I want to write about the joy of having two beautiful children, the craziness of suddenly finding myself mother to a girly girl who’d been masquerading as a boy for four years.
I want to write about all the awesome little things people do to show their support and their love.
I want to write about how brilliant Freddie is, how caring and intuitive Izzy is…
But my tongue is tied. The words dry up before they’re fully formed. Because other words need to come out first, but they’re hurt and angry and frustrated and my own mind’s not willing to give them free reign and no one wants to hear them. They’re stuck, inside, unheard, festering. Festering and eating away at me.
I want this unfinished business finished. But I’m in limbo. I’m meant to be accepting and forgiving and patient. I’m told to be humble and understanding, to take the higher path, be the better person, turn the other cheek. I’m assured things will work out in the end, that “they’ll” come around. That if they don’t, it’s their loss.
I have to do and be all these things because I choose to support my 4 year old child. For this “they” have cut us, Izzy, Freddie, Harry and I, from their world. Some of them have taken this opportunity to pour out all the anger and hate, I never knew they had for me.
How can it be their loss when their very choices to reject, to hate, to fear Izzy, have a very well documented and undisputed result in transgender youth? That won’t be their loss.
How can it be their loss when they have the freedom to abuse? And I am not even permitted to defend myself.
I feel suffocated by all these words. I need to move on, leave them behind. But I can’t, can I? They’ll always be there. Just not at the same time as us.
Life doesn’t go on as normal. I now have to check that “they’re” not visiting before I take the kids to see Nana. It’s not their loss because they haven’t lost anything, they’ve thrown it away, as if it never held value for them.
It’s as if we’re dead.
I don’t care so much for myself, they’ve taken off their disguises and shown their true selves. Who they are when the chips are down. But my kids are four and seven. They’re full of life and joy and love. They’re not dead. THEY ARE NOT DEAD!