Out

‘Just say it,’ you silently reminded yourself. You knew you'd regret it if you didn't. Holding back was exhausting, and even if you could tolerate the nauseating tiredness in your bones for one more day, you can’t hide it any longer. Your eyes are dark, even if you sleep all day. Your body feels heavy all over, even laying down. Especially laying down. It feels like you could sink straight through to the ground every night. This secret is too heavy to keep carrying. It feels like going through life with a mountain on your back. And even still, if it was just the crushing weight you would carry it but it’s more. You’ve found yourself avoiding the mirror, and even when you have to be in front of it, you don’t look. Waiting too long to shower just to avoid your body. You’ve been skipping meals too, but it doesn’t help. It just makes your sides sink in further, casting an even more distinct silhouette. It’s too much. If you keep it inside any longer it’ll tear you apart. You can’t survive it anymore.

***

“It’s eating you alive. You have to tell your parents.” Evie told you, concern showing on her face for what may happen if you carry this any longer.

“You’ve seen the videos on the internet. What if she kicks me out, or sends me to one of those camps to “fix” me?” You ask, your voice trembling with a fear that felt more real than any you’ve ever had in your 17 years of life because this wasn’t just a fear induced concern. Your parents had said this is what they would do if it were their kid when the ethics of those horrible camps was being discussed on the news last week.

“Then come here. You’re 17, and as long as you have a place to live they can’t report you as a runaway.” She said with a kind smile, hugging you tightly.

You slide your arms around her waist slowly, hiding your face against her neck and wishing you had as much hope as she did for even a second. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“But your parents?”

“Love you! And they’re cool with that kind of thing.”

“Thank you” You whisper, praying to any god who may be listening to you that she’s right. ‘She always is,’ you tell yourself, but this is so much bigger than where to hang out after school or which place to get a burger.

“Of course” She whispered softly, rubbing your back and running her fingers through your hair, trying to provide as much comfort as possible before you went home after spending the weekend with her.

***

But what can you say? How can you tell your mother, who loves what she thinks you are so much. Who paraded you around, all dressed up, for the first 13 years of your life. To her you were the straight A, perfect daughter she always wanted and she doesn’t know what she would do without you. She’s told you this since you were born. Yet, somehow you still don’t feel it. You never did. Even as a little kid, everything she wanted to do with you felt less like a fun activity and more like something you had to do. Something expected of you and required before the fun stuff. Like chores, somewhat because it always felt like she was telling you about things her therapist should hear. Horrible things she had done and that had happened to her that tainted your perception of the world as a safe place before you ever thought it was. You’d always rather help your dad fix the radio or change oil in the car. For a long time, you thought that being a tomboy was enough and even then your mom hated it. You were “too unladylike” and “looked like a boy” and it broke her heart. She told you every chance she got and every time something went wrong or broke it was your fault because how awful you were was the reason why, even if all you’d done that day was wash out the pounds and pounds of hairspray after school but before she had a chance to take you to the store with her.

‘I can’t keep going like this…’ You thought, closing your eyes tightly and leaning your head against your bedroom door, gripping the handle tightly. The cool metal was comforting after the surge of remembered events leading up to this moment. Slowly, you turned the handle and went into the hall. The kitchen seemed further away than ever. Before you could take in what she was doing or the mood she seemed to be in, before you could stop yourself again, you blurt out, “Mom, I’m a boy.”

She stopped moving. Her back had been facing you already but it felt like she’d turned away all the same. Each second felt like hours, and every word you wanted to say froze in your throat. Why isn’t she saying anything? A mixture of hope that she wouldn’t start screaming and fear that this was the calm before the storm was stirring in your guts, tying all of your feelings in knots. After what felt like forever she uttered, “Not in my house,” and resumed cooking like nothing had happened.

Each word felt like a punch to the gut. All of that mental preparation and she won’t even look at you. All of the transphobic things she’d ever said to you about other people, and all she says when she finds out they were about you too not in my house? “What do you mean?” You ask, pain and confusion in your voice, but still she won’t look.

“I mean not in my house!” She screamed, finally turning to face you. The fury in her eyes was clear and your heart crumbled in your chest. “I’ll get you help, but my only daughter will not be mutilating her body!”

A wave of heat rolled over you. The rage was more than anything you’d ever felt. You wanted to scream back but you knew that was what she wanted. If you yelled back, she would tell your father you were screaming at her and he would lecture you about not starting things with her, never listening to your side. Instead you turned your back and went to your room but this time you lock the door and sit at the vanity table she’d gotten for your 16th birthday. It was gaudy and pink with curved wooden legs. You reach into your backpack that’s leaning against the leg and pull out your scissors. For once, your hair will be how you want it. You cut it off. All of it, to the sounds of your mother ranting at the door that you're sick and you'll never be allowed to go through with this. You dump the backpack onto the floor and fill it with the few shirts and pants that don’t have pink or glitter all over them. Toothbrush, toothpaste, bodywash, your towel and rag. Everything you may need.

The last thing you do before leaving through the window is pick up the bright red lipstick your mother bought for you, so you could ‘finally get a boyfriend’ and write a message on the mirror.

You didn’t care

 before I was born,

Why now?