An introduction, setting a parameter for self, for seldom, this will be a free-form commentary, unedited, perhaps overlooked but therapeutic a means to see the ugly that is natural. Truth and trauma the line blurs most days, Thom Yorke playing in the background and binge-watching Hannibal makes a poet out of suffering. This tone will no doubt change with a hit of the next page or sentence. 

I do not know where to begin where the shore is to push this boat off but I hope this punctuation can make a dock.

My dad was diagnosed with Multiple myeloma, a blood and bone cancer, incurable, it will never be in remission, and he won’t catch a break from symptoms. The mundane of the chronic seeped through the childhood home when I moved back with the parents and that is where I am now. Widnes, 25 years old, grieving, during the time of a pandemic for someone who is still very much living. 

I feel an urgency to heal during this time as many wounds re-open, not just grieving the living but very much healing from past selves tied up in the upholstery of a home. The ache of a drinking cabinet that makes my heart palpitate with anxiety or a simple cup of tea rendering me unhinged due to the lack of consideration in the levels of oat milk in it served by my father, whimsical I know. 

This romantic language and energy flowing through me as I type, yes I am still listening to the Suspiria soundtrack, feels false, adult I urge myself for whimsy but I bet that comes with time and a sense of self in myself as a writer which I hope this provides as a source. A guide or understanding for myself in the months and years to come or just plain self-indulgence and over analytics, hypervigilance who? I may recognise myself in the mirror come next February, but I may not.

I live with my mum and my dad and am an only child, a lonely child, a displaced member of the family through assigned gender, female, a daughter, morphed, maternally inclined, perhaps. It seems to be a life sentence since birth, the education and conditioning of womanhood in the 2000s, old wounds open. To be bound or not it’s my choice now, all feels pointless when in the same house as the living dead. And that’s why I identify as non-binary, I never felt comfortable, I never felt relaxed with the she/her pronouns, girl it always felt odd in my brain, fuzzy, I wanted to be the prince, the butler, the elf, perform anything other than what was expected. Maybe the conditioning of misogyny made me calibrate the choice when I was older but whatever makes me comfortable and happy now is a win.

Transness is unique and different for everyone and I still find it hard to understand and be present with.

Do you feel better? 

No

I feel like this is all a bit mimicky, mimicking smarter voices than my own, I feel like a child in their parent’s shoes, unsteady, and avoiding stairs. Hence the gripping onto typed words. Like a Bon Appetite or a past lover explaining the Aids Crisis, I feel belittled by my imaginings or expectations. This is a place where I can be free, be ugly, be shame-free, and guilt free where is that now? Will I have that in the future? 

Accountability and growth only through healthy and safe ways, ways in which my parents will never know. Horror, trauma, who do you blame Hannibal or his parents, who would scrutinize the parent? The parent never goes to therapy or looks within, they are the authority.

The Adult child.

Neither one is exclusive but feels strangely masked by one another.

This all seems so fucking formal like going for a job interview for a position you don’t desire but need the money, I sound desperate, desperate to be told this is good.

Validation is what I am craving today 25/02/21 and no one, not even my father can hand that to me on a platter.  I wish to be silly but I can’t find the words today.

Maybe after distance?

I will always be a product of my mum and dad, to be consumed, and shaped until a point.