Who Am I?

I am not a femboy. Look at me: I wear men's clothes, I keep my hair plain, I walk through the world with a mask of seriousness. People respect me, and isn't that what matters? They see a man - stable, reliable, strong. Isn't that the image I should cling to? Isn't that how I'll be remembered? I want to be buried as a man, with no doubts about what I was. I want the stone to read simply, without mockery, without confusion: Here lies a man. Isn't that enough? Isn't that the safest truth?

Am I a programmer? Really? Or am I just pretending? I can't even code the way real programmers do. I forget so much - Dijkstra's algorithm, graph theory, half the things I was supposed to know. There are entire fields I've never touched, whole worlds of knowledge I'll never catch up to. I don't know enough, not nearly enough. Companies don't appreciate what little I do know, and they certainly don't care about the old skills I still carry. Who cares about assembly anymore? Who cares about the details I once thought mattered? If I were truly a programmer, wouldn't I feel confident? Wouldn't I feel solid? Instead I feel like a fraud, stuck in impostor syndrome, just a pair of hands at a keyboard, typing without meaning.

Do I have BPD? No. I don't. I have no disorder, no label, no diagnosis. I feel moods, I feel empty sometimes, I change my mind - but that's normal. That's life. That's being human. I stumble, I get lost, I get angry, I cry, I feel attached, I feel afraid - but none of that is BPD. I'm not broken. I'm not unstable. I just live, stumbling and recovering and stumbling again in a messy, confusing world. I feel everything deeply, but feeling deeply doesn't mean I'm ill. I hold myself together. I survive. No, I don't have BPD - I just live like everyone else does, stumbling and recovering and stumbling again.

Why do I publish

Gemini has no future. Who even uses it? No ads, no engagement metrics, no reels flashing like slot machines - nothing that makes people care. People want speed. They want shiny apps, notifications, content that jumps at them. They don't want text. They don't want quiet. They want their brains fried by constant input. Gemini refuses all of that. It's too simple. Too small. Too human. Most people will never touch it. Most people will never know it exists. Especially when it's hidden by Google Gemini. Maybe it's a ghost town. Maybe it's already dying. And if it dies, who will even notice? Does it even matter if it survives?

And yet... this is the only place that feels alive. The only place that still feels human. No ads. No scripts. No dark patterns. No spying. No algorithm deciding if I matter or not. Just text. Just links. Just words. Quiet, like an empty library at night. Slow, like finally being able to breathe. So simple it almost feels absurd - but isn't that the point? Early web felt like this. Rooms you could wander through, whispers in the dark. Even if nobody reads what I write here, at least the sky is listening. And maybe that's enough. Maybe this is the only future left that makes any sense at all.

I'm writing this because I want it to be seen. I want someone, anyone, to stumble across it and feel the same disgust, the same exhaustion, the same longing I do. I want a connection. But I'm also hiding here, in this small quiet corner, where the chance of anyone actually reading it is so small that it feels almost safe. It's like leaving a note under a rock in the middle of a desert - technically public, but practically invisible. I think I need it to be public. I need the risk. I need the hope that someone will read it, even if they can't answer back.

Who I am

But then - what if I do have BPD? What if that's the only explanation that makes sense? How else can I explain the emptiness that descends without warning, like a trapdoor opening under my feet when I least expect it? How else can I explain the way I worship someone at dawn and feel nothing but disgust or rage by dusk, as if my heart itself has a switch I don't control? How else can I explain the way I cycle through selves, never knowing who I'll be from one week to the next - the confident one, the broken one, the affectionate one, the cold one? Isn't that what the books describe, what the diagnostic checklists hint at, what every "maybe" inside me keeps pointing toward? What if denying it is just another mask, another performance, another way of running from a name that already belongs to me? What if accepting it is the only way to stop the bleeding? I have BPD. I know it now. The name fits. The chaos fits. The cycles fit. It's not a question anymore. It's the pattern behind every broken friendship, every sleepless night, every moment of shame. It explains why my emotions aren't just emotions but storms. It explains why I split, why I cling, why I burn everything down when I'm scared of being left alone. For the first time, there's a shape to the shapeless thing inside me, and it's both a curse and a relief. I am BPD. It's not all of me, but it's woven through everything I am.

I am a programmer. I know assembly, C++, I know how computers work down to the metal. I've finished university, built real projects that work. When I code, the chaos around me disappears - functions obey me, loops stop when I want, bugs exist for a reason and I can fix them. Most other programmers are hollow. They only know frameworks, trendy tools, and they think that makes them skilled. They don't understand memory, performance, or computers. Their code breaks, and without AI they are nothing. Meanwhile I build, fix, and make things that matter, where every byte is in the correct place. Coding is my spine, my survival, the place where I am real, whole, unshakable, while everyone else drifts, lost, nothing.

And I am a femboy. My mind is feminine - soft, playful, curious, alive in ways I can't hide. I want to look delicate. I want to wear girly clothes, to be cute, to feel my body match the way I think, the way I dream. I want my hair, my hands, my face, my voice, every movement to show the me inside. I want it to be obvious. I want it to be messy and bold and completely true. I don't want to die remembered only as "a man." I don't want my grave to erase the colors I've loved, the way I've moved through the world, the softness I've carried, the things I've allowed myself to feel. I want to be buried as a woman. I want every word on that stone to be honest. Not a mask, not a lie, not someone else's expectation. Let them write it clearly. Let them remember me fully. Let them see me how I see myself - delicate, cute, soft, feminine, alive. Me.

(\^.^/)