Blogging was once my avenue of expression. Six years ago, I would sit here spreading my heart and mind through my fingertips, forcing my brokenness to be parsed into complete sentences. I thought I wanted to be heard, to be understood, to be validated. And that is partly what I gained. But I also felt this extreme nakedness where every bump of cellulite and weirdly growing hair was magnified for the world to see. I pretended that I knew what I was doing and proud of those imperfections when instead I ended my blogging journey to go back to hiding under all of the layers of guilt, shame, and depression.
Instead of writing and trying to process the depths of my pain, I filled my time and thus the capacity of my mind to reach the bottom of the hole. I became an even more hyper-focused parent. Focusing on them as a measure to ensure they didn't end up like me. That they could actually make something of themselves. That they could succeed and not end up in a life of despair like their parent. It was an easy thing to do, to pretend I wanted to be a tiger parent. To pretend like parenting was what made me feel whole. It's easy to make the world see what they already expected of me and expected of people with vaginas. That's what we're made to be, that's supposed to be our childhood dream, right?!
But the pit got deeper, and as much as I kept pouring more dirt on top of it, I couldn't help but start to sink again. So I found something else to keep me occupied to ignore the fact that I was indeed drowning in quicksand. I found kittens. Cute, cuddly bundles of fur that also happened to be hot messes and just needed a surrogate to turn their life around. I could turn my tiger parenting skills into the most epic glow up. I could show my worth as a human by that which I saved.
"Look! I'm not a total loss of life and garbage person! I made this sack of bones into the best micro panther around!"
Turn blogging into photos on Instagram, and here I go again. And just like with blogging where people think you're some guru, you're made into someone who has "the answers". At least this was tangible help that could truly save another life, which in turn gave me +2 points on my grade of "being a good person." How can I be a broken person if I am literally saving another life? Here, have a piece of me to stay alive because I no longer need it. I gave all of my innards to the kittens and kids until I was clearly a hollow shell of a person. And if it was that obvious, I may as well just give up and go all the way with this selflessness thing. There is no me without helping them. I am but a mere costume of a human meant to devote every second, every penny, every breath on another.
And if I dare spend a single second, penny, or breath on this person? It will erase all of that extra credit. I will get a big, fat zero. People will look at me and say, "What a Scrooge! A glutton! An asshole! All they care about is themself!"
So the cycle continues. Give. Give. Give. Give until it hurts. Until I can't breath. Until I'm falling down so fast in the pit, I can't even see the light of day any longer. Until the costume falls off, the shell dissolves, and I am one with the emptiness and darkness of the pit.
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Here I sit, realizing I am but an actor in the play of my own life. A piece of me watches from the audience yelling, "TAKE OFF THE MASK! TAKE OFF THE MASK!" But the show must go on. The theater is packed, and this is what everyone paid to see. Everyone wants the story of the devoted mother, the skilled kitten rescuer, the doting wife. They don't want to see the person scarred by depression, by lost dreams, by days spent crying in bed. They don't want the reality of what I've become because it doesn't fit their narrative of "YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL!" So I continue with my lines, perfecting the cadence of my words to show the audience that I'm fine, I'm ok, that the show must go on.
And by doing so, I have lost my chance of breaking character. I've lost my chance to embrace my brokenness, embrace the ugly, embrace every dimple of cellulite and every misplaced hair. I thought I finally had a chance to look at my hollow shell and start filling it back up, start bringing life back into it. I thought I was giving the audience what they wanted, instead of what they needed from me. It's time to take off the mask. They paid good money after all.
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An opportunity came and it went, not without dissolving all the glue that was barely holding me together. Trying to keep it all together is what is ultimately making me fall completely apart. The facade is real and it is strong, nearly impenetrable. I tried, I did, to pierce through it. The initial pierce was forceful, powerful. From there, it remained a small hole that couldn't be widened. I thought that initial pierce was all that I needed. I thought they just wanted the space for an earring, not a punk-level gauge. But I was wrong. They wanted it to stretch and grow until I could be fully uncovered. But I figured they wouldn't like what they saw underneath it all. That I don't have it all together, that I'm not "in a good place." Who wants to see someone floundering when we're constantly told that we need to raise up. That as a person with a vagina, you're not likeable unless you appear to have it together. That your brokenness makes you weak. That it makes you a bad parent, a bad wife, a bad woman. That in order to get ahead in life, you must be the best at everything and never let your guard down. You must serve all others and look good doing it. You must embrace your curves, but also perfect them. You must care for yourself, but only enough to present well to society. You must love yourself but not more than you care about others. You must feel empowered by your womanhood, but still be a good housewife and mother. You must appreciate the body, the genetics, the XX you were given and never resent and hate them. You must be proud to be female, be proud to be called she/her/Mom/wife/girl instead of cringing every time those words are uttered. You must be smart and intelligent, but humble enough to not let off just how smart and intelligent you truly are.
And if you don't have it all together, you must make it an endearing quality. It has to make people giggle, laugh, say "AWWWW!" Or it must make you seem bold, strong, and rebellious. Never ever let it make you seem weak, sad, meek. Don't let your perceived gender down. Don't make things worse for them. Don't let people know you're not strong enough to be a man or a woman. You're not strong enough to be human, to be alive. Slap on the facade. Play house. Play hero. Play rebel. Play fighter. But never uncover the weak, depressed, ugly person you've allowed yourself to become.
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"YOU DESERVE THIS!" It's something I hear but never believe. The news of the world constantly swirls in my head. Children dying of starvation. Elderly dying of preventable disease. Adults living on the streets. Pets abused and left for dead at shelters. My pain pales in comparison to all of that. Why should I get a leg up? Why should my pain be resolved first? Can't we just get everyone in a good place before I can spend money on a haircut or new outfit? Is me focusing on me going to make me better? Will I be able to help more? Am I allowed to gain satisfaction from new sheets without feeling this immense weight of the world on my shoulders that my joy is bringing another pain? All I know is that I deserve this, this pain.
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Be a good friend. A good parent. A good spouse. A good volunteer. A good neighbor. Pile all your strife, your worries on me. I can take it. I have to take it. I want to be good. I want to be there.
But it's heavy, oh-so heavy that my knees are buckling and arms are trembling from the weight of it all. I can't take any of it off. I'm crushed beneath it all. But as soon as I attempt to stand, more gets thrown on top. Don't worry, you can take it. You are strong. You are brave. You are good, good enough to handle being crushed.
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To you, my dear child,
You are but nine years old, and I am thirty-four. Yet the weight of society rests squarely on your shoulders day in and day out. I thought I wanted this before you were born. My joke of hoping for a gay son turned into a harsh reality of what that really means. My joke of your love of breasts as a toddler meaning you were either going to be a frat boy or drag queen became your burden to bear. I didn't honestly believe any of it would become your world, would become you. A joke was a joke, I presumed. But there you stood, all three feet of you, begging for a dress while also stressing over the reactions of your peers. At four, you understood the gravity of what you were about to do, the fight you were about to start. I told you not to worry, that no one cared, despite you somehow knowing better. Yet you donned that velour cream dress with the embroidered blue snowflakes to school as many days as you could. You initially hemmed and hawed about it. The dress crumpled up in your school bag, just in case you decided to be brave that day. And then once you were, your "boy" clothes stuffed in your bag just in case you needed to put your armor back on. You started to grow up those days, learning how cruel people can be, how much your peers' opinions mattered to you. So by kindergarten you decided to stay the course as "little boy" and packed up the dresses, only to sneak them out to secretly wear as pajamas. But that never felt right. You were unhappy. We found a way to get you more dresses. You twirled. You swayed your hips. You danced around the house. There was more joy in each step.
Your femininity catapulted from there. Heels. Jewelry. Long hair. Makeup. Drag. Ears pierced. Purple EVERYTHING. And your bravery continued but waivers. Somehow you push through. Somehow you had the courage to come out as gay, not only to your family, but to teachers, classmates, and the public. You write about being gay and non-binary in school papers like those identities are fully understood by people your age. And when they're not, you're frustrated. Hurt. Depressed. Every day you come home from school, I prepare for it, the rude comments, the bullying, the harassment. I usually lead with, "What did people say today..." and always hope it's what someone said instead of what someone did. We spend countless hours dismantling all of the hate, homophobia, transphobia, and misogyny. We discuss ways to combat it. We determine all of the ways you have to be an adult and deal with very adult conversations when you should just be able to play basketball at recess. You too worry about the day the words turn into actions. You worry that if you speak up, someone will hurt you with their fists instead of their words this time. I worry about that too. After we hold our daily parent-child therapy sessions, the weight of what you deal with on a daily basis hits me like a ton of bricks. There are many nights I just stay up worrying, crying, trying to find any way to keep you safe, to keep you being brave, to keep you being you.
I wish, dear child, that we lived in a space in time where who you are is not contested. It's not seen as wrong or immoral or worth killing someone over. I wish who you are was a non-issue, so you could experience the freedom of a true childhood. I wish you could just join whichever team you wanted to at recess without another kid questioning your gender identity. I wish you could use a restroom without people questioning your genitals. I wish you could verbalize your crushes without losing friends or scaring parents away. I wish you would be embraced for your amazing queerness instead of being constantly questioned about it and reviled for it. I wish the world could love you for you as much as I do.
Dear K, you are brave, you are strong, you are loved, you are exactly as you should be.
Love,
Me
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