I’m Fake.

I learned this recently. The story is very confusing. Are you ready?

This is who I thought I was: a severely schizophrenic German boy, who was severely abused as a child, alongside his twin sister. He has a boyfriend, who also has a twin. He is in Foster care.

Who I really am: a Canadian girl, less severely abused, with no twin, no boyfriend, and no Foster care.

What happened: I have multiple personalities. I suppose I’m transgender, because all the personalities are male. I am also schizophrenic, though not as badly as previously thought. The original personality, the female birthed 18 years ago next week, is gone. I don’t know where she is. I am the first alter, I suppose. The abused German boy. The second alter is my “boyfriend’s twin.” The third is the same abused German boy, at about seven or so years old (the reason I was thought to have extreme schizophrenia). The boyfriend is actually a girlfriend. This girlfriend is also my twin. Confused? So am I. Imagine finding this out a month ago after five years of thinking it’s real.

See, I, the German boy, was aware I had MPD. I know I made “Cuddles,” my younger self. I kept it secret, drawing everyone else’s conclusions of undifferentiated schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Other than that, I thought everything was real. Everything.

But it’s not. I’m not even real. I could disappear if this girl is “cured.” This girl, my host body that I despise so much because it has the wrong parts. Because it isn’t mine.

My girlfriend has known all along I’m an alter. She’s the one who told me, who told me he is really a she as well as my twin (whom I’d invented as a coping mechanism and she’d brought to life). She did it for my sake. “You were so lonely,” she sobbed when she told me.

Why did I think I’m a gay German boy with a boyfriend? Easy. I’m afraid of men, terrified, and I don’t trust them, but I despise women.

I don’t know why, though. I mean, I know why I do. I have memories. Fake memories, but memories nontheless. But I don’t know why the girl feels this way. I don’t have her memories.

It’s amazing how being aware of it doesn’t fix it.

But now people are going to think I shouldn’t be affected by my childhood, because it technically didn’t happen. It wasn’t real. Well, it was real to me. I have the memories and PTSD from it. I feel the pain, physical and emotional, of it. It’s real to me. And that’s enough to make it real enough to affect me.

I’m scared to tell my best friend. We’ve never met, so he thinks I’m me, the German male. Not the German male stuck in a Canadian female’s form. I’m afraid he’ll be angry and call me a fake and a liar, and never talk to me again. But that goes back to the previous paragraph.

Is it normal for the egos to not share a single memory (unless they experienced it together, like me with my “boyfriend’s twin”)? The only memories of the girls I have (and the others don’t. They have none of her memories whatsoever) include being raped by a neighbour at the age of three and being molested by her father (my Foster father, I thought) at age nine. The reasons I exist, I guess. But those don’t explain the hate for women. I always thought it was because my mom raped me when I was four. Guess not.

Fuck, and people wonder why I’m so quiet and thoughtful all the time.