"What on earth ....... Who are You?"

What on earth …… Who are You?

Is YOUR God the same as mine? If he delivers babies damaged physically, or mentally, why not genderly? [if that's the right word!]


“Why are you dressed like that. Take all that stuff off. Immediately. It’s wrong, vile. It’s disgusting. You wait until you Da gets home. He’ll learn y’.

Her voice was rising both in volume and pitch.

I stopped her before it reached eardrum-piercing. This wasn’t going well.

“It’s very simple, mother. Despite that revolting thing between my legs, I’m a girl”

“Huh, that’s what defines you – what’s between your legs. I’ve seen it. Doctors saw it. You’re a boy. My son. You’ll always be my son. Nothing changes.”

“Mum, do you know the suicide rate for children and teens who don’t get support from their parents or their friends?”

“What do you mean? Suicide. Don’t be silly”

“Mum, I know statistics can lie – but the web says the suicide rate, let alone the self-harm rate, is as high as 45%. 45% Mum. I’ve seen sites that say for teenagers it’s even higher. 59% think about suicide; 48% attempt it; 57% self-harm. Although that was in 2014, so perhaps things have improved. Ha ha. That means that more than half the people who feel like I do kill themselves. I don’t want to go there, Mum.”

“What. I don’t understand.”

“No, I guess you don’t. I’ll be blunt, Mum. Without help , I’m more likely to go down the spiral into depression that people like me know too much about. And at the bottom of that spiral, it’s either death or change.”

“What. You’re going to kill yourself. That’d be stupid.”

“I wouldn’t do it now. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling braver and more scared than ever in my life. I’m opening up who I am to you – in a way I’ve never done with anybody. But I told you the truth. I’m only labelled as a boy because of that piece of flesh. I only behave like a boy because of years of training and practice. I only act like a boy, dress like a boy, behave like a boy as a disguise.

“What do you mean – a disguise.”

“I have to look like a boy because otherwise the haters will smash me. There’s enough already. All the ‘accidental’ bumps, bashes, mild thuggery and the name-calling. I do agree that the head-in-the-toilet flushing and so on that others tell me about is, er, let’s say, rare …..”

Mum’s expression was indescribable – but included shocked and disbelieving. “You’ve never said!”

“Erm, I got the message that you didn’t want to know.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Because you’d have had to realize that I’m different, seen as different, treated as different, treated as a freak, not a proper boy. I knew that you wouldn’t going to cope too well with that.”

“But I’d do anything to help you. You’re my son. You know I would.”

“Yep, the ‘son’ word. Did you actually hear any of what I’ve just said? I’m your daughter, duh.”

“No. Never. God doesn’t work like that. You’ll always be my son!”

“Priests say that - not God.”

Another 500-word story available for extending, adapting or borrowing [with relevant attribution]. Another dark example.



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This story is 581 words long.