I forget sometimes how childish people can be about things – although I think children might be more accepting of other’s differences.

My own mother spent all of yesterday not speaking to me (unless it was necessary). Today was the extreme opposite – she ranted and raved about how people who think they have a man trapped within (or vice versa) are mentally disturbed. Also, apparently my doing this is a cry for attention, and a way of blaming other people for things I should be blaming myself for (not entirely sure what though) and that I ought to examine my problem since the answer lies within myself. Part of me wanted to point out that self-examination was what brought my masculine, male self to the surface.

If anybody is listening, know this: being a trans person is not a disease. There is nothing wrong with it. Going to a therapist should help the person in question feel ok about themselves, and not encourage him or her to hide it away like something dirty, like that pile of porn stashed under the bed. Also, trans people -if you’re out there and reading this, don’t worry about going to a therapist – I don’t like them much either, but they can be very useful sources of support and information. Also they are necessary legally, so I guess we gotta get used to them.

It hurts to hear that the woman who raised me now thinks I am some perverted abomination. It was hurtful to hear her rant and rave, even go so far as to say I don’t have male facial features (I’m not entirely sure what she was expecting). However, it was admittedly hilarious when, after all this, a shop assistant asked if I am her son.

Once we got home, I was asked to clean my room, and started doing so, when I realised she had mentioned that she was going to wash darks, and hence went to hand over a t-shirt. Yet I was too late, and so the reaction I got – perfectly rational (not) – was:

“You bring this to me now? Fuck yourself!” (well, the second part is a translation of the phrase she used in Greek)

“Ok, I’m sorry, I’m human!” I began to walk back to my room.

“Who the fuck was I talking to earlier? Your ass?”(this last expression is something we use to mean “you were not listening”) she yelled.

“I don’t know! Maybe you were!” I cried back – not the most mature or witty of comebacks, but if she thinks I’m disturbed, maybe that’s what she should see.

“You’re not human! You are ungrateful and self-centred and I don’t want to see you ever again!” she cried, storming down the stairs.

Life is good, isn’t it?

I suppose I ought to explain that I’ll be leaving for the UK this coming Sunday, so it is essentially my last week at home and it should be relatively easy for her not to see me again in the future.


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