"Oh I guess so," you say. She says, "Really there's no point in arguing," and stretches her hand across you to hold you. You say, "But she's so frustrating! The things she like... are just gross. Not even that, insulting. No I don't know... problematic." She laughs, "Sorry to laugh honey, but everything is problematic to you. Even shit that you need to let go, because it's making it hard for you to enjoy life. Who is this girl?" You hesitate, "She's not from here. She's an artist and a musician and all those things that mean trouble." She smiles, "Why trouble?" "You know why," you say, "All those types are so egotistical, they only care about themselves and never think critically." She frowns and shakes her head, "I'm sure that's not true."
You roll over, away from her, "Of course it's true. That's how those types have always been towards me. Like I'm just some form of support for them. Like I'm a doormat." She raises her hand to your shoulder, she can feel how tense you are, "Those were boys, though. Girls are different. And why are you talking to her if you don't like her?" You stay tense, "I just met her in one of those dumb trans groups." "Like the one tat helped you get on medicaid?" She asks. "Yeah, like that."
You roll out of bed and sit down in front of your computer. "There's a reply, you say. Oh fuck this." And you close the reply. "Blocked." She calls from the bed, "Why?" "Because I just can't stand her," you say. "Well, I'm sorry. I have to go now. It was nice meeting you, I hope you take the advice I gave you earlier and try to get into therapy and on drugs again, it might help." You frown, "Really, so soon? And I really don't want to be on drugs again, they have fucked me up so much." "Okay," she replies,"but there will come a time when you will want them.
Months later, you remember this dream as they take you into the ER. The cops misgender you, the nurses misgender you, the doctor misgenders you. It all feels like shit. You see the report and it says "crossdresser" on it. You want to die still. One of the cops is slightly nicer than the other who brought you in and stays to talk to you. Out of desperation, you continue to talk to him. Finally, they let you into the psych ward.
While you're in the psych ward... you would rather not think about the psych ward. But while you are there, you get put on various drugs. You read a book on BPD. It sounds like you, but it sounds like other people have it worse. Your cat, he dies while you're in the psych ward, the cat you have had almost as long as you have lived up here. You get signed up for therapy when you get out though.
They keep you on drugs and change them and change them. One day when you are at home, you go to you blocked list and unblock someone. "I'm sorry I was such a bitch to you. I was in a bad place." You're still in a bad place, but not one that makes you hate people and push them away, at least not as readily. Part of that dream happened. Part of it was just a dream. Or was it? You wonder now, as you wait on a response.
You wait days, though. And nothing. You remember that facebook doesn't readily show messages from people not on your friends list. So you send a friend request. No reply. You rejoin the group that you had left shortly after blocking her and ask if anyone has seen her. No one has. And so you sigh and attempt to forget about it, but you always carry some guilt. And that is life, you learn. Learning to live with the regrets of pushing people away. You don't try again to reconnect with people, some of whom you know might stir those old feelings of rage in you, or so you fear. You don't know.
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