Verbal Gymnastics
I trip over the wrong name. So I don’t use it.
I fumble with the wrong pronouns. So I don’t use them
When I refer to you, it’s “my kid,” with context included to distinguish you from your brother.
When I talk about you, I avoid any names and pronouns.
I have learned a new language within my native tongue.
A new way of speaking.
New sentence structure.
New, creative ways to tiptoe around the truth that I know, intertwined with the delusion you live, the one I can’t affirm, the one that gives me nightmares 24 hours a day.
Proud wordsmith that I am, I struggle with basics.
Fierce straight shooter that I’ve always been, I dodge the façade you built around our family.
It feels like deception. It is a lie.
But I have to keep the peace.
So I twist my tongue around words I cannot use.
And get a perfect score in verbal gymnastics.
This is how it feels to be a traumatized mom of a trans identifying child.
Walking on eggshells and talking with verbal gymnastics is exhausting. The toll it takes to keep doing both is ongoing with no end in sight for some of us. So few understand. Will it ever stop?
i am also the mother of a daughter that has been stolen by this cult. no neurodivergence no drugs no anything. Just a zealot professor at UCLA and his pervert fetishist possy. i grieve every day, i trip over my words. The holidays are especially awful. All my energy goes to fighting being consumed by hate for the politicians and profit mongers who stole my child