I'm very upset

Not a stereotype(!TW)

I'm not a stereotype. Not a storybook version of what a male is meant to be, not a written in black ink type of boy. 

As I sit here alone, once again, I remember watching my older brother play with his friends, I remember walking through the men's section at the clothing store and the heavy feeling I got in my chest when my mother tugged my arm over to the blouses. I remember being told that I'm just "not a stereotype" 

So maybe I am not. Maybe the empty feeling in my stomach when I look at my body in the mirror is just part of growing up. Maybe the cold stingy feeling of the wind blowing through my long pretty hair when I am alone on the roof, while I mark my delicate skin with punishments, is just nature's way of reminding me I'm in pain. Maybe the Barbie dolls really are more fun than the dinosaurs. Maybe the dress really does compliment my curves. And maybe, just maybe it's okay to not be a stereotype. 

Tell me at what point are we going to stop telling young children who they are before they have the brain capacity to understand what an identity even is? When are we going to sit back and stop using "not a stereotype" as an excuse to ignore your child's identity? Have you ever thought of how I feel when you tell me that the way I've been acting at home is unacceptable, or when you tell me I need to start trying for once? What about the times where we sat with each other in the old smelly van, enveloped in complete darkness, while I balled my eyes out because of something you said, because of something I thought I was doing wrong? Don't forget the times you had the nerve to be upset when you looked through my board on Pinterest titled "Hair inspo." The next time you try to say you support who I am, think about that.

Can we get rid of the old worn-out tactics for parenting? Guilt-tripping the young so they do what YOU think is right. Silently stealing their clothing, jewelry, makeup, journals, art supplies, phones, credit cards. Leaving all the shit that makes them feel like themselves in the cold emptiness of your locked bathroom. Which they found looking for pills, so they wouldn't have to be awake when you got home. Tell me did you know they did that? No, you didn't. 

So sure I'm just not a stereotype. Keep showing me off at church as your trophy daughter, the artistic deep thinker. The one who loves doing that sport you forced them to "enjoy" The one who inherited the traits you loved so much about your mother, who is dead now. Keep telling your cute little church friends that I am gonna go places and that you can't wait for me to have children. Keep telling me that I'm just in a spiritual rut. Keep telling me I'm not emotional enough, too obsessive. Keep telling me that the dress might look pretty, keep brushing my hair out of my face and pouting when I brush it back. Go ahead keep on fucking saying that my brother is the favorite son. Keep fucking invalidating me every chance you get. Keep telling me that I'm "Just not a stereotype" Pretty soon you will have lost your daughter and your son. 

I understand that you accept your daughter. That you love your daughter and are willing to support her. I understand that. I just hope you realize that your son is here, standing right in front of your blind eyes, that see only what they want to. A broken young girl in need of your church, your help, your affection. But no, your son is here. It's me, me, I exist, I exist, please. Please. 

My heart has hardened to your knife, My garden has dried up, filled with hard difficult soil. My eyes are blinded to your sick attempts of love. My back is tired, my arms are sore. There's blood in the place where your "unconventional" daughter once lived. I hope you're pleased, I hope you can look out at the burning flames and smile at the ashes that remain. 

No, I'm not a stereotype. You at least got that right.