Senior year

You haven’t asked me to call you by that other name or given me that look that says, “I wish I had any mom other than you.” At least not lately. We’ve even had a few laughs, shared some music and videos. You’ve even helped me without complaint a number of times. You’ve kept the grades up and, when asked, you’ve completed college forms and applications. When you got accepted to the only college you were interested in you even qualified for a partial academic scholarship! I’m so proud of you. The future looks bright.

I wish I could end there. But the last two years have set me on edge. When will it all go sideways again? Will I be blindsided?

You were a healthy 15-year-old with friends, a sport, excellent grades, and a sweet, innocent heart when that first girlfriend tore you apart. You wouldn’t tell me what she did or said but you spiraled into a depression that made my heart ache. You isolated yourself from all your friends. I got you help, sought out good doctors, and then things began to look up when a new “friend” entered your life. And then…

Wham! You claimed a different identity, a different gender, a different name. You revoked all your love and refused to even acknowledge the past you, the past friends, the past family. You rewrote all your memories to suit your new fantasy. You cut us out, cut us through with your hate, cut yourself and blamed it on us for refusing to affirm your new identity.

The last two years have been a tightrope walk of loving you fiercely and insisting you live in reality. It has been a rollercoaster of doubt, fear, and patience. Some days you are you. Other days you are pretending. Some nights there is a hug and peaceful sleep while other nights I wonder if I should remove the razor and Tylenol from your bathroom. The stress engulfed our home like a heavy weight pinning us down. Your family, however, would not give up on you.

Over these two years the bad moments have given way to better ones. The ratios changed. One week on eggshells and one day of hope has slowly turned into the opposite. You don’t seem so bothered by your name. You've been respectful. You’ve even given me the occasional hug. And so, I’ve let hope grow.

Now here we are, senior year of high school with one semester left. How far you’ve come! Everything is going well, the path looks bright, the future is filled with possibilities, but…

There’s that nagging feeling that you are just playing along until you turn 18. There’s a rock sitting in the middle of my gut telling me you really meant it when you said you hated me and I would never see you again after you graduate from high school and go to college.

Every time I’m alone and give into that worry, it crushes me. My heart clenches in my chest and my mouth opens in a silent howl of anguish as I think of all the ways you might irreparably harm yourself and your future.

I can’t tell you any of this. I’d be accused of transphobia, manipulation, bigotry. So, I cling to the growing hope and wait for the other shoe to drop.