I Told My Mom My Pronouns Yesterday

To Susan; To Samantha; To Judith; To Octavia; To My Family; To Juliana; To Antonia. To Me.

I told my mom my pronouns yesterday. Weeks earlier, I had named the feeling that held me back from telling her, the one that lives deep within my chest: Susan. Susan is dark and heavy and often feels like an old and cold anvil from “Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner,” forever falling from a window (or wherever they fall from). It sits on my chest and weighs me down, deep into the earth. Yet I still find myself floating out of my body. Susan is less aggressive now, but she’s still chilling on my chest. When my therapist asked me if I wanted to give her a name, I was almost embarrassed how fast I said it. I had just watched the vice presidential debate a day or two earlier and I think I felt a lot of animosity towards the facilitator, 

Susan.

Susan?

Susan!

I sobbed to my therapist. She likes to remind me that imposter syndrome is a normal feeling, but this space still feels so unnatural and abnormal. She suggested I give it a name so it would seem less scary and unknown. I do butterfly taps on my chest until the tears dry up and my soul feels less like a hand around my neck. Sometimes the hands are gender and sometimes they are myself (or perhaps my subconscious). I used to think I was good at arm wrestling, but I don’t think I would win this round on my own. Maybe I could thumb wrestle instead.

I am trying to come to terms with my gender not being a set idea. It’s okay that it changes and moves. I can want to be different people on different days. Some days, a tight t-shirt over my binder is the best feeling in the world. Other days, it’s my dress I got from Aritzia when I was sixteen and wore short skirts everyday. All of Portland, Maine has seen my ass at some point, and I say this with confidence. I like that I can decide who I want to be everyday and still be the same person (me). Clothes are a great way to assert who I am to myself. I’ve started accepting that I can be an enby and like the occasional dress. 

I think about imposter syndrome a lot and it usually causes me to dissociate. It’s strange to feel so stuck in one body, yet also exist outside of it so often. Even when I dream, I’m not usually the main character. I watch these people from above, almost like a dream movie; yet, my dreams are so often nightmares. Now I find myself painting windows every day as a sort of escape from this world, this body, this mind, the reality of life, the loud construction outside my bedroom. I think of different gods and the future.

I don’t believe in God, but I do think I’m real. God bless Judith Butler. God bless performativity. God bless God, who lives within me. Me bless ephemerality. Thank Me that I’m outta here one day. Before then, though, I’ll never stop wondering if Jesus would find Me hot.

Paul was trans and Jesus was gay as fuck and liked to FUCK. Maybe if I had learned that in Sunday school I would feel safer in church today. I remember a couple Christmas Eves ago I had a panic attack in the middle of the 5 p.m. service. I felt trapped in this space where everyone believed. I didn’t know what I believed, except My belief in the unknown, which came with a fear. I still don’t really know what I believe, but it sure isn’t an old white man in the sky. To be fair, it’s an Episcopal church and My family is very accepting of queer folx, but religion has still just been this scary black smoke that I’ve been too afraid to step into. Anyways, My flashlight is always out of batteries and I’m scared of the dark. 

And then I remember My phone’s not dead and it has a flashlight too. Still, it’s not as good of a light as the IKEA reading light I use when the star light My girlfriend and I have above our bed is too bright. Under that light, I recently read Octavia Butler’s “Parable of the Sower” for the first time. I’m trying to be a sci-fi reader, so she felt like a good place to start (and I was right). The religion in the book, Earthseed, and Butler’s idea that God is Change made me feel so whole. Our society fears change and what is different and unknown, but wouldn’t that fear go away if we worshipped that same change? Maybe if we accepted that change is beautiful and infinite but still fleeting? If this is the case, then why shouldn’t I worship My own change and differences? Why shouldn’t I worship Myself?

I like change. I  c r a v e  change. I dye My hair every other week. I pierce My skin when I need to feel pain. The numbness comes and I run to make sure I’m still alive. I like to be different people, like a non-manic-pixie-dream-girl Ramona Flowers, but only because she changes her hair. I’m okay only having that in common. 

Was Kilgore Trout right? Am I really just a robot? Who’s the main character in this story? Because it’s certainly not Me. I’d like to be the narrator in your story. I think I’d do you more justice than you would. I see you how you truly are––eternal beauty and love. Does the narrator outlive the main character? I sure fucking hope so, if this is my story. 

So who am I? It’s none of your fucking business. One thing I’ll tell you is I’m definitely not on straight TikTok.