#vent writing

[fuckingwhateverdude]

12.17.23

[family-oddity]

Between my fury and grief, love still remains.

[juunobox]

──★ ˙ ̟ "PERFECT TIMING!"

you're nikolai's intimate friend (nikolai gogol x gn! reader) and he wants to 'free' you

summary : you're nikolai's friend and he wants to give you a taste of freedom (which of course means, he wants to kill you) ur like fyodor to him in this fic, kinda warnings : implied mental disorders, graphic depictions of violence, suicidal ideation, assisted suicide. you have a complicated relationship w him please do not take this seriously, fr i wrote this for coping purposes lol and sorry if it's kinda OOC this is the first ever nikolai x reader i wrote... dont beat my ass and english isnt my native i suck at grammar

Your days has always been mundane. You woke up and work on your laptop all day, then go back to sleep. However, there was a moment when your days became a bit more colorful, thanks to Nikolai's presence. He's an eccentric man who dressed like a clown and spoke theatrically. How did you meet someone like him in the first place? That's a story for another day.

With the time you both had, usually in the evening, he had developed a habit of visiting your place. By that hour, you'd be done with your day job, and you'd have the time to focus all your attention on him. It started as something casual, but as time went by, the two of you realized just how much you understood each other, at least to some extent.

His philosophy about freedom. The belief that being human itself is akin to being in a prison, it speaks to you. And the moment you expressed to him that you too shared the same belief, something changed between you two.

“Because you’re my…

Dear, intimate friend.”

He was fun to spend time with, so much so that it made you forget that he's a terrorist, a member of DOA. He brought colors to your uneventful, colorless life, and you didn't understand why.

“I guess you're sane in an insane way, Kolya.”

The clown laughed at the way you worded it. “Hilarious way to put it, [y/n]! You’d make for a talented comedian. You shouldn’t let this talent of yours go to waste! Don’t you think so?”

You sighed at his remark. “I’m way too anxious to do that. I can't stand in front of the stage and speak in theatrics like you do.” You eyed him playfully, and he giggled at that.

“Is that so? My dear friend can't handle the stage? How adorable, you’re intimidated by your own kind!” He scooted closer and cupped your chin in his hand. Your cheeks warmed up a bit at his touch, and you attempted to hide it. “You talk as if you're not a human yourself,” you said in return.

Nikolai’s grin grew even wider at your comment. “But I am one, I am a perfectly sane human being.” He tilted your head slightly to the side as he leaned even closer, his hot breath caressing your cheek. You swallowed nervously and darted your gaze away, unable to bring yourself to meet the silver haired clown's mismatched eyes.

And then he kissed you. It was a tender, loving kiss. Nikolai attempted to deepen the kiss, but you managed to push him away. He didn't try to force himself on you; however, he simply stared down at you with a smile. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Did you just kiss me? What was that even for?” 

“Because… I’m looking for an answer.”

“What?”

“I’m looking for an answer.”

You didn't quite understand what he meant at that moment.

This wouldn’t end well, you knew it. Yet, you couldn't resist him.

The relationship between you two was something that words couldn't quite explain. You two weren’t exactly lovers, but you weren’t exactly friends, either. An undefined one, dancing between the lines of friendship and romance. But did you want it to end? Of course not. You never questioned it, despite the uncertainty gnawing at you.

You had always been good at hiding your emotions after all, or at least, that's what you think. Good at fooling others into believing that you were okay when you were not, because you felt far too shameful to express them freely. You beat yourself up inside your head. You couldn't feel things normally, you either feel nothing or everything at once. It's too much. Nauseating. You hated those feelings. But one day, at the worst possible moment, the clown appeared before you. As you were grappling with your breakdown, you found yourself pouring out your thoughts and feelings to him. Nikolai was present with his vacant facet, silently listening to every word.

"I just want to be free. I hate feeling things. I hate this. I hate everything. I want everything to stop!" Your voice was laced with desperation, and you continued, "If I had a gun, I probably would've done it already. I'm so tired of all of this. My mind is telling me to stop, but I can't do it! I keep doing it, I can't stop myself. I wish my body would just give up. All the things I've done to my body, I've tried inflicting all sorts of damage to it, yet somehow, the heart still tries to beat, and so I remain alive."

In the midst of your distraught state, Nikolai's face held sympathy for a moment. He approached you and pulled you into a tight embrace. He didn't say anything, he kept silent— only his grip gradually tightening as if he wanted to crush your pain away.

—

Just like any other evening, you were in your room with Nikolai. He had brought you something new - a small variety of Ukrainian sweets. He said he wanted you to taste a piece of his homeland. It was unusual because Nikolai had never brought you food before despite his frequent visits, but he seemed eager, so you decided to show your appreciation by giving it a try.

In mere minutes, your stomach began to twist and turn, forcing you to curl up in pain at the edge of the bed. “Aren’t you going to help me?" you cried out, struggling to make sense of the situation.

"...."

"Oh, wait." "You're not going to help me because you intended to do this, right?” You managed to say as you writhed in agony.

Nikolai seemed momentarily disconnected from reality but soon snapped out of it and burst into laughter. “Oh, dove! Does it hurt? Yes, you’re a smart one, aren’t you? I did slipped a liiittle bit something into this dessert,” he placed his own food aside and peered over you. “But I didn’t use enough to kill you, what do you think!” He exclaimed loudly in his usual antics. You always thought you understood him, but there were moments when you couldn’t quite wrap your head around his thinking. This was one of those moments.

“After all we've been through, you’re trying to kill me now?”

For a moment, the silver-haired man appeared taken aback. “Why do you ask? That's precisely why I want to kill you. To prove my freedom. Don't you yearn for the same?”

"You wish to be liberated from your emotions, don't you?"

It didn’t take long for you to grasp the meaning of that. You both shared the same understanding, after all. That emotions made you feel imprisoned, but you never thought Nikolai would express it this way. Before you could respond, he continued.

“Because you’re my... intimate friend… it pains me to witness your struggle to break free, just as I am.” He mumbled, his eyes empty and distant. “You’re my dove. My dearest. My angel.” By each words spoken, his voice turned softer, and he sounded genuine for once.

After a trail of endearment terms rolled off his tongue, you spoke. “Perfect timing,” you whispered, managing a grin despite the aching pain in your stomach.

“Then, why don’t we find freedom together, Kolya?”

—

"Nikolai,” you whispered, caressing his cheek. You knew this would be the last time you'd see him. “How do you feel right now? You look happy. If you were to look in the mirror, your grin is so wide I didn't even know someone could smile like that.

“Hahahahahaha! I am indeed feeling ECSTATIC!” He pulled colorful balls out of his coat, along with a couple of knives, and began juggling them in his hands. “Now, it's time for a quiz! Which weapon will I use to end your life? I have knives, guns, bombs, oh, a wide variety of choices! This is going to be super thrilling! So exciting that words couldn’t do justice!” You could only manage a faint chuckle at this. “All of those weapons, because you like torturing people to death. Right?” 

Nikolai took a couple of steps closer to you, continuing to speak in his theatrics. “Ding dong! You are—” He reached for a small knife and aimed it at your throat. “WRONG! You're wrong! Thought you answered that right, didn't you?! Gotcha!” He giggled to himself, his eyes not leaving your figure as his other hand reached into his overcoat, pulling out another knife.

“Because you are my dear friend, [y/n], I will grant you the honor of receiving special treatment. I'll make it quick for you because I want you to be free as quickly as possible!”

You had agreed to Nikolai taking your life.

You saw it as a two-way street, a mutual exchange. He could attain the sense of freedom he so desperately sought, and you could be liberated from your thoughts, emotions, and feelings.

Your miserable existence.

“Ready to take off, my dear?” Nikolai questioned, his grin stretching from ear to ear. He was smiling, but it appeared more like a manic one, instead of genuine happiness. It made you wonder what sort of expression you were wearing. A whirlwind of emotions are surging within you.

You are going to die. In Nikolai’s hands.

Slowly, you nodded. “I am.” Nikolai's grin widened even further, it appeared almost unsettling. Before you could utter another word, Nikolai had already plunged two knives deep into your chest. Your eyes widened, and you collapsed to the ground. Nikolai swiftly straddled you, and he didn't cease his stabbing. “Scream! Shout! Let me hear your cry of freedom, granted by the great Gogol himself! Hahahaha!” Laughter consumed him as he continued to relentlessly stab your neck and chest.

The pain was unbearable, but you couldn’t quite scream properly. Everything happened so quickly. Only disjointed sounds escaped your lips, drowned out by Nikolai's increasingly intense laughter as he continued to stab you.

"Freedom! Oh, this is what I've been searching for! I feel nothing!" He yelled hysterically. His mismatched eyes locked onto yours, your vision starts to blur, yet you could still see Nikolai wearing the same grin and glaring eyes. "My dear friend! Tell me! You feel free as well, just as much as I do right now, correct? Don't let my effort in killing you be in vain! You are free! Free from that prison you've been in! Say yes! Say yes!" He continued his rapid speech, almost matching the rhythm of the stabs.

Feeling your body growing cold, you could only muster a faint smile in response, sensing your blood seeping from your chest and neck. It felt oddly calming. The pain had lessened. Your body turned colder and colder, but the blood oozing from your wounds felt warm.

With the last bit of your strength, you managed to touch his cheek. You weren't sure if it was a hallucination or not, but Nikolai appeared to flinch in surprise when your hand made contact with his skin. Your body temperature was plummeting rapidly.

“...Kolya..” you managed to croak out, before closing your eyes and falling limp.

The floor was now painted red. The silver-haired clown’s once monochrome attire had almost turned crimson; stained with your own blood. There was a moment of silence, so profound that Nikolai could hear his own breathing. But then his breathing quickened, and his smile broadened once more.

“Hahaha!” He laughed out loud, “Oh! My dear friend is finally free now!” He picked up his knife again and lunged over your lifeless body. You were no longer breathing, but Nikolai continued to stab you. “The freedom we've desperately sought! Liberated from this thing called brainwashing!” The clown's eyes remained wide with trembling irises, an impression of madness. Unlike before, his voice now bore a subtle crack, as his gestures also became unsteady.

The same expression remained on his face, but tears started streaming down his cheeks. Nikolai seemed unaware of his own tears. “My dear friend! Tell me that I've achieved this freedom! You can confirm it because you understand me, right? You're the only one who understands me, after all!” His tone grew almost frantic, and his voice continued to break with each word. He pulled the knives from your chest and threw them aside, squeezing your cold, lifeless hand tighter in his warm ones.

“Because you’re… my dear friend… and you’re the only one who understands me…”

[vacant2007]

[greenlaut]

wrote this while i was mourning as a vent,

[image ID] a screenshot of a paragraph that says:

Ghost had died once; buried in a casket with another corpse and all. Cut open from autopsy with scars that lasted. Woke up beneath the earth with bleeding teeth and gums and rotten flesh in his finger nails. He knew God is real and he is the poor martyr sent off to do worldly errands. Yet he's scraping off every last bits of comfort like a starved dog at the churchyard. A cross on a chain beneath his shirt, silver and gleaming. Made of the same metal with the knives strapped under his bed. In his shoes.

[end image ID]

[aperplexingpimo]

I have never met a man who cared to know his Heavenly Mother,

though he parrots her existence as a symbol of our equality.

If there is a Mother in heaven, helpmeet to the Father, performing the same invisible labor as her daughters here on earth—

It's too bleak a thought. I hope instead that she dumped his sorry ass.

[localchemicalweapon]

you ever love someone so intensely that it hurts to think about how useless you are to them? i wish i could give you everything, but i’m a speck in this world and nothing i can offer can quantify what you mean to me. it is not romantic. it is a deep-rooted desperation to uplift you, vanish your pain, and provide you companionship. i could say “i love you,” but three words cannot withhold the ache in my heart when i think of you.

[ddogdeath]

so obedient until i’m cornered.

@/ojibwa // unknown, comment for credit // Margaret Atwoood, Speeches for Dr Frankenstein // farlapbloodhounds.blogspot.com // @/dying-dog // Molly McCully Brown, “Places I’ve Taken my Body: Essays” // unknown, comment for credit // unkown, comment for credit // Silas Denver Melvin, Let Dead Dogs Lie // unknown, comment for credit

[chris-continuing]

I never put much thought to the sick.

The chronically ill, the lethally injured, those living off of life support. Like most people, I knew of it, and unlike most people, I did research as a wannabe doctor. Starry eyed and shooting as high as I could, because I had been given the luxury, the privilege of reaching decently high.

When I was 14, when I had been suspended from track, I had thought I had some bad UTI. I had only been to the ER once, when I was 3, I shoved a bead up my nose. Nasal exploration. Fun times.

It never occurred to me, truly, what sickness could look like. How different it can appear for so many. Sure, I read, but there’s only so much one can experience in passages, textbooks, research papers.

It’s the same way for a lot of people too, I think. Like when my fatigue sunk in so much more, that it was such a burden for me to get up to get the door for my Spanish class, my freshman year.

“Can you get the door for me?” I’d asked to the guy beside me, “I’m sick.”

I’m incredibly dense, but far from an idiot, because judging by the snickers I heard, nobody believed me. I wasn’t coughing, I wasn’t sneezing, I didn’t have a hospital bracelet on my wrist and I wasn’t hairless. I appeared in optimal health, to anyone who passed me by.

I got the door myself, every time, for the rest of the year. Nobody believed me.

It wasn’t until all the potential futures I could’ve led up to- a college scholarship for throwing, weightlifting in my free time, that those possibilities were ripped away from me. That the diagnosis that hung in front of me never sunk in, until almost a year later.

So many appointments. So many results that just ended with more medications shoved my way, because there’s nothing else left for me to do. My adolescence, gone, in one fell swoop. That it will never go away.

And I guess, while a diagnosis offers closure, it also offers a mourning of what you could’ve had. It also demonstrates what people just assume out of you, especially to those young and unfortunately sick, “you’re so young, you’ll understand what pain feels like when you’re older,” Being shoved my way, when I take more medications than my grandpa.

Even clinicians sweep me aside. My own “friends”. And I’ve never pleaded more to be sick, to show my sickness, for a break. Or perhaps to just further the belief that I am valid in my struggle, and so many others are, because I am not lazy.

Diabetics are also chronically ill, you do realize.

It is physically exhausting. Just because something is so common, so normalized, doesn’t mean it holds any less weight. Just because you may see it frequently doesn’t necessarily make it less dreadful for those that suffer. Just because someone appears in optimal health does not invalidate their struggle. You do not have to be diabetic to understand, I’m not, and I try. I make an effort.

But I guess the only way to truly understand is to be sick, or to listen, and many people do neither.

It’s not even been a year. And I’m already used to it.

[spacewombatty]

The day Obi-Wan died, a piece of Anakin went with him.

He'd grieved him the way the Earth grieves the sun in winter, a more apt metaphor because like the sun, he came back. When the sun returns, the ground celebrates it, relishes in the warmth and light as consistent as it had been at the beginning of time.

But suns had been nothing but cruel to him. Anakin remembered a time when he craved that warmth compared to the chilled void that was space. He remembered crouching in the corner, back to the metal hull separating their cots to the ship's beating heart, until Obi-Wan had tugged at his sleeve and brought him back to bed.

The next time he'd return to Tatooine, it would be to deliver his mother's body home. He'd stopped associating himself with that desert wasteland soon after, didn't bother visiting his surviving relatives when they'd left her to rot. They could die there, for all he'd cared. They probably would.

The Knight hadn't felt a rage akin to that since the day Rako Hardeen shot a hole through his Master's chest. Anger came easier when the enemy was a stranger. Now, it just felt like punishment.

Heat. Hot. Cruel. Obi-Wan was alive, and Anakin's temperature ran a high as the sand under the desert sun.

The man's profile stood out strong against Coruscant's skyline, features prominent and doused in shadow as he recounted what he'd managed to find on his mission. It had been an overwhelming success. His death had been entirely convincing in attracting the attention of Moralo Eval, Obi-Wan's high-standing status as a senior Jedi a worthy enough wager to outweigh suspicious and favor respect in the Republic Prison. His Master had the Council's full approval, and that was a wager heavy enough to outweigh Anakin's.

"Your death was most convincing," Plo Koon commented, voice crackling through the holocom.

Obi-Wan paused. "I'm not the one to thank for that."

Anakin had left before he could be formally dismissed, and his Master hadn't stopped him.

Anakin wanted desperately to hate him. He wanted Obi-Wan to beg for his forgiveness, for ruining something perfect they'd had together. He wanted to hate him for lying, for letting him grieve, for using Anakin like a pawn and then pushing him to the side when he was no longer needed. He wanted to hate him for taking away the last piece of home the Knight felt he had left.

But the war would and did continue along without them, and the months after were akin to grieving a second death. Anakin grieved the way his Master's gaze made his skin crawl, the way it made him want to break. Obi-Wan was infuriatingly calm, as unshakable as a tree braving the wind of the storm, and Anakin wanted to grab him and make him scream just so he wasn't alone, just so he would admit he felt the distance between them as potently as the Knight did. He wanted to drag Obi-Wan into the guilt, the hurt, the loss that he'd left his best friend alone in. He wanted Obi-Wan to say he was sorry.

Time eventually eroded away the sharper edges of their broken halves. By the time their wounds had healed, they just didn't fit together anymore.

The day Obi-Wan died, a piece of Anakin went with him. It would be the only part of him his Master got to keep.

[cryptic-diary]

I hope. I hope that when it is my turn, I will be able to see stars as clear as the darkening edge of my vision. I hope that when the cold seeps into my clothes and into my bones, that it will comfort me as much as it cured the burns of the past before. I hope that when I take my final breath, it is of relief.

[fuckingwhateverdude]

10.18.23

[family-oddity]

[iateabee420]

TW// sh rant, rambling about my scars/cvts, graphic description of cutting

REASONS

i don't want to die when i cut.

i don't want to hit beans, fascia, bedrock or cut my arm off— i only do cat scratches and styros because they're easier to take care of. i don't plan or hope to hit any arteries, veins or anything like that.

i don't cut because i hate myself or because it feels good. i do it because it relieves my anger, frustration and it shoos away the heavy emptiness.

while you could argue that the adrenaline of my tantrums makes it less painful during the act, it still hurts afterwards. you could say that to my face and i still wouldn't be able to answer you.

"why exactly do i do it?"

sometimes, i only yearn to see want to see the blood and the tiny gaps on my body when i saw at my own flesh. i enjoy looking at the skin opening and then gradually closing completely after a few weeks. after that, it's just a blurry line.

the human body is fragile, yet it can heal itself and form a mark that often stays there forever— some scars end up being visble to everyone to gawk at and whisper about, while some others have faded so much over the years that you could easily forget about them.

[drifting-bones]

i hate the creaking ache that pulses in my heart. it's like a cat that needs to be fed. i know it just wants someone to take care of it. but when i let people near it all they seem to do is try to hurt it. i want to let someone else hold it and protect it, but nobody is willing to treat it as they should. i have to hold my heart close, protecting it in it's bony cage so that the ones who want to abuse it are kept far away. but it still cries out, like the rusted hinge of an old door, waiting for somebody to take the chance to gently clean it up like new again.

[kitgundy]

DYSPHORIA

Mom, do you know how much of a nightmare it is?

Looking down at my body and feeling like something’s wrong

Looking back and examining and reexamining my past thoughts, my past beliefs

Realizing I’m a boy and no matter how much I try to deny it I always have been

I’m a boy. I’m a boy, <DEADNAME> isn’t a boy name. I’m not a FUCKING SHE. I AM NOT A SHE AND MY NAME ISNT <DEADNAME> PLEASE GOD JUST STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THOSE THINGS YOU TELL ME TO STOP TELLING YOU TO STOP, YOU TELL ME IT HURTS YOU WHEN I TELL YOU TO STOP, YOU SAY ITS BECAUSE OF MY TONE WHEN I TELL YOU BUT IT HAS BEEN FUCKI YEARS AND YOU HAVENT EVEN TRIED DO YOU KNOW HOW MCH THAT HURTS ME?

I can’t even explain how tiring it is that you look at me and you don’t see me for who I am. You see a girl who doesn’t know herself. You see a stupid little girl who is following a trend. IF YOU REALLY KNEW ME YOU WOULD KNOW I DONT FUCKING FOLLOW TRENDS MOM!!!! It isn’t a fucking phase! I thought I was just non-binary and I told you back then. And I wish I hadn’t, because I was still confused about what I was and I went about it aggressively and that isn’t how you tell people how you really feel because then they’ll never believe you.

You will never believe me when I tell you who I am. I don’t know if I hate you for it or if I can just ignore it so I can still love you. It’s both. I have to ignore the way you see me so I can love you in a way that works. I hate when you talk about me to other people because I know the words you will speak, I know the name you will use, and I try to brace myself but it still hurts more every fucking time.

God, I wish I was just born a boy. I wish I was born and raised like a boy. I wish I had a dick. I wish I had a deep voice. I wish I had facial hair, I want to look at myself in the mirror, I want to look in the mirror and not see a stranger looking back at me.

I don’t know what to do. Whenever I try to explain what I want to be (a gender non conforming guy but also just some guy), you butt in and say “why not be a gender non conforming girl?”

BECAUSE I TRIED THAT AND IT DIDNT WORK. I LOVE MYSELF AND I LOVE MY BODY BUT I AM ALSO IN THE WRONG BODY AND THERES MEDICAL WAYS TO FIX THAT BUT IF I TRY TO DO THAT UNDER YOUR ROOF I AM TWRRIFIED OF WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO ME. And GOD I am terrified of doing the medical treatments too, because I am one bad politician away from my entire life being ruined when I do go on those. There’s already a lot of states I cannot safely go to or live in. I can’t fucking visit my grandmother in Florida because I am TERRIFIED of how I would be treated there. I am TERRIFIED of the politics there.

And yeah, sure, maybe I wouldn’t visit that grandmother anyway, sue me. I know there’s gotta be somewhere you got your beliefs from and I’m willing to bet it’s not just the church, but also her. God I hope it’s her and not just you absorbing the church’s ideals like a sponge, because I KNOW you’re smarter than that. And I KNOW childhood beliefs can be challenged and changed, but there’s a sinking feeling in my heart that it isn’t just childhood beliefs. There’s a sinking feeling that that church is part of why you’re not a safe space for me.

And I am so scared, because I know when I move out, I am going to double down. I’m a man. I’m a boy. I always have been. I always will be. I don’t know how to explain it, you try to explain why you’re a woman without saying it’s because of your body. Tell me why your spirit is a woman without saying “I don’t know”. What exactly is your connection with womanhood?

I’ll tell you my connection with manhood. When I was a little kid, I didn’t think about this stuff. But I thought it would be REALLY cool to do things in a boy way. I tried and failed multiple times to stand up to pee, just to prove I could. I didn’t even really care about the stereotypes, I just thought it’d be cool to be a boy.

I remember years later, I was sitting in front of the old TV, staring at the screen after starting a new save on Pokémon Ruby. I was wondering if I should pick the boy option. Part of me REALLY wanted to pick the boy option.

But I was scared. Why was I scared? Had my mind already been poisoned with subconscious hatred, even at such a young age? I don’t know. I just know when I heard someone nearby, I picked the girl option- out of FEAR. Part of me KNEW I shouldn’t pick the boy option. Part of me KNEW I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

I didn’t think about these things back then, didn’t realize being a boy was an option- in fact, I thought it was dangerous. I considered myself boyish, sure. I wasn’t a tomboy, but tomboy fit what I thought I was, I thought I was a girl who felt weirdly.. boy.

My breasts started to grow. I had been excited for them at first, but when they actually grew, I hated them. I didn’t know why. I just wanted to hide them. I wanted them gone. I was excited, so why was I feeling like this?

Why did I hate the way my body was changing?

Must just be normal puberty, right? Everyone hates their bodies changing like this. And besides, the breasts came with periods, and periods suck. So maybe I was just hating puberty as a whole.

The feeling didn’t go away. It just got worse and worse and worse.

I grew up. And then I found out what trans means. And then I did research. And then I picked a fight with you, telling you I’m non-binary.

Because that’s what I thought I was. I had never had time to really think about it, after all. I wasn’t a girl, but I couldn’t be a boy, right? “Boys are gross and ugly and annoying and I don’t want to be that so I can’t be a boy. Besides, trans is too strong of a word for what I feel,” that’s what I thought.

And time went on. And I matured. And I realized that, yes, I am a boy. A girlish boy, maybe, a genderfuck boy who wants to wear dresses AND suits, but he will NEVER be recognized as a boy when he does wear a dress because his body doesn’t match his soul.

The more I grow, the more I realize:

My body wasn’t meant for me and I wasn’t meant for this body.

My voice in my head is lower than how it comes out. My face itches for lack of facial hair, my whole body itches for lack of hair. Long hair feels suffocating, blinding. I can’t even bear to look at my chest anymore, can barely bear to touch it.

And it HURTS every time I look in the mirror, every time I speak.

But not NEARLY as much as it hurts to hear that name.

I chose the name Kris because it was convenient. <DEADNAME> and Kris both start with a K. They’re both four letters. And, unlike <DEADNAME>, NOBODY is going to say the name Kris wrong, and nobody is gonna SEE the name Kris and assume it’s a girl’s name.

I chose the name Kris, and my pronouns fluctuated, but my name stayed the same. For TWO YEARS it stayed the same.

And yet you still keep calling me <DEADNAME>. You keep calling me a DAUGHTER. You keep calling me a SHE.

It HURTS.

And honestly? I wish you just wouldn’t call for me at all at this point.

I love you. But I can only handle you in small amounts, and only when we’re alone, because when you talk about me, you use words that drive straight into my soul.

I am not a FUCKING girl.

Girls are awesome. They’re great. Girls are beautiful, and wonderful, and I love girls.

It’s just.. I’m not one. I never was.

And I don’t know how you can’t see that.

Don’t you remember? The times when I was a kid, when I would try to stand up to pee? Don’t you know how much I wished to be a brother too? I made being the only daughter my personality, but that’s because I didn’t know I could be anything else.

Didn’t you see how much I tried to reject femininity?

One day, I said I hate the color pink. I said I hate it with a passion, I spat vicious vitriol at such a pretty color.

I was wearing a pink jacket.

Years later, I look back and I see a confused, hurting.. I’m not sure what I was.

Honestly.. I don’t think I was a boy then. I mean, I was ALWAYS a boy deep down, but at the time, I didn’t KNOW that, and I was trying REALLY HARD to just be a girl but not like other girls(?), so I’m not really sure what I was then.

I just know I wasn’t a girl. And some part of me deep down knew that, and was VICIOUSLY attacking everything feminine I did and liked in an attempt to distance myself from it all.

I hate that you can’t recognize that.

I love you, and I love the name <DEADNAME>, it’s such a nice name, really. I love women, they’re so wonderful and deserving of all the best (deserving of much better than society gives them, really).

But I’m not <DEADNAME>. I’m not your daughter, I’m not a she.

I will probably burst into tears if you ever call me your son. And I am TERRIFIED. Because I KNOW you will take that the wrong way, use it as yet another reason I’m just confused.

I’m not. I think YOURE confused.

You tell me statistics aren’t good to use but good GOD, the statistics I use are REAL. They’re from STUDIES. If you can’t use real FUCKING numbers, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

I don’t know what to do. It hurts more to talk to you every day because it’s getting worse and worse the longer I spend in a body that doesn’t fit with a voice that doesn’t match, and YOU aren’t helping.

I’m so, so tired of being seen as something I’m not. I’m so tired of fantasizing and dreaming about being seen for who I am and then being reminded that wouldn’t be safe.

I’m tired of you. I love you, but you make me so, so tired.

So forgive me if I got too snappish when I corrected you. Holding in the corrections is only serving to hurt me, and I don’t feel safe around you anymore.

Honestly, I doubt I ever did.

I don’t remember the last time I had a genuine conversation with you that ended where you understood me. You look at me and you see this wayward child, this lost sheep. You don’t try to understand ME, you only try to make me understand YOU.

Well, guess what? I am an ADULT HUMAN MAN. Your god will NEVER be mine, he has HURT ME. I’m not a sixteen year old trapped in a nineteen year old body, I am NINETEEN and AUTISTIC. I'm not maturing the way you thought I would because school and everything in my life burnt me out and people hurt me, so I didn’t get to emotionally mature when I should have, and I’m picking up the pieces left behind by that trauma now but that doesn’t mean I’m not an adult. I still feel too overwhelmed by the world to live on my own but I am an ENTIRE ADULT and you need to REALIZE that. I know I’m still young and stupid, but that doesn’t make me not an adult. YOU NEED TO LOOK AT ME AND SEE AN ADULT.

Oh, and on your religion? I’m not a lost sheep, I am a WOLF who will EAT your Shepard.

Because I was a blue sheep.

I was a blue sheep who was painted pink, and the flock said “Our Shepard loves you no matter what color you are!”

But when I showed my colors, the flock turned away. Averted their eyes and avoided me.

And you did too.

And that shepard never said a word to me, never even noticed when I was left behind.

The meaner ones in the flock even called me a wolf. So you know what I did? I grew fangs.

You know what? Part of me wants to bite you- that is to say, to keep correcting you. You take that as a bite? Fine. I will fucking bite, until you bleed enough that you decide enough is enough.

You can choose whether you distance yourself from me or actually start referring to me by my name, by my pronouns. You can respect me or you can leave.

I don’t care.

I hate you. I love you, but I hate you so much.

I don’t even hate you, actually. I’m just hurt. I’m so hurt and angry and I feel so guilty for feeling this way.

I didn’t choose to be a blue sheep. I didn’t choose to get turned into a wolf. The flock thought of me as one and that’s what I became.

I never asked for this.

I never asked for you to adopt me. I never asked to be put with someone who can’t understand.

Why don’t you understand?

WHY DONT YOU UNDERSTAND!?

WHY DON’T I UNDERSTAND!!!???

I DO UNDERSTAND!!! You don’t know how to understand. Because you only look at one side.

The church’s side.

Your God’s side.

I want to kill your god.

So many of my problems would be solved if he never existed. So many of my problems wouldn’t exist if Joseph Smith didn’t exist.

Maybe I wouldn’t be alive today.

Or maybe fate has a way, and our family would have been together somehow anyway, and maybe you’d care for me the way you do for my brothers. Maybe you’d stop seeing me as your daughter.

If I was born a boy, maybe I’d be your weird gay GNC son.

Please call me your son.

Please call me your son.

PLEASE CALL ME YOUR SON.

I LOVE YOU PLEASE, I BEG YOU ON MY FUCKING HANDS AND KNEES PLEASE CALL ME YOUR SON IM YOUR SON I AM YOUR FUCKING SON PLEASE CALL ME YOUR