I was freaking out over work. As usual. I don’t know what of. It was over scheduling, working a closing shift, being in an environment I didn’t trust, being scared (again), or what. I knew something was going to be off today, and I was freaking out, regardless. I had thoughts of conspiracies, of active efforts to thwart my ability to live a free and happy life, one without fear of judgement, without fear of violence or death. It was inane in the moment, but it felt real with how much I just didn’t trust my environment around me. I still didn’t feel like I could trust anyone, but that wasn’t from work, it was a general feeling, a feeling that was bleeding from a specific wound: My family.

I took the opportunity to move back because of multiple things:

1. I had made a major set of mistakes with a friendship as I was dealing with a disassociative, traumatic break-up with my ex.

2. My older brother was (whether intentionally or not) manipulating the family environment to seem accepting, or even open, to the idea of me being a gay man. (even worse, when I was publically re-outing myself as a trans woman, outside of the spaces my family occupies) even when it definitely wasn’t, and they were running joe rogan or candace owens videos in the house

3. I had felt the need to focus on school, saving money, and developing hobbies, without the stresses of roommate dramas, breakups, and other such social disasters.

I think all 3 were misleading, as they were played up by my de-transitioned self. I didn’t realize how much my family wanted out of me. I didn’t realize (foolishly) that my brother’s raging misogyny would run him into trouble, before I could even confront him about his misogyny. I didn’t realize that the rest of my family are fools, with extremely tempermental ego’s, and explosive attitudes with a hefty dose of stubbornness. It takes one to know one, because I’m the exact same way. I feel like I’m more self-aware of it than the rest of my family, as my entire return trip back into my family’s home is entirely dictated with trying to keep that in check as they tested my patience. Not self-aware enough to really notice nor care for the red flags approaching as I moved back in.

This family trip is rife full of guilt tripping, of faux-concern, of gaslighting, of behavior that seriously, seriously fucks me up. this has only exemplified the fear I am still recovering from.

the morning i left

they broke my nose. it was because, in response to my father snooping through my computer and taking pictures of my group chats, i deleted any evidence of it, so he wouldn’t attempt to blackmail me or harass me with it; and they beat me up over it. I was defending my own computer from being broken, one last time, and instead of smashing my technology, they instead smashed my face in.

I walked out with a bloody nose and a dream to be a better girl.

I returned a corpse of a man, and barely a girl. i had my sisters back in the streets i grew up in, but they were few and far between; most had left the state or the country (I don’t blame them… lol), and I only had little avenues to express myself. I spent most of my time at home worrying about my family and what they think of my queerness. We still haven’t had the conversation, and I will not breech it.

But in the moments where we do not, in a paranoia over the access and safety of my technology and information, they instead seek to harass me for one thing or another; over my loyalties to my misogynist brother, to the cleaniness of my room or car, to the hours i work and what I’m doing for school. a simple “I’m figuring it out.” should work, maybe even an explanation of what I’m planning should be fine, or want; nope. it will never be this way. Even when I do not want to be bothered, even when I want them to understand they have crossed a line, my father (usually) tries to bribe me with goods, ideas, conversations, with food, and connection, and honesty, to then keep crossing my line. make it clear that my line isn’t mine, but his. I kept saying “my room,” “my room.” I start telling them that all their bullshit about family seems to not matter when they’re mad, they’re flaunting their horns off, and want me to give them a reaction. the whole time, i kept my voice quiet, and silent; both my parents were screaming. I made clear that I wasn’t aggressing. and I was backing off each time.

They didn’t want to end it. They kept confronting me, mocking me, bullying me. to him? to my mom? it isn’t your room. you don’t pay for the cool air you’re breathing. “And what is it to you?” my mother says, "we have the right to kick you out of our house. you don’t belong here.” and I confronted her, and told her that she doesn’t seem to care much about family if all she does is make these children she makes enemies with and kicks out onto the street. then her and my father proceeded to call me a bitch.

The way this night has gone has made me cry again and again. and sob writing this, thinking about it, feeling it. I never have hated my mother. I love her so much. but my mother is hard to love. she makes it hard to love her. Once, and I’m not fucking with you, because my younger brother spilt a cup of ice, she started verbally abusing him. calling him an idiot. a fool. making him feel bad for his mistake, while he was rushing to fix it. I told her to stop yelling at him and calm down. bad decision, because in the midst of that, she grabs a knife and starts to scream bloody murder, then puts the knife into my hand. instead of calling the police, she calls my sister(?) and my mom gives me her phone to talk to her, and my sister just went “yeah, just shut up and let her continue ‘parenting’ him like that. its not your place.” and i said, she’s not right for doing that. and my sister kept repeating the same thing. I was in disbelief and was just glad that the verbal abuse ended with it being directed towards me. not my little brother, as he cleaned the ice and just skirted away.

My father is a quiet man, but quiet in the not-so-nice way. in the way that, once he is mad, he only continues, he keeps going, he lets that energy fuel him towards the wrong thing. while his quietness, politeness, and insistence on being caring seems genuine, it ends up boiling over if his authority is questioned.

Both of them calling me a bitch is not new, it is a consistent, and quite heavy term they apply onto me anytime I am speaking up. I remember my dad calling me a bitch when I first attempted suicide. over me defending my sister-in-law and my niece from my misogynistic brother, and this night, over me simply getting stressed over getting cornered in my room in the midst of me cleaning.

But it still carries weight.

This morning, as I was stressing about getting to work, I also remembered that my dad was being such a sweet man, trying to connect with me and get me to connect with my mom: he barged in my room, going “this is important: your mother needs braids.” and brought me over to her, and was like “[Deadname] can braid your hair.” and she said “….can you?” and my dad was insisting, “oh yes, yes, he can because of his ‘friends’, right?!”

and i go, no dad i cant, giggling my ass off.

it was a sweet gesture. I said to a group of friends, if I could, I would’ve mom, with a little heartbroken emoji.

but that sweetness hurts more when you are reduced to being a bitch. to that word. i kept crying after he came in and kissed my forehead, and told me i could do whatever i want, that he loves me and just worries. and my mom didn’t even say anything. she only kept trying to rile me up before she just went to bed. i cried so hard.

i think the worst type of person is a someone who makes it hard to love them.

i don’t know why i yearn so much for a lover, why i am such a lover; maybe it is because i want to fulfil that love to something that never came to my parents, and i never recieved from them. maybe it’s because there is a hidden pain, a crevace in my soul, that i want someone to reach into and grab so as to make me feel better, someone who can understand me. but i think, mostly, of all, it is because of how much words affect me. How gullible I am. How much I keep falling for the sweetness, and think that being that saccharine will get me anywhere. I can’t even talk to my dad about my rape… and he still calls me a bitch because I’m scared of him.

And I’ve had ex-friends tell me that I’ll never understand the pain of these words.

i hope someday, someone sees me.

I’m not just a bitch to my sweet father.

I think what I’m afraid of most is that the true me will be hidden forever. buried away like it were some sinful growth. the true me is someone that hides behind the doors of a private family household… that people will aid in hiding me… making me disappear.

i cried so much over the word. because i know that word has hurt others in similar places. in worse. even in better positions. i cried knowing i’ve been a man who has used such language. it’s the common signifier is that we are underneath someone, and they want us to forever be there.