing me when I identified as a girl, she continues to accidentally misgender me or call me “ma’am” instead of sir. She corrects herself but like, idk why I let it go for so long? I’m VERY bad about correcting people IRL so I just let it go time and time again. I was never going by she/her pronouns when we started talking. Clearly she’s just another cis person who hears my “girl” voice and decides internally that I’m a girl.

And on a less serious note I just didn’t feel like I’ve improved at all in the 5+ years we’ve been seeing each other. It wasn’t a waste of time; I’ve learned valuable coping skills and made some important life decisions with her help. But like, I have a litany of mental illnesses that feel untreated at their core and I never feel comfortable enough to open up about them to her on a deeper level. I don’t feel like we’re dealing with anything except little IRL problems I encounter, and my general anxiety. I feel like I’m far worse off mentally than I was years ago and it makes me really unbelievably sad.

I guess all this is to say that I know I NEED a new therapist but Im terrified of the process I have to go through to get one, and get to know them. And I feel like I lost a friend in my old therapist and I’m having trouble not seeing myself as a failure for that.

The only thing I KNOW is what I need, but I have no idea where to find it: I need remote therapy available because I travel across the country several times a year and it’s just a much easier format for me because when I deal with people in person I get way too focused on masking my awkwardness and social anxiety. I also need a queer / LGBTQIA therapist because I’m genuinely tired of babystepping around cis ppls surface-level understanding of my trans experience. Having an ally as a therapist is truly not enough, I don’t want to have to explain the intricate details of what it’s like to be queer.

I love to eat. 

Slurping is polite between a set of thick thighs. I can’t lie. I like the taste of pussy. Eating is so good, I can’t stop myself from arriving there too, all from the ecstasy of hearing her fall off the bone. Those broken moans floating about in the warm air...I watch that fistfull of sheets materialize, feeling her squirm, watching her lose it. 

right as i was fresh out the shower and freshly clothed for bed, she let her hands drip down my body. she’s obsessed with my tits, my stomach, my shoulders, my ass, my neck. i let her tongue entertain me, chasing the sensitivity, while I could feel her piece underneath those jeans. and I never let a woman have me like this. i’m her possession when she pushes me over and I let her, because the carnal heat of her breath against my wet skin makes me wet and my nipples hard. and i like it.

I am in Georgia. This is the backyard of my Airbnb.

I’ve been getting told that I’m strong lately. I understand this is meant to be a compliment.

It is not one.

My strength is a default coping mechanism to protect my own nervous system from the horrendous effects of too many emotions all at once. I wear this cloak called Compartmentalization all day… very professional, very stylish.

The problem is, when I walk through the door after a busy day of work, the cloak slowly drapes down my shoulders. It caresses the small of my back as it slides down, tickling the dips behind my knees, until it’s a puddle around my feet. I look down at it and feel the emotions slowly take it’s place. They encompass my feet. A sticky tar. There’s shades of deep purple and rich maroon, but mostly grey and black. I struggle to catch my breath when it makes its way up my thighs, wraps around my rib cage, entangles my hair as it closes around my neck. I can’t breathe. I welcome the pain. I hug the regret. I fall to the floor gasping for air while tiny waves of release are expelled from my blubbering body in the form of tears and snot and saliva. I lay here for quite some time, until my breath returns to a steady rhythm and my eyes are almost swollen shut.