Dear [...]

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

You always told me to do well in this world, I need a thick shell. Words don't hurt the tough, words need to slide of my back, like blood off a knife, but sometimes they don't. Or more accurately, lately they haven't. See dad, when I hit the age of ten, I guess something inside me broke, because I got soft. These words hurt dad, from those directed at me specifically, to the innocent wants that didn't mean harm, but for that manage to cut deeper.

I know you always wanted to raise a strong, beautiful, empowered young woman. If not, a powerful, respectful, commanding young man. Unfortunately, you got me instead. I am your royal error, and no matter what I do, I know it won't measure up to the expectations you had when the doctor first said I'd be a girl. You envisioned a life where I would be nothing other than normal. Well, almost. You pictured a life where I was amazingly intelligent and successful, but also socially normal. I would wear dresses often, get married to a man someday and have a few kids of my own.

I'm sorry dad. I'm not the perfect little girl you wanted, 'nor will I ever be.

Instead, I will be me. Who is that exactly? Only time will tell, because something tells me that even though I'm becoming more of a self sustaining/sufficient person, there is still a lot of room for me to grow. But what I do know for certain is the person that is shaping to be is different. A drastic contrast to who I've been in the past. Let's start with the basics dad, the things you probably already know.

Firstly, I am not straight. This one is kind of obvious if you payed attention to me at all when I was very small, and just listened to me now. I spelled it out for you months ago, in a rambling speech that in condensed fashion meant I was pansexual. I know you still are confused as to what exactly that means, because you couldn't fathom that the definition I gave you could be true. I will explain it one more time, and I will reiterate from our previous arguments and discussions, it's quite simple. I don't care about the gender of the person(s) I like. People are just people, and I'll hold them all to the same standards. I hope you can learn to deal with that, dad, because I know in the past you've had issues with all these, "queer sissies" and their whining for basic civil rights.

More importantly, dad, I'm not like your family. I am not an island ready to stay alone and self sufficient all my life, I never will be. See the problem is that clouds of depression have been sparked with thundering claps of passionate anxiety, and before you know it, there are floods of insomnia and paranoia coursing through that island. I started to take mom's advice, talk to friends, make friends, and it's helped dad. I feel like all those years you were misguiding me. I trusted you, and in return I can't help but feel like you broke me.

A crack when you said that bisexuality and such things are made by fake people who want attention, not love. It deepened when you said that girls are not meant to go into engineering and like professions. Cracks turn into fractures when too much pressure is applied, and thus I was fractured when you told me that emotions were for the weak, and there was no need to show weakness, ever. When I yelled at you for saying I should make new friends because the one's I had were the wrong color, you asked me if I was on my period. And I bet you don't remember these happening, these words seem to roll off your lips so easily, where did you learn to speak with such confidence?

But there are things more complicated that my "weakness" and sexuality, dad, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you never had a daughter. I will continue to put off telling you this, because judging by your past statements, I don't know how safe I would be at home. All I want is to feel safe, dad. Safe, and accepted. You'll notice that both of these things are free, and yet you have the tendency to give them sparingly. Why is that? But we're getting distracted, and there is a matter at hand, dad. I'm not a girl, I'm not a boy. I don't know quite what I am, but it's definitely not completely either of these things. I don't want to be this way. I know that you think every person like this is faking it. They're following it like a fad, you think they're crazy, you think they complain for nothing, you say all these things. There is no space for my words near yours, and so I am silenced.  If I told you this, you'd tell my why don't I just talk, but the problem is, what's happened in the past when I've done that?

You've called me a bitch and ran up to your room. I was 12. You've thrown a marble table that weighed more than I did at my leg, it scarred my ankle. I was 7. You've told me everything I say is propaganda shoved down a tube into my throat by the media. I was 9. You've told me I need to shut up and listen when someone important is talking to me. I was 6. You've told me I can't know anything until I'm of a proper age, and by then, you'll be dead. That was last week. Respect and power are your two lessons you strove to teach me, but if we're going by your definitions and tests, I think we both failed.

I'm going to stop writing for now, because I can hear your arguments in my head yelling, The fuck do you know?! I guess this is my way of giving up on you, like I do in every other fight.

Your angry screw up,

Ashton