The Notebook and Paint - An analogy about being transgender.

THE NOTEBOOK AND PAINT - by River M.

I was born in this world almost twenty-three years ago, tomorrow is actually my birthday. And that's what I wanted to talk about- how one is born into the world, having to deal with our distorted reality.

I, just like any and every other child, are born in this hospital, healthy, and no "imperfections." Something that is a little off with our planet, Earth that is- the day of every child's birth is the same day that the parent is either given a paintbrush or a notebook, for the child of course. The ideology of this was that whatever we were given is what we were supposed to work with that object to share our ideas and stories. That's how we were to live and prosper. On the object given, we have our names inscribed onto the random object. For some reason... I was given the paintbrush.

Now of course, as a baby, even a child, I had zero clue what this meant. I had no idea that the object that my parents have been gloating about to others, and hinting to me my entire life, would be well... my entire life. The day I grew old enough to understand what painting was. I was shoved into a locked, dark room, with nothing but paint, a canvas, and the paintbrush. No food, not even a pillow. The door was to be unlocked as soon I could prove that I finished my first story on canvas.

The entire time in that room, my thoughts pondered. The words my parents have been telling me, well they came into place. I had no choice but to paint something, and make it seem like it made sense. If I didn't well my parents wouldn't open the door. I would not survive. No matter how hard it was, I painted, painted, and painted. Had to make sure it looked like I had an idea of what I was doing right. Don't want to look like an outcast, improper.

After being yelled at, or "corrected" as they called it. I finally made it; I made a painting. Disgusted I felt, I had no idea why though. By this time I was five years of age, and I still didn't even know what I was missing out on. The door was now unlocked, but the experience engraved a picture in my head, it was traumatic.

Eating my first meal in three days, it comes into the conversation, my parents professions. I learned that one of my parents was a painter like me, and the other was a writer. I never heard of a writer before. So I asked about it, and later into the conversation after learning what a writer was, one of my parents told me that I was to never touch a notebook, EVER; it was forbidden. "If we ever catch you writing, you don't want to know what will happen" is what they told me.

So for the next few years I painted, and painted. Getting paid for my very, very hard work, barely scratching the surface. Buying continuous supplies to try and better myself in this work. One day I worked, I actually overworked, trying to get this painting done how I thought I could get paid the most- and I walked around and as I pass by my mom's room, I see a notebook on the floor, seemed to have been dropped accidently. I opened it, and of course I read it. I was astonished, it made sense. The last piece of the puzzle was placed into my brain. Words were meant to be written, not painted. I was meant to be a writer. After reading a bit, I left the notebook back onto the floor.

I went online, bought a notebook and a pencil.

I kept myself alert. Paranoid that my parents would open the package before I did. I checked the front door for my package every hour for the next five days. I was having anxiety attacks almost every hour. The thought of my parents telling me "If we ever catch you writing, you don't want to know what will happen." I don't even know what will happen, but by the tone of their voices I feel like it had a negative connotation behind it.

I would be mortified if my parents would find out. Could I even tell anyone, any of my friends. Could I trust them. Can I even trust myself to keep it to myself. I was so confused and didn't even know how I could ever go through life with such a huge secret. I was going to try... writing. You know the thing that I was told was forbidden, and shameful. But I felt like in my gut, it was the right choice; as much as it ached me and made me want to stab myself, I just... I don't know, it just felt right.

Days pass, and I hear a knock at the door, chills hit my spine. I swiftly sprint to the front door, to grab what I believed to be the package. As I open the door, I notice a little orange envelope, same ones loomazon use to deliver. Closing the door, I run to my room, trying to make sure I do not get caught by my parents. "Who was at the door sweetie" said my parents. I reply with the classic, "just a ding dong ditch." I'm glad it never got questioned, an amazing response honestly.

I'm now in my room, very vigilant. I grasp the pencil, the notebook. And I start writing. I felt like a natural. I know it was my first attempt, but the already existent words in my head were now not lost in translation while painting. They were NOT. I actually got every single words and ideas onto. That. Sheet.

So much euphoria, I started crying. It made so much sense, I started reflecting back on the signs, that I was a writer. Amazed and staggered. I almost forgot that I had to find a hiding place for this, so guess that's what I did for the next ten to fifteen minutes. I honestly just hid it under my bed. I was so dumb.

Days pass, and each day I felt more comfortable with the fact that I was just simply... Different. Anyways, the more I wrote the more I understood this was who I am, and what I should have been born with; the ability and allowing to write.

This is where I failed. One day, I don't actually know the actual story, but I assume one of my parents walked into my room, and well searched. And found my notebook. When I came back from a walk with a friend, I got screamed at. Yelled at, called slurs, punched, and slapped. That was far from the worst. I got kicked out, my parents didn't want me. They thought that what I was experiencing was revolting and sickening. I wasn't their kid no more. They... They didn't love me no more. For the longest time I thought it was all my fault. I thought that it was my fault for trying something different, because I was told never to do so.

First thing I did was go see my friends, to ask for help. I literally had nothing on me, as well as no place to live. But door to door. I was refused. They didn't want someone of "my kind" to ever enter their house. I was yelled at and lost almost all of my friends. Exhausted, stressed, and terror-stricken; I went to my last only friend. Hesitant to knock the door, I wait for two seconds. In my head at the time. It was either be homeless and keep a friend, or be homeless and have absolutely zero friends.

As I start to walk away from the door, Ash, my friend walks up and bumps into me. Apparently, they went for a quick walk to the café not far from here, maybe two blocks away. They start talking to me, and asking me why I came to see them. I freeze. They reassure me that it's fine if I didn't want to tell them, they would respect my privacy.

Now a new problem strook. Do I keep a secret from my last and only friend, when I never ever did such a thing to them, or do I tell 'em the situation. Long story short I ask them If I can come in to talk.

After a half an hour of talking to them and their guardian. Or half an hour of anxiety pains. I learned that they were fully supportive of my situation. They were also ready to hold me in their residence. Not even a second of realization, I just start balling. They come and hug me, really tightly. And even though it was a really tight clasp, I felt even more free than before. I had people who understood me, and didn't react negatively.

Months after being kicked out, I was finally happy with myself. And after a year, I had a full new set of friends. I don't think I was ever happier. I was now free of shackles and free to express my thoughts on those pages. No longer was my career any stressful and nauseating, a chore. I didn't wake up in the morning dissatisfied with my life. I was happy to be alive. "No longer prisoner of my own self."

As I am writing this, five hours 'til my birthday- I now understand that no matter what I went through, I was lucky. Because I was brave enough to do the thing that was told to be forbidden, I came out to making work that made me happy. Because of my hardships, now I have support and no one hates me, I have all I need. I am truly, truly happy.