Fuck, I hate my mother's reaction to my detransing! I'm already a mess from this damn shock of a realisation and she's just pressuring me more and more, I can't deal with it. I can't shut off her opinions and go my own way when she's constantly on me like this. It's disheartening, makes me tense and and even more confused. I wish she would just shut up and mind her own damn business. I get she's worried but this is just not cool anymore. She's never acted like this before. Whatever it is that's triggering her defense mechanism she's going out of her way to try to tell me something.
I'm starting to realise more and more what it's really about. It's her fucking prostitution hangups. Yeah I lied my way out of it this time too, but this won't hold for long. My father suddenly understands me better, and that's a literal first. I talked to my mother on the phone and except from her own highly biased opinions based in worry, she also told me something my father thought of me, that she thought would offend me but it warmed me. She said he thought that "when I was a guy I looked like a girl trying to look like a guy, and that now I look like a guy who's trying to look like a girl". He fucking nailed some of my inner most feelings. My confusion, my awkwardness, my stumbling in the dark. My thinking that I feel like a male crossdresser and that I was never truly a trans guy. He put it into words I wished that I could. How he can apparently see that, like right through me, I don't know, but that struck a chord in me, and positively so. Yes, that is how I feel too. It might sound like a harsh thing for a father to say about his detransing daughter, but the brutal honesty and directness in that statement did not make me feel like a failure at both genders... not at all... it made me feel relieved, and understood. I couldn't express that properly to my mother though.
I don't think either of my parents could understand how well that phrase resonated with me, or that I find relief in it having been said. I'm hurting, a lot. I don't think either of my parents understand that either... not at all. And I don't know how to tell them. The last thing I want is their pity, or sympathy. Or for them to suddenly start thinking I'm getting suicidal again or whatever might be going through their minds. But this pain is too real and my mother's prodding slashes my wounds open again and again. I can't deal with it.
Yeah, I'll definitely talk to the gender therapists without my mother present in the room. Cause I really need to tell them this. My mother is not being a support for me now. Not at all. She's acting like a harsh critic when what I really need is a gentle hug. I fucked myself up bad by lying to myself I was actually a guy and now she's telling me over and over again how bad I am at being a girl. Not exactly what I need. I know I'm not "bad at being a girl" cause there's simply no such thing, but that's the message she's giving me, constantly, and it's really hurtful. I want to curl up into a ball and cry, but it's better if I can get these thoughts out of me instead so they don't get stuck on a rampant loop in my head and heart. I need to sleep soon, so yeah. Gotta clear my head and I know this is the best way to do it. Just write it all down and then toss it somewhere online.
I feel like I've lost so much of my strength. Like I can't hold myself together or stand up against bullshit as well as I could before anymore. I feel so very vulnerable, like my shell broke. Well, in a way it did. I did let go of a huge escape mechanism, so in that sense, I am standing naked before the world as a woman. And it hurts so much more to be wipped on bare skin than on armour, and everyone can see all of my mistakes and wrong-doings, as well as my hindsight and grief. How do I survive myself? How do I find a way to live peacefully with the choices I've made? Cause I don't know. I don't know how much longer I can stand up, before I'll fall to my knees and start pleading. Where's my strength? I kinda need it now. No, my strength is still here. It's the forces attacking me that got even stronger, and my old armour doesn't fit my new form anymore, and thus my original strength is in need of an upgrade. It didn't get worse, it just hasn't caught up with newer malware programs yet. Oh where do I find an upgrade?
I'm cold, so very cold, I'm literally shivering and my hands are freezing. It hit me so suddenly when I had hung up the phone. Along with anger, frustration, but also emptiness. And resignation. Like wanting to sigh but being too tired to even do that. Holding the cigarette for several minutes without taking a drag cause I zoned out in the masses of thoughts fighting and climbing on each other like a bunch of starving monkeys all trying to reach a single apple hanging on a string from a roof. I couldn't even focus on a single one of all of those thoughts. And my cigarette blurred out of my focus too. And a wave of intense tiredness hit me.
I don't even remember all the crap she said and what I said but whatever. But basically it's the "slutty" type of femininity I wear that she decided to rag on me about again, and even tried to explain to me exactly what type of clothes bothered her and why. I'm so tired, mom, please leave me alone. Just leave me alone in my fucking grief. And the only fucking thing I can hold on to and feel comforted by, you're trying to tear apart cause you think whores are the sadest, most pitiful people on Earth and you don't want for me to get that kind of reputation. Well I told you now that's a tad too late cause I've already had that reputation for a long time. It doesn't bother me, it never has, cause I don't think so fucking badly of whores. They're PEOPLE, just like anyone else. That if random people think I'm a whore cause of the way I dress I really don't care cause I don't think badly of those who have that kind of job. But you don't understand and I'm hurt.
It's not even about it being my stupid "dream job" cause it's not about that. Not at its core. At it's core it's about my own subjective idea of womanhood, that I first thought of as something gross and shameful, but that I now embrace and tell her she's truly beautiful and valuable, and should be proud of herself. She's not dirt, she's gold. No matter how useless and worthless she feels for the pain she suffered. No matter how badly she hated herself for being strangers' fuckhole and that she hated herself for thinking she was just as bad as a whore. That she was broken for all that sexual trauma, that that's what made her that way, and that's what made her connect womanhood to filth.
At it's core, it's my sexual revolution. That I found pride, pleasure away from shame, self love away from thinking I was filth. I didn't wash my filth off, cause that's what I had been trying so desperately beyond the point of flaying my skin sore after hours in the shower scrubbing the same areas over and over and over again, then devastated by that the horrible filthy feeling remained so I didn't shower again for a week, and then repeated the cycle. No I left the filth on me cause I knew it was never actual filth to begin with. It was my body. And I express that with my slutty style: my way back home. To love myself, my body, my sexuality, to stand proudly next a prostitute saying "I'm not the same as you and we don't even have the same job, but I look like you and I feel like you, and I'm just as proud of you as I am of myself. I do not idolise you anymore, now I simply fight by your side, and if you don't want me to, then I'll simply be by your side." Cause I don't need to be a prostitute to resonate with that atmosphere, and I don't need to be one to dress like one. It's not about actual prostitution, it's a metaphor.
A real life metaphor, that I impersonate for the sake of releasing myself from my own prison, thus show myself as the most true me as I possibly can be, by looking like something I am not, but that I feel reflects me. It's a paradox, meant to be paradoxal, and reveal what it's hiding and hide what it's revealing. And that is why I've adopted it. It's like playing theater acting as yourself, while no one knows it's you and they tell you how badly you portrayed your own self. I can't properly explain it. I've always known this, but it's always been beyond what my words can tell. Prostitution is not really something I aspire to have as a job, or rather it doesn't matter if I do or not; it is something that I simply resonate with, as though it is speaking my truth with another story.
And that's why it hurts me when she stomps on my style because of what other people may think of me, when that's exactly why I choose to still hold on to that style... cause I, alone, know I am stronger than the crowd. "Jump, they say" but I walk away. But my own mother is in that crowd, telling me to jump. I can't. I just can't. She used to be the only person I could never lie to. Now she's the only person I can't tell the truth to. What happened? What happened...
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