two months ago i broke down in tears and told my mother the truth about my identity. for a moment it felt like a breakthrough. she hugged me. when i apologised she asked why i was even saying sorry, we seemed fine. she said she wouldn't stop loving me, that i'd always be her child, that we'd learn as we went.
for a second, the depression that keeps me anchored to my bed lifted. the relief was physical. i had the energy to get up and take care of the house, picking up chores before anyone asked. it felt like progress. it felt like hope.
but coming out to a family built on generations of ignorance doesn't go in a straight line. the cooperation didn't last. then came the defensive rants, and the denial. her generation was never shown any of this, and i tried not to blame her for that, but the pushback started almost immediately.
that resistance woke an old, familiar anxiety. given how my childhood went, my default is to wait for the other shoe to drop. my trust issues were never a flaw; they were a requirement. even when i could tell she didn't mean harm, the trauma wouldn't let my guard down. i stayed apprehensive, waiting to be backstabbed by the people who are supposed to protect me.
now, two months later, it has settled into a quiet, frustrating stagnation. it wasn't the disaster i feared, but it's exhausting in its own way: she denies it. she acts as if the whole conversation -- the vulnerability, the tears, the confrontation -- never happened.
it's erasure dressed up as normalcy. she avoids all of it, out of some mix of ignorance and internalised queerphobia. she pretends my identity doesn't exist and lives with a ghost of who she thinks i am instead.
living with someone who chooses blind spots over understanding is lonely. it makes you realise that acceptance isn't only the absence of violence. it's being seen. the dissonance has my home life hostage, and i'm moving forward anyway. the path to autonomy is messy and painful, but pretending to be someone else just to keep the peace is a price i'm done paying.