Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,

This letter is probably way overdue but its hard to tell you all the things I want to without being scared of what you will say. The depression was hard, and I know you blame yourself for it, but we talked and I confided and you accepted that part of me; the dark parts full of depravity and loss and hatred. I know you feel it too, even if you pretend that you don't, I see it in the little comments you make, the gestures that are slow and uncoordinated, your gaze blank with the screams of millions of pieces of yourself shattering every time I, someone, screamed "I hate you!"

The anxiety isn't really new, but it's never been this hard either. I know the medicine scares you, hormones and suicidal thoughts that you believed were only problems for my brother, but it is necessary and so so much better. These past few weeks have been the first time I have ever understood what it meant to feel normal. There are no voices screaming in my head to just curl up in a ball and starve to death. There is no crackling of energy burning my nerve ends, fingers itching to do something as I try to relax. There is no part of myself scared to be me, to say what I want to who I want, to speak and exist freely.

Except when it comes to you. That is my limit. You've seen me at my best, writing stories and passing classes, confident in my sexuality. You've seen me at my worst, so broken and tired that there was nothing but static, the tears and snot smeared across your shirt as you tried to hug all the pain out. You've seen my sass and snark, more vulgar than you would like, but you know I will never let anyone tell me what to do, manipulate me and hurt me against my will. I inherited my fierceness from you, no one will ever get away with screwing me and the people I love because I will fight tooth and nail so the people and beings who deserve to exist and be happy will get to. You've seen the passages into hell that leak through my brain and into my writing, and you praised it, so happy that I had found a way to get everything out onto the page, but those confessions aren't why I'm writing this letter.

We have gone around and around about what is going on with me. The short hair, tuxedos, too tight bras that act as binders. You support trans from the sidelines, an enjoyable TV show to watch, but its different when your kid starts to show the signs, when you actually have to confront it. I am here to tell you, that I am not trans, never thought that I was. It's so much more complicated than that that I didn't even have a word for it until a few months ago.

I am Demi-gender. Demi-woman. Demi-girl. I am constantly fluctuating between feminine and non-binary and all the shades of gray that exist in between. I know you don't know what it means, and have about a million questions, and I guess that's why I haven't told you; I'm not ready to answer them. This is still so new, and the information out there is so minimal, I've just started fully embracing different pronouns and haven't worked all the specifics out. It varies day to day, or sometimes it doesn't, and the therapist already verified it isn't gender dysphoria caused by trauma.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I have a whole list of excuses as to why, but know I did it out of consideration for you. It's a lot to take in, both kids far away at school, the fear of one or both falling into a depression spiral, of all that schooling being a waste of time, of us never being happy. You should know that I am happy, and Robert is too. He already knows about my new identity, he will always be the first to know, but you are who I care about accepting me, about who I worry for.

I hope this letter finds you well, my confession maybe not too much of a surprise after all this time. I'm happy to answer any questions you have and just remember, as long as you still love me, I know everything will be alright.