Nov 08

Dear Mom,

January, 2018

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry I’m not perfect.

I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you wanted.

I’m sorry I’m not cis, straight, feminine, pretty, or anything all the other girls are.

I’m sorry I’m not strong, sporty, stupid, social, popular, or anything all the other guys are.

I’m pan, ace, fluid, smart, queer, nerdy, geeky, dorky, and a mess. 

I remember the day you came into my room.

“Maddie, are you this?” 

Your face is in a look of disgust as you hold up that T-shirt.

That T-shirt,

My T-shirt.

It shows an intersex symbol of the front and reads “Question Gender” on the back.

I can’t respond.

You get it out of me eventually, then rant.

“It’s not cool to be this!”

“It’s going to make your life hell!”

I’m forced to sit and listen to you yell.

I only understand one thing from it.

“Why can’t you just be normal?”

I don’t know mom.

I don’t know.

I wish I could be.

Be the girl you wanted.

But we can’t always have what we want, right?

“Why did you choose to be this way?”

That’s the other question you asked.

I didn’t choose mom.

If I had been a choice, I would have been the girl you wanted.

I’d be into makeup, I’d hate reading, I’d think gaming is stupid, I’d wear those frizzy pink dresses that all the other girls wear.

But I’m just queer.

All those times I’m quiet at home, it’s me thinking.

Thinking is always good.

Thinking is not always good.

Thinking is very often good.

Thinking is very often not good.

Thinking is rarely bad.

Thinking is rarely good.

Being allowed to be left alone with thoughts is a living hell you’ll never understand.

Allowing myself to be is a punishment.

You allowing me to be is a curse.

I wish you’d just understand mom.

I’ll never be the girl you want me to be.

I’ll always be me.

One day, maybe you’ll learn to fully accept that like everyone else who knows has.

Dad,

Grammie,

My sister,

My best friend,

My friends,

My teachers.

They all accept me.

Maybe you and him can learn too as well.

I still love you. Don’t think I don’t.

But do you love me as your kid, or do you try to pretend I’m not?

Maybe all the times you tell me you love me, it’s all a lie.

Is it?

Maybe I’ll never know.