Maybe it’s the actual eclipse. I fell for it that she’s interested in it, but instead she sees it as some literal harbinger of doom.
This is what she does.
And I’m home, for a year, whatever my reason, so she can indulge this crap (again, always, my whole life) pull up stakes, cut bait, and go. With me. Convenient.
Only not.
All I can think is, dammit woman, I’m approved for HRT and starting next week... do you know how hard that was? and Holy shit, I need an address to get my license mailed when I change the damn thing We can’t just leave.
I probably am looking at her with some sort of hateful disbelief while I think all this, because she sets her face stony, ready for a fight. It looks even more set than usual, but that’s because of her haircut and those excellent eyebrows.
But there’s no way to fight this. You can’t fight madness.
I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve used every trick, strategy, beggary in the book to ask, wheedle, cajole, force, embarrass, compromise, and beg her to get help. And she won’t. She doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with her, nor believes there’s anything anyone can do to help.
Because, hard truth time: I think my mother has undiagnosed, untreated paranoid schizophrenia (the DSM-IV code 295.30 says it’s the most common illness that causes the sort of psychosis she has). And she’s had it my whole life.
My dear, smart, loving, mother sincerely and thoroughly believes someone—well, really more a someTHING, with the powers she claims it has—is stalking us and wants to kill us.
I could write so much on this, but I don’t know where to start ATM. I could write a memoir about it (life w/my cray mom). Needless to say, she believes this. No, KNOWS it, like we know the sky is blue, fire is hot, and water is wet. She knows someone is out for us. And there is no fighting that.
Best I can do is stall it for awhile.
We go back and forth, back and forth (“we need to stay,” “it’s not safe,” “I don’t want to go,” “we have to”) and keep throwing out reasons (I have friends, opportunities, she has good job), escalating until I hit one that finally hit pause.
“Mamă,” I say. “I got a full scholarship to UW.”
You’d think that was an obvious lie, I mean, why would I not have started with that, right? But my grades were good, and she so wants me to do well, have a good university education and a career, that she is willing to overlook these little red flags.
(Could I, should I have told her the real news? Yes, probably.)
My mother stops. She’s obviously pleased and proud, but also worried, now. She considers things. “You are not giving up on school, then?”
(Is that really what she thought? That I was just a complete dropout? A+ parenting for waiting this long, mom!).
“No way,” I answer.
“Giving up was never your style, Danior,” she says, and in a second, I’ve moved from pissed to weepy. I can’t wait to see what kind of dumpster fire of emotion I’ll be on hormones.
But we stay. We’re staying. And for today, that’s a victory.
August 13 (Private, draft)
I WOKE TO music. My mother plays classical when she is working something out. It’s a nice piece that I’ve never heard before, When I ask her about it, she just says it’s Debussy and slams away her violin.
She’d been up awhile. She’s already made and drunk her coffee, and as I poured some for myself, I saw two smashed cig butts in the sink.
She hasn’t smoked—well, in front of me—in a long time.
“Good morning, draga mea Danior,” she says, and then sees that I see the butts in the sink. “I was thinking, that’s all.”
I ask her what about. She looks sad, and I kind of feel guilty, but also... not.
“I have made a difficult life for you, I think,” she said.
Crap.
“You’ve made a great life for us, Mamă.”
And in her way, she has. I know I was unexpected, and she is older than most mothers, and raised me all on her own.
More to say. Finish this later. Ugh. There’s more going on because now she is looking at her jar of Romania (a quart of dirt, for real) and I know that means she is really sad, and I’m going to be a good child and drag her to the mall or something, a movie. To be continued.
August 14 (Public)
HAPPY HRT DAY.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life (I know, honk!)
I’m going full speed ahead: hormones, starting today. I’m going to name change on Wednesday, then file the new gender designation Friday. I’ve got the paperwork, I’ve got the signatures. And I’ve got the time.
I also decided I’m going to stop pushing myself so hard to do some Hollywood reveal to my mom. It’s silly and unnecessary. It’s not as if I just “came out” as female; I was born female (why can none of us say “born this way” now without silently adding “baby” at the end? Damn you, Gaga). Figuring out who I am and what to do about it is emergent; why on earth do I think it should be different for anyone else, especially those closest to me?
I’m not a chicken, dearhearts. I’m sensitive.
Yes, sensitive.
My mother knows. She has to know. She’s known me my whole life, and she’s a brilliant, worldly woman. Maybe at first, she thought I was gay (I did weep over some boys in my time).
But I’m not gay, honey. I’m queer. I’m strălucitor (that means shining, sparkly, luminescent, for all ya non-Romanians in the room).
Also... I’m super nervous. A lot’s about to change: my body, my brain. Even though I’ve waited a long time, there’s still fear. There’s always fear when there’s any “what-ifs.”
And that is life.
Off I go. Sparkle, sparkle.
ETA: OMG thank you Ivy and Ruthie! All, they gifted me a Groupon for, like, a TON of electrolysis. I don’t even know what to say. Thank you, thank you... by the hairs of my chinny chin chin.
ETA pt 2: Girl hormones are go. I am imagining these tiny little ladies, dressed to kill, streaming through my body, kung fu fighting all the testosterones they encounter. Bam, kapow. Rounding up all surrendered boymones in tiny golden lassos, and... um, forcing them to serve all the ladymones cool drinks and foot massages (yes, my hormones have mouths and feets, LOL)
August 15 (Public)
WAYLAID AT MIGRAINE City, population me.
Ugh, I was warned. I’m OK if I don’t move, smell or try and eat anything. Ha.
Screen’s starting to make me ill. I’m off again.
Love ya!
August 16 (Public)
MIGRAINE SETTLED SOMETIME in the night, and I got some sleep. So I was able to get up and get going (nothing’s gonna stop me now!).
The name change went fine (it maybe helps that I’m just dropping a few letters from my first name, and adding a middle name? The clerk kind of gave me a look like “why are you even bothering?” But whatever, lady. My life, my name, my $200 bucks).
So, yeah, I’m now Dani* Văduvă, and I can do my Change of Gender Designation Requests all in one swoop (or, at least, start with driver’s license).
Something bothering me, though. At first I thought it was my imagination, but I’m starting to get creeped out. Last week, when mom and I got our hair done, I told you all about that chickenhawk checking me at the bus stop?
Well, since then, I have seen him twice. Once, downtown again, outside the Medical Dental Building on Olive, when I was getting my hormones. That didn’t strike me as weird—it’s downtown, there’s a ton of offices in that building, and it’s right across from Westlake Center, etc., etc.—but today, he was at the courthouse, just sitting there, like he was waiting for someone (me? Yikes!). It just seemed too-too, you know? It could be coincidence, but. Yeah.
It is totally the same guy, I’m sure of it. He’s pretty distinctive looking: red hair, really pale, old fashioned style, kinda steampunky but less kitsch. Anyway, I’m not sure what to do.
He hasn’t appr
oached me or anything. What you think, dear hearts? Am I that fabulous, or fab-loon-us?
Am I turning into my mother ALREADY? (Getting those ta-tas isn’t going to come cheap, eh?)
*I will miss Danior, in a way. In Romanian, it means “gift.” In Tamil, it means “one.” In Urdu, it means “otherwise.” In Latin, it means “Denmark” (LOL). But my favorite is in Romany Gypsy: it means “born with teeth” (where I got my URL, yes!).
August 19 (Public)
FIRST OF ALL, I am so sorry I’ve been absent! I’ve been hit a little hard by some side effects, lucky me. I had another migraine, which has subsided, though the nausea continues.
Just over here, a-burping and a-farting. Nothing ladylike about being a lady.
August 21 (Public)
MY MOTHER GOT her eclipse. It was a clear day with a little wind even. We climbed up on the roof around 9, and sat through the whole thing.
It was fine. Very interesting, sort of. It got dark-ish, not pitch black or anything... dusky, kinda. I thought the crows were more interesting—two of them, swear to God, landed next to us in the roof and stood there with us, hanging out, waiting for it to be over. Then they squawked goodbye and took off. I guess there were lots of reports of animals and plants acting strangely.
(My mother swore they were ravens, not crows, but whatever. It was cool. Do we even have ravens in the Pacific Northwest? Wikipedia says yes, but I still think they were crows.)
Check out NASA’s shots of the eclipse. The ones from the Space Station are really cool, even I admit.
August 22 (Private)
THAT MAN, AGAIN. I’m not imagining things. Why would he be at the department of licensing? He has to be following me.
Fucking asshole. For real, either do something or leave me alone. God damn it.
I got his picture. My phone usually takes better pics. You can just make him out to the left of the sign. And I swear there’s a bird sitting on his shoulder. Maybe that’s a smudge.
August 23 (Public)
STOOD ON THE line, submitted my documents, paid my fee... and now my license says female.
I’d celebrate harder, but getting a little paper temporary that looks like someone could have made with intermediate Photoshop is a bit of a let down.
Still. Yes!
Next up, social security. But not today, my stomach is really bugging out (which, now that I say that, is probably responsible for quite a bit of my lack of festive spirit here). I’m so queasy it’s making my heart race.
Ugh. While I recuperate, check this out: Twenty Animals Who Aren’t Photogenic. Thank you BoredPanda.com for getting me through some nasty side effects with the bestest meds (at least best legal meds, har).
August 25 (Public)
HI FROM SWEDISH Medical Center...
I’m OK now, promise! So, my stomach pain got worse and worse, really bad... like food poisoning plus gas pains plus digesting a cheese grater bad. After I got home from the DoL, it got to the point where I could barely walk and had a serious fever.
Anyway, I pretty much passed out. My mother called an ambulance and it turns out it’s my gallbladder popping out some ungodly number of horrible little stones of whateverthefuck (actually crystallised cholesterol). It’s a less common, but not wholly uncommon side effect (as many of y’all know) of spiro (and other testosterone blockers, too).
My dudemones aren’t going down without a fight, I guess.
The good news is the lovely people at the hospital immediately dosed me with morphine, which made all the rest, including the surgeon explaining he was just going to pop out my gallbladder right quick, like a beautiful dream.
And if that did not make it exciting enough... my mother, uh, well, she knows now.
Yup.
I was either unconscious or drugged (or finally, blissfully, both), so mom has my wallet and does the admission paperwork. Of course, she pulls out my new paper driver’s license, my court order, all sorts of stuff. Surprise!
Telling my mom. Nailed it.
Sigh.
Anyway, she’s taking it as well as expected. Actually, better. I have to giver her credit.
I wake up this morning, groggy and confused. I can’t sit up, I learn quick, because when I try, I almost barf, and I touch my stomach and there’s a long incision, like someone tried to filet me (ick and also ouch).
Turns out they had to go in and take out my gallbladder the old-fashioned way (sometimes the old ways are not best, y’all!). And my mom is there, of course, exactly as I would expect, sobby and relieved that I’m all right, but also a little distant, like she is both sad and relieved truly, but also waiting for the requisite sad and relieved part to be over so she can move onto something else.
And the something else is my wallet. Which she went into for my intake papers. And contains... my temporary license (gender F!), my name change order, clinic card, etc., etc.
Not exactly how I hoped, but it’s done, which is a relief. No stopping me now. Roar.
More soon. Rumor is I get ice cream whenever I want (no silly, I know that’s for tonsils. I’m just joking. Though I do want ice cream).
August 26 (Private, draft)
WRITING THIS DOWN so I don’t forget any of it.
Mom is there when I wake up.
“Oh, Danior,” is all she says at first. Then she says, “I was hoping... this would pass. You’d grow out of it.”
My cheeks flush. “Like a phase?” I ask, pouring all the anxiety and hurt and anger into ‘phase,’ so she’d feel it like the insult it was.
“Yes,” she says, then, “No. Not like a phase. I do not know.” She won’t look at me: she looks down at the tiled floor.
I’d sit up, if it didn’t hurt so much. I’m so upset, and I’m starting to cry, which makes me madder. “You don’t know because you don’t want to know. You never want to know what’s real. You never want to know the truth.”
My mother finally looks at me. She’s tearing, too, but her words come clear and pointed; she’s angry, too. “No child. It is you who does not know the truth.” That ‘you’ has all the power of my ‘phase.’ Whatever expression I make, she sits down at the edge of the hospital bed and softens her tone. “It is not your fault. I have never told you. But I have never lied to you,” she says, and reaches for my arm, like I should immediately forgive her, and issue a certificate of commendation and a parade in her honor, yanno, for not lying to her child.
“All right, Mamă. Let’s lay it all out, once and for all. I am a woman. I was born and assigned the wrong gender. I intend to fix that.” I don’t know if what I actually say is so dignified, but it is close. And feels good.
Until my mother starts shaking her head. “You cannot,” she says. “I will not allow you. I forbid it.”
I laugh now, not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only sound I can make. It sounds mean. It is mean. I’m sick with it. This is the woman I was sure would always love me, no matter what. And now? And this? Fuck you, mom. “You can’t stop me.” Nothing’s gonna stop me.
At that, tears flow. “You need to listen to me,” she says.
I don’t even have to say it out loud. No.
“Just listen. What you are, it is dangerous.” She feels along the blanket for my arm. “You do not know what you’re up against.”
Oh, Mamă. I’m hit by a wave of sadness, anger ebbing away. I can’t let fear stand in my way. “I can’t be scared and I can’t run from myself. And if people want to hurt me, if people want to kill me for that, then...” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. How do you finish a sentence like that? “I have to live, Mamă. I’ll be smart. I’ll take self defense.”
She shakes my arm, frustrated. “You think learning to punch is going to protect you? You think I do not know self defense? Hiding is what keep us safe. Hiding who we are and what we are...”
I jerk back my arm. Now the sadness ebbs, anger back on shore. “Oh, God! Here we go. Into the crazy.”
“Danior, Dani. I m
ay be crazy, but that doesn’t mean you do not have to listen.” She wrenches my arm from my chest. “I know what you are. I knew when you were 2 years old. I have done my best to protect you, keep you hidden. It is my fault.”
“Mom, I’m not a woman because of a fault,” I say.
“Dani, I need you to shut up.”
“I’m a wo—”
“Dani, would you please fucking listen to me?”
I skidded quiet. She just cursed. My mother never curses.
“Dani, that man you keep seeing... the one at the bus stop, at the court, at the driver’s license... he’s here because of me. Because of something that happened long ago. He is very dangerous.”
“You read my blog?” I ask.
“I am your mother,” she says. “Of course I read your computer. It is part of my job.” She drops my arm, puts her palms on my cheeks. “My vestacha chej, I have so much to tell you.” She keeps her hands on my face. “Vestasha chej means ‘beloved daughter’ in Romany.”
“Like Gypsy?” I ask, as she sits back.
She nods.
“You speak Romany?”
My mother nods. “We are Romany.”
“We’re Romanian,” I say. I’m definitely, already not following, and it gets worse, very soon.
Dracula Page 27
