Dear V,
It’s been hard to get through this week. I feel like I’m in the same cycle of living and hiding my identity from anyone that doesn’t live on campus. I wake up in the mornings usually feeling pretty “alive,” though the bags under my eyes might make you think otherwise. I make it through my classes and then get to see my girlfriend, who always seems to brighten my day, until the biggest weight on my shoulders appears.
My mom’s name flashes on my phone screen, the soft pinging of the notification echoing through my AirPods. My heart instantly starts to race, and I can feel the nerves getting to me. We’ve never had a solid relationship, my mom and I, since I was twelve. Most of it is the typical mother-daughter hormone imbalance in teenage years, but lots of it stems from unwanted criticisms and comments.
I can still remember the first time I felt unseen by my mom. It was evening when I was picking out clothes to wear before going to bed. There was no way I was picking out my outfit at 4:30 a.m. before swim practice. I always leaned toward comfort, a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, but my mom saw my outfit and used a slur to describe my clothing choices. I was 12 and didn’t even know my sexuality at the time, but I got so angry at her for her word choice that I shut down. And then she wonders why I don’t tell her anything, least of all who I’m attracted to.
I just wish I could tell her who I am — the real me — and for her to accept it without using any derogatory words toward me. Maybe one day we’ll get there.
I love you,
J
