Tag Archives: mothers

It Isn’t All It Seems at Seventeen

My emotional life at 17

At 17 I was an active volcano.

Every mental health professional I’ve ever worked with has asked me if I’ve attempted suicide, if I’ve ever felt suicidal, or if I have any suicidal feelings. The simple answer is no. The complex answer is I’ve been homicidal, not suicidal. I was an angry kid and an angrier teenager.

In my mind I’ve killed off my mother, my grandmother, and Julie and Wendy, the two girls who relentlessly picked on me in elementary school. The only one I was serious about killing was my mother. I didn’t have a good plan. I thought about pushing her in front of a train. I wanted to make it look like an accident. I considered trying to make her overdose on barbiturates, but I never purchased pills or figured out how to mix them with alcohol. There was no internet to turn to. Continue reading

The Last Time I Wore a Dress

this-butch-only-wore-pantsThe last time I wore a dress, it was for my brother’s college graduation. It was the summer in-between my freshman and sophomore years. I had put on weight and my one pair of dress pants did not fit. I had not worn a dress in five years; not since my father’s funeral.  I borrowed an Indian hand-block wrap skirt from my ex-girlfriend.

I had just come out to my mother. She was upset and angry. I wore the skirt to placate her. I could answer “Why do you have to be a lesbian?” better than “Why do you have to dress like a man?” I did not want to ruin Jon’s graduation. The dysphoria was unbearable. I swore I would never make that mistake again. Continue reading

There Is No Point in Arguing with Someone Who Is Already Dead

This-butch's-gravestoneThis is my post Mother’s Day post. I find myself continuing old arguments with my mother. Arguments that I can not win. I hear her yelling “What is wrong with you? Why can’t you be normal? What did I do to deserve this?”

My mother and I argued from nursery school through graduate school. I couldn’t take it. I gradually reduced the number of visits  until I only saw her at funerals, weddings, and Bar/Bat MItzvahs. We could not be seated at the same table. In the end we had nothing to say to each other. We argued silently. Continue reading