an angry epistolary by e.l.

You Don't Even Know Me, But Here We Are

    You say you don't care. Are you ignorant or are you willfully blind?

    I came out in the fourth grade, did you not hear that? I came out again in the seventh, I was getting desperate, I guess you must have been deaf, too. I came out again and this time it was even a joke, I couldn't even let my hopes up, and you screamed in my face, shook me by the shoulders.

    Everyone would tell me I can be anything, anyone, that I wanted to be- as long as it's not this. I came out again and spent the next few years listening to you all call me disgusting, watching outside my own body as you tore me down and stitched me back up in clothes that made me feel like I was suffocating. I don't exist for the pleasure or peace of mind of anyone but myself- please, god, don't even look at me again. I can't even look at myself anymore, I can't even look at you.

    Your love isn't unconditional, it's, "I love you until you embarrass me by not living up to societal standards; I love you until somebody looks at me and asks, 'why?'" It's, "I'm embarrassed to be seen in public with you, but I'll support you with the blinds closed."

    Why would anyone think I want to be this way? Why would I want to be shoved around and spat on and hated so viscerally? I go to bed and wake up and want to tear myself apart at the seams- I hate this body. I want to meld myself into a shape that I can breathe in but I can't even see it, much less put a label on it. I don't want to be "that thing that once was," I want to fucking breathe. I want to be more than this terrible "journey." I'm not stronger for it, I'll never be done. Maybe one day I'll be happy but I'll never be whole.

    I came out again and she hit me for it, once- you were there, all of you were, and not one of you said a word and it pissed me the fuck off. I didn't ask to be like this, I don't deserve to be treated like this, I'm not going to let you. I didn't let you. I wept and I picked myself up and I took everything into my own hands. I said no. I said I'm doing this, I won't hear anything else. I said if you won't be here then you have to pack up and fucking leave because I'm all that I need. We aren't family, to you I'm just what you put in some plastic frame on the mantle place so you can brag about what a perfect home you've made.

    Even then, I guess I'm lucky I didn't have it worse.

    I didn't choose this for myself, I did this because if I hadn't I'd be six feet under the ground. How much of an embarrassment would I be then?

    My whole life's been ripped out from under me, I'm turning twenty next year and I have nothing to show for it. We sift through photographs and I joke, "You got the child you wanted, they're right there," and the little one laughs, and you say you "Don't care. It never mattered to me." What a fucking liar you are. What I would've given to hear that over a decade ago. I'd've given anything for a chance to actually live.

    I'm going to be picking myself up for the rest of my life. You've carved out parts of me that I didn't even know existed. I'm still discovering new wounds. Unconditional my ass, you were all absolute bastards and you haven't changed a bit.