Okay, so I got this idea for a story but I want to know if there is intrest. If there isn't I won't do it. If there is I will.
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I've always felt the need to hide things from my Mom and Dad. Even when I was little I had this notebook where all I would do is count in it. I don't remember what number I left off on but I remember being somewhere in the 500's. I hid it from them and it seemed like such a good idea at the time but now I question my motives.
When I started puberty, periods, boobs, the whole bit, I didn't want to tell my mom anything. Until I was 14 I had only one bra. My friend gave it to me because she was open to her parents about this stuff and told them she wanted a sports bra. The one they got her didn't fit but rather than tell her parent that she gave it to me because people were starting to see my nipples throught my shirt. I was 12 when she gave it to me, the only wash it ever recieved was when I occationally ran deoderent I stole from my brother over it to stop the heavy stink. I hid the underware my period soiled and used wadded toilet paper instead of pads. A tip I learned from a poor girl.
I don't know why I hide things. I think I'm addicted to the stress it brings. I don't remember a day when I wasn't stressed by something I was hiding.
So after all that it would only make sense that I hid things in my teens and early twentys.
"Dammit, Abbey! We told you we are not transphobic!"
"Then why don't you let her in the house anymore! Before she changed she was allowed in!"
"We don't hate him, we just don't want him in our house."
"Mom, that is the definition of transphobic!"
"No it is not!"
"What if I was transgender? Huh?"
"But you aren't. I've had enough of your damn what if's. Stop bringing things close to home. They aren't. We aren't related to any of that kind of people. You are not that kind of person."
"You're right. I'm not." I said, a pang of pain running through my chest. The sentance, 'I'm not transgender.' was one I questioned more and more everyday. I didn't feel like a boy, but I also felt nothing like a girl. I was stuck in this weird middle zone. There are two choices but I don't want either one of them.
"Then don't question what doesn't apply to you." My mother said as I ran into my room.
Our one story house wasn't large, but it wasn't small. It was a happy medium. Something I wished I could achieve. When you walked into the front door you had the choice of continueing down a small hallway to the living room, or turning into the guest room that had been taken over and turned into the kid room. But my brothers and I were told old for toys, we told each other. Legos were for school projects only, nerf guns only kept for sentimental reasons.
After entering the living room you had the choice of the kitchen or going down another hallway. Our living room and kitchen were pretty ordinary, yet full of strange trinkets. The hall led to, in order, my room, the bathroom, and my parents and brothers room. You could see into my room from the kitchen if you tried, it warented no privacy. Thats why hiding things caused such a stress. I kept my room a mess to allow for the hiding, my mother never stepped foot in it.
My brothers room was much larger than mine, but there was two of them so I didn't complain, and a lot more open. They didn't have a constant mess in their room. They didn't hide things. They were open with my parents. My parents room was the same size as my brothers. They had nothing unusual in their room. A Jesus on the cross hanging on the wall. Various mother/father day gifts.
So as I threw myself down on my bed the only thing I could think of was Katelyn. She was amzing really. Still mostly male, but mentally, and soon to be physically, female. She had always hung out with me and my friends, and while we weren't girly, we were girly enough that she felt included, but guyish enough that her father approved. Up until about 6 months ago we called her, he, and Kevin.
We used to call Kevin just, "one of the girls." We were messing with him, but everytime his face lit up with the biggest smile.
