I’m older now than you were when I was born. I’ve spent nearly half my life away from my family. I never had a chance to have a body that truly reflects who I am, how I see myself. Even if I’d had the words, there’s no would where you would have entertained putting me on puberty blockers, not in the 1990s. 20 years later you made my coming out about you, prepubescant Ilde never had a chance. I’ve spent the last 5 years unraveling trauma I’ll be working on for the rest of my life.
To be perfectly clear, though, this post isn’t about you. This post is about me. Regardless of the fact that you’re the reason Neal and the rest of Dad’s side of the family doesn’t talk to me. Regardless of the fact that I haven’t spoken to James and Lisa in years. Regardless of the fact that I can’t think about flying back to Florida – the place I used to reflexively call “home” [at least, used to call home without it making me sad] – without getting weighted down by guilt, having to make the awful choice of whether to open myself up to spending a massive amount of emotional energy on handling then recovering from guilt and abuse over how long it’s been since I’ve been back, or hiding the fact I’m there at all.
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[I’m not the reason the Pinsker side doesn’t talk to her.