Dear Mom
My depression is understood. I realize that you have to deal with it too, as does my brother. Your daughter will probably have to deal with it soon. Our family has it. All of them. So I know that doesn't confuse you.
If you know how horrible depression is, then how don't you know what dysphoria is doing to me? I have to deal with feeling this way, feeling disgusting and hideous and like a monster will burst from me and devour me once I look at myself. I can't sleep for hours because I know that my dreams are just dreams and they won't ever come true. That what you say must be correct because mother knows best. That no matter what I say, nothing will change your mind. But I think anyway.
I think about grandmother. How she will react if she knows. How she will hate you because of my feelings. How, again, nothing I say will matter. Because I'm just me. Just a teenager with issues. Just a waste of resources until God or whatever is up there decides to kill me.
I think of things to say. How to help you understand. Ways I can word things to work in the right way. But no matter how much I think, no matter how much I talk and try and hope and pray...
Nothing happens.
This all ends with me in tears and with you so... Emotional, you can't even talk to me except to say...
"It's past your bedtime."
I try.
I really try, okay?
I try so hard not to lose my mind and to not lose this battle.
But at some point, I'm going to lose.
And you won't be there to help me because you'll be stuck in your mind, wondering what you did to deserve a tranny, a dyke, a... Whatever the fuck you want to call me.
You'll end up by my side with me in a dress. With my clouded eyes and my cold skin and broken heart.
Me laying in a box.
.
.
.
It doesn't have to be like that.
Because I am a man.
I have known for so long.
Now please...
Call me as such.
I'm not your daughter.
You have two sons.
I'm not fucking stupid.
You said so yourself.
You said that I am the smartest and possibly the bravest, even counting my older brother. But you don't seem to believe it yourself. Do you? Or did you say that just so I wouldn't destroy this fleshy and fatty capsule many call my body?
If I died...
You wouldn't care that you lost your son.
That isn't what you would think.
Because you think I'm a confused girl who will grow out of a phase and be someone else's wife. A mother.
I am not a fucking girl.
I am going to be someone's husband and a father.
My children and husband will love me.
I'll be called Dad. I'm be called Ansel and Honey.
And I'm sorry you don't understand me.
But nothing will change that until you see how happy I am when I have a beard and a flat chest and a penis.
And a loving husband and children.
I don't want to be seen as something I'm not. So stop calling me by a fake name and fake pronouns and don't yell at me for not wearing makeup.
You don't yell at your other son for that. So why me?
I should go. I need sleep and to take a shower. Oh for joy.
Your loving and caring son
-Ansel Steven Elisabeth H.-
(see "*Anxiety maybe*")