My mother visited today. It's been a long time. She brought food. I think that's a family tradition---fatten up, little boy, maman will take care of
everything. It was nice.
She's not an understanding person. Not my mental health, nor.. this, I know, now.
She chewed me out, for my dirty laundry. For my dirty dishes. For my unkempt hair, and scrambled wonderland that is my bedroom.
She still loves me. I love her. I snuggled on her lap, and she fingerkempt my hair. It was nice.
She chewed me out about my listlessness. Admonished I should have a plan. A goal to beat. In jocular tones, I disclosed it. My plan. My goal. She was taken aghast by the `joke,' but kept fondling my hair. It was nice.
She did my dishes. I walked her out.
I haven't felt relaxed, in a long time. Almost drunk, or high, I wandered out through town. Stopped by The Clinic. A discreet establishment. They scheduled me for [redacted]. It still doesn't feel real.
Came home, called her. (The clean kitchen is nice.) I explained. At least, she's discreet---likely more than I.
She's in town for equinox. (And something else, obviously. Dunno what.) We'll be seeing more of us. She'll tolerate it. She'll acclime to it.
I was always everyone's favorite. My father wanted a son. After the daughter, he convinced her to not abort, when they learned it'd be a `boy.' And my mother, her one moment---holding me, after birth---of joy in the whole lethargic depression---pure bliss, and loving.
And I was an utter bastard, even back then---clamping my toothless orifice on her boob, not to feed, but watch anew my galactic spray. I don't understand, how a person can love, despite that senseless pain. Not even for my, earlier, sister. And my atypical behavior, appealed my grandfather's pity, and protection.
I was loved for who I am
Missed the opportunity
To be a better man
---Matt Bellamy
(
2006, Hoodoo)
I was very boyish throughout my childhood. My native language doesn't explicitly partition `boys' language / `girls' language. There were distinctions, and I'd
never bring myself to say that `girly' word. I'd use the `guys' equivalent. (A bad approximation.) Until puberty started---as a late bloomer---when I'd decided to break all the stereotypes, and insist it was perfectly manly. I was. (Not just as `comfortable with masculinity, to experience femininity.') I really do think, that's my identity. (But still with the wrong body.)
My boobs will be a man's boobs. My cunt will be a man's cunt. My soft, smooth skin, will be a man's soft, smooth skin.
I'm going home. It's progressed much better than this shithole. Why did I ever leave? Petty.
I'll still wait for COVID to expire, though.
You're all wonderful people.
---
EMS
This was gonna be my suicide note. I figured, if this was the best there is, why bother? I realize now, my mistake in thinking the past, is any good indication of the future. Hell, that day proves that---all that was before, was worse. The bit about my mother coming to terms with it, is wishful thinking. I
hope she will. I do know she'll tolerate it, though. She tolerates too much.
I
will be going home, though. Literally. Not as an abstruse metaphor for suicide.
