Memories, Scars and Survival: High School Years

Chapter 43 - Einar

"So, how's your week been?" Sarah asked me.

I shrugged. "It was good. Mom let Charlie spend the night, and we held hands all night while asleep. It was great."

"That's wonderful." We went through our basic conversations at the beginning. I told her about the week and everything Charlie and I did. We talked a little about my victim's advocate calling and telling me the prosecutor would call.

Sarah told me while she can't be certain, it could mean they were going to offer my father a plea agreement. She told me prosecutors sometimes let the victims know what offer they'll make before they offer them.

"Ok, Einar. I want to go back in time to the first time your father attacked you." She flipped through several pages of notes and stopped. "You told me you were trying on nail polish and your mom's underwear. Have you ever wanted to wear women's clothes, or wear makeup after that?"

I wasn't sure how truthful to be. I know I'm supposed to only tell the truth. But what if that's one step too far for her?

"You've told me before you struggle to discover who you really are. It's never too late to figure those things out. But you can't ever find it out, if you won't accept feelings you have," she said.

"I just don't want people to think I think I'm a girl," I said. There may be a lot of confusion inside me, but I know I'm a boy. Sure, there've been times I thought about how it would be easier to love guys if I were a girl. But I don't think I am a girl.

"There are plenty of men and boys who choose to wear nail polish," she told me.

"Yes, but that's just nail polish."

"What else do you want to wear? Are you thinking you're a cross-dresser or maybe interested in drag?" she asked.

I shook my head vehemently. "No, I just like looking pretty. I've seen guys online wearing blush, eye shadow, or lipstick. As you said, several people wear nail polish. I want to try it too. They look pretty and that's what I want to feel."

She wrote some notes and nodded in understanding. Before she got the wrong idea, I had to jump back in. "But I'm not trans, or fluid, or anything else. I'm a boy, but I just like the look."

"There's nothing wrong with that," she said. "What is stopping you from trying? Your dad's not there to judge you."

"Yeah, but I don't want people to think I'm trans, or fluid, or the others. From either side. You have the hateful people who would love to pick on me. But what about those in my community who attack those they think are appropriating? Some will probably think I'm a self-hating trans person or fluid person, but I'm not."

"While there are many people who are anti-LGBT, and who might not like how you dress, act, or look. The truth is, they are hateful people, regardless of your orientation. They will always hate how you dress, act, or look because they hate themselves. There are also people who live to hate. They can't get through their day without putting others down. Those people are not happy people."

I looked into her eyes for as long as I could before looking away again. She continued, "as for any in our community who reject others who are just trying to discover themselves, are not worthy of being in our community. We've fought for far too long to get where we are for members to attack each other."

She looked down at her notes and back at me. I stared at a spot beside her head and behind her so she would think I'm making eye contact, but I'm not. "As for the final issue, there are no rule for how men should be men. There are no rules for how a woman should be a woman. I can continue down the line and list them all."

"No group may decide for you who you are. The world comprises an infinite multitude of feelings, beliefs, desires, and so on. How you and I express sadness, happiness, joy, and any other feeling can be different. We can even express those same feelings differently than anyone else living. So why does sexuality or how you choose to dress have to be restricted to male, female, gay, or straight? You are your own unique self. Stop pretending to be anyone else," she finally finished.

"But I want to fit in. I've been on the outside looking in, screaming for help forever. I just want to be like everyone else. Haven't I done enough? Haven't I suffered enough to be whoever it is I want to be? I feel I've earned that."

"If you want to fit in, then stop looking at how you're different. Look at all the ways you are the same. You're trapped in this cycle of believing sexuality, or how you dress, are the only things that matter." She held up her hands. "Here, let's count some ways we're the same."

Each thing she said, she raised a finger. "You breathe the same air as me. You were born in the same area as me. We both live in the same city. We both have parents. I could keep going. I know these all seem silly or insignificant, but they are as simple as the way you dress. There are so many ways to dress. So many choices of clothing. But you want to separate all clothes into two categories of male or female."

I understood what she was trying to say. "But it doesn't matter. People see clothes separated into those two categories. No matter how much we wish it wasn't true, it won't change."

"No, it won't change for many people. But that doesn't change that you have just as much of a right to be yourself as every other person. You have just as much of a right to exist. Life's way too short to worry about what others think of you."

I didn't respond while she kept writing. Once she finished, she looked up, and I shifted my gaze to the side and we stared for several minutes. She looked at her watch and said it was almost time.

Eirik talked me into coming out to our friends. I was nervous all morning but felt great when they all playfully accepted me and the others. Well, can you refer to two people as all? Whatever, they accept me and it felt great.

I even had to nerve to mention to Eirik that I might want to wear nail polish. Though, I doubt I'll have the courage anytime soon. When mom came home Friday night, she told us she talked to the prosecutor.

They're going to offer dad a plea deal. If he pleads guilty, they will sentence him to four years in state prison. He will also forfeit his parental rights and cannot contact any of us until after his sentence. Even then, we have to be the ones to contact him.

This wasn't what I wanted. I ran upstairs, not wanting to see the others looking at me with hate. I just knew they must blame me, as I blame me. There's no reason I couldn't have handled another three years of dad's attacks. It's already been around ten.