Lost Tales of Kirev

Kindling

I've lived in the same house since I was a toddler (1), along with my parents and Viktor, my sibling. The lightning bolt-shaped structure (2) is nestled firmly in the western Washington woods, only a seven-minute drive from the nearest grocery store (3) but still isolated enough to inspire a sense of wonder and mystery when your car crests the hill. Monstrous evergreen trees obscure our view of the valley below, creating a picturesque vista of their own through the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the kitchen and living room.

In sharp contrast to the long-lasting, if not permanent, nature of the forest (4), our house has gone through several large remodeling projects, most courtesy of my mother's insistence despite our resistance (5): stone stairs and a gabion wall by the back door, a chicken coop (which is now empty(6)) under the deck, hardwood floors to replace the yellowish carpet stained by cat (7) activities, among others. The house's walls continue to radiate homeliness, but it can take some time to get used to drastic visual and textural changes to the floor that you'd walked and laid on your whole life (8).

Those long, murky green tiles behind the stove (in the photograph, I mean) were stuck into place when I was just starting high school. With that in mind, I can date the classic picture of Viktor making pie crusts to be not quite recent enough for us to have transitioned from the old stovetop kettle to an electric one. I can still remember the whistle of that slate-gray kettle in the mornings as my dad made tea. I don't miss the strange black substance that began to peel off of the inside, becoming suspicious flakes and chunks in my oatmeal.

Viktor is different now too. Taller, deeper (9), less smiley, and distinctly more purple. They came out as transgender less than a year ago, while I was in therapy in other states. I remember it being a shock to come home in December and see them again, complete with eyeliner and dyed hair (10). The changes went without explanation at first, and an uncertain nervousness wove its way through me as the evening went on. Eventually, over my first dinner back home, I was told that Viktor was using she/they pronouns; later, they changed them again, settling on they/she. I misgendered them right away (11). When I realized, I apologized profusely.

Investing time in intensive therapy was, in my opinion, a waste. Not to say that therapy isn't useful for some, but I left therapy with Borderline Personality Disorder (12) and a large, cluttered handful of other misdiagnoses that had been thrust at me. I was, in fact, autistic, something that the hospital had missed altogether, despite supposedly testing for it (13). So, for six weeks, I wasted away my days doing three or more 1000-piece puzzles a week and playing cribbage (14) with Paul, a psych tech and my closest friend at the time. His sarcasm and quick mind kept me afloat while I was questioning my identity and sanity; now that I think about it, he may have been neurodivergent as well. After that, I spent three more months in a more informal program, processing the diagnoses that I assumed were correct (15) with patients that I clicked with much more. But that second program was messy and unstructured, constantly changing, with poor administration. It seemed to fall to pieces as I was leaving.

Over those four-ish months, I missed Viktor's transitioning period entirely. When I left home to begin a transition of my own, they remained in my mind as a budding chef, a talented bladesmith, and markedly male. I sometimes recalled fond memories of their colorless look, medium-length blonde hair swept across their chronically dirty face (whether from sawdust or grease or ash (16)). Nobody said anything about it over the 15-minute phone calls. Only during that first dinner did the ripples reach me. And by then, they had grown into a tsunami of change.

I don't deal well with change. I naturally gather up the sections of my life into routines. That way, things stay predictable and consistent, easy to interact with. When I wake up, I first take ten minutes to check my phone, then get dressed, then brush my hair, then fill up my water bottle, then eat and watch a video documentary to get my mind moving, then take my meds, then brush my teeth, then check I've got everything before leaving. And everything is done in a particular way, always the same. I would bet I climb down the rungs of my bunk bed in the exact same way every morning, picture-perfect (17).