Journey Through the Trauma

I have always had a complicated relationship with gender. I’m AFAB, but even when I was a baby, people said what a cute little boy I was. My mom would dress me in pink dresses and they would say how cute her baby boy was. I didn’t have hair until I was two years old, so I’m sure that didn’t help. As a child, I grew up with the dreaded question, “Are you a boy or a girl?” Mostly from kids being little shits on the playground. I heard it in their tone. When I would answer, they didn’t believe me, or they would say something rude. So, I started responding with, “Why?” They would counter with, “Because I want to know,” I would say “Why?” again, over and over until they gave up, exasperated. I was exasperated, by fourth grade. I was a girl, wasn’t I? That’s what my mom said I was. Sometimes I felt like I was a girl. But I wanted to dress in boy clothes. I didn’t like pink or dresses or sparkles or any of the girl stuff. I wanted short hair. I was labeled a tomboy. Tomboy. TomBOY. Yes. I lik...

Hey y’all, it’s A.K. I came to a revelation today, after watching a video on YouTube about narcistic relationships, that if my mom weren’t dead, I’d be no contact. That makes me feel… I don’t know. When I was young, I was always plotting about how I was going to get away from her. Then, when I was 14, she tried to kill herself. I almost lost my mom. I remember my sister and I went into survival mode when they took her away in the ambulance. We raided the change stash and took all the quarters. We didn’t know how long we’d be away from home; our grandmother was coming to pick us up and we were going to stay with her.  I remember all the blood on the bed. My mom kept the mattress; changing the sheets was a recurring reminder. That was my first day of Freshman year of high school. My mom always ingrained into us that we were all we had, the three of us. I felt responsible for my mom. And this wasn’t the first time she had cut herself. For some reason, my instincts to flee my abuser we...

Hey, it’s A. K.! I have something positive to talk about instead of all the doom and gloom for once. I’m writing this at the end of the first week of school. A successful week, I might add. I’m going to community college and spring semester started this last Monday. I love all my classes (even the math class) and all my teachers seem pretty great, too. It’s only the first week, so I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I definitely think I can do this. I’m taking a Math class, Honors English, two Business classes (one in person, one online), and a Personal Growth class. I love the city I live in, because not one of my teachers is white. Lol. And my classmates are all diverse. I feel back at home (because I AM back home). Unfortunately, I’ve been having my own kind of weird culture shock. I’d been in Utah for 19 years. (That’s disgusting!) I remember when I moved to Utah (when I was 19) my mom’s husband took me to a basketball game. That was the first time I experienced culture shock....