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*Internal Screaming*

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My partner is going to try and tell his parents about me. His Opus Dei, conservative, elderly parents who already have one transgender son who they misgender constantly. Yep. Them.

Does he open with the “my partner is a man” thing, or the “my partner is trans” thing? Who knows! Maybe he’ll write it all out in Alphabetti Spaghetti just to highlight how fucking absurd the whole situation is.

It might be quite difficult for someone who didn’t grow up Roman Catholic to wrap their heads around how utterly opposed they are to the idea of anything LGBT.

this is what we have to contend with

Sunshine: …Currently reading a book on theism my dad recommended to me. Very wordy.

Me: No pictures? (shocked face)

Sunshine: None, but he has equated same sex marriage with mecroohilia [sic], bestiality and killing disabled children, which is nice of him.

His arguments come from a natural law point of view, and I find them amazingly intellectually flawed…

Apparently homosexuality is a genetic predisposition “for which the sufferer is not at fault, and can only call forth our sympathy” 

It’s not that they’re bigoted, or hateful, or anything like that. They’re just from another world. A world where saying crap like that is completely normal, and being transgender just doesn’t compute.

His mother cries and asks herself what she did wrong to “make” her son trans. She doesn’t understand that it is not a punishment or a curse.

On our first date, my sunshine started laughing weakly. He’d realised how difficult it was going to be telling his parents. I had some inkling, but didn’t fully understand back then just what he was up against.

When I’ve tried asking non-Catholic people for advice, they just go, “It’ll be fine!” You have no idea. None at all. It won’t. But thanks for the positivity.

Catholic people are sympathetic, but as for advice, there just isn’t any.

My hope is that this is the nudge they need to support their son wholeheartedly. That they will see this as a sign from God of His acceptance or trans people, and that they should do the same. That’d be nice. I’ve never been sent by God before.

My fear is that they will blame my sunshine falling in love with a trans masculine person on their other son. That they will refuse to believe the truth of it- that we make each other happy, and that it goes beyond sex or gender.

My expectation lies somewhere between the two. Whatever happens, I love him. And I know he loves them. And I will do everything in my power to make sure this works out. This is about family, and about truth. There is nothing wrong with me. I was divinely created to be the person I am, no more or less than anyone else. Together, we will all make this work. Because we love each other.

“I love you very much – you are my son.”

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So I planned to come out to my mum shortly before returning home. As in bag packed, ready to go, just in case.

My mum offhandedly suggested we play Scrabble, so I set everything up. Scrabble would be good. Scrabble, chatter, nice cup of tea. A nice relaxing atmosphere in which to bury bad news.

Eight turns in, she glances at her watch and goes, “I have to go!”

Well. That fucked up my plan. I thought I had all the time in the world, and now she’s hurting about the house trying to find her handbag, phone, keys…

In short, the atmosphere is not calm. It is not relaxed. It is tense, and I am tense with it.

Once we were out the door, though, I told her. And I don’t want to tell you about the exchange we had because some things are private, and private they should stay. But it went well, and for that I am grateful.

As I was leaving to go to the train station, she hugged me, saying, “I love you very much- you are my son.”

I think that’s all I need.

A Hand on the Closet Door

I fully intend to come out to my mother. I’ve even decided on the day- decided weeks ago. However, in her house, with her easy conversation and penchant for terrible films, I feel like it’s never going to happen.

It’s just so long overdue. Eight years – all my adult life – I have known that I am not female, and she still has no idea. Even the GP who gave me my GIC referral asked “how can she not know?!”… and it’s this that frightens me.

Because how can she not? She knows I wear men’s underwear. She knows I use unisex perfume, unisex deodorant. I wear men’s suits. Yes, I occasionally wear dresses, but my presentation is surely male-of-centre enough to warrant more than a sneaking suspicion?

Her language, too, is too gendered. She introduces me as her “daughter”, which in her non-native tongue sounds forced and peculiar. Whether it would be any less disturbing with an English accent, I can’t be sure. But she seems to say it far more than is necessary, those two thick syllables hanging in the air for far longer than they ought.

It feels like she’s trying to make a point.

Then again, I know I’m just frightened. When I was 16, I felt I would never be able to tell her who I was. She was a bigot who said terrible things about people like me. Since her divorce, however, I realise that she was unfair only because she was treated unfairly. Her heart truly is open.

I asked her (purely theoretically) what she thought about parents who disregard their transgender children on the basis of faith. She replied that if they did not love their child for who the child knew themself to be, they were not Christian.

Or something to that effect; it was a while ago now. The point still stands- she has no problem with me in theory.

Whether or not I am willing to test that theory is another matter. By the time I publish this job, I will know. One way or the other.