Steadfast

“Mom, look what I made for you in school!”, I exclaimed as I held up a crayon drawing of a heart. “It’s for you!”

My mother took one glance at it before deadpanning, “Looks cool, Lexi.” She lit a cigarette and placed it in her mouth before settling down on the couch.

That was it? I worked so hard on the drawing. And all I got was a “Looks cool, Lexi”?

“Mom I got an A- on my math test.” I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, now a fifth-grader.

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “An A-? Lexi, why didn’t you get higher?”

“Almost everyone failed.”

“What, you wanna be like all the stupid people?”

“No that’s not--”

“Get me a beer. And do better on your test next time.”

“Yeah, mom.”

I am thirteen. I sit in my bedroom, alone, on a Thursday night studying my head off for my science quiz. I have to do better, as my mother says. Although, I think a B+ in the class isn’t that bad. It doesn’t matter, though.

I take a small break and look at the clock. It’s eleven at night. I put away my textbook and pull out a different book. This one I got from the library, for fun. I begin to read it. My stomach grumbles in hunger. Reluctantly, I stand and head to the kitchen. When I open the fridge, I am met with emptiness. There’s nothing but a few beer bottles and half a sandwich. I can’t eat the sandwich, it’s my mother’s. She’ll be mad if she comes home and finds her food missing. I close the door and head back to my room, trying to ignore my hunger.

It is two-thirty in the morning. I cannot sleep, not yet. I need to stay awake when my mother comes home. She’ll be drunk and will need help getting to her bed.

At three, the door opens. I leap out of my bed and go to the front door. My mother stumbles in, groaning about her headache. I wrap my arms around her and lead her to the living room. I’ve learned from experience to just leave my mother on the couch when she’s drunk. It’s easier than trying to drag her up the stairs. She sits on the couch and begins to sink into the cushions. I hurry to the kitchen where I pour a glass of water. I grab two ibuprofen tablets and head back to my wasted mother. I hand her the water and medicine. She gulps down both and lays down. I take the glass from her and set it down on the coffee table. I grab the old, gray blanket from the closet and cover my mother with it. I lift her head and place pillows under it.

My mother, drunk as can be, grumbles something incoherent.

“What?”, I ask although I know it’s nothing.

“Thanks you….” She trails off. “Jordyn…”

I sigh. As incompetent as my mother can be, I understand her pain. I understand why she drinks. I understand who she drinks for. I understand why she is the way she is, and even if it is a bit wrong, I don’t blame her. I can’t.

“Goodnight, mom”, I say, turning off the lamp and silently making my way up the stairs.

I regret taking zero-hour during my freshman year of high school. I yawn as I stand out in the cold waiting for my bus. I was up until two in the morning doing research. And after said research, I stayed up until three-thirty silently crying. Even now, I feel as if I may break again. I have to be careful not to shed a tear. I don’t want anyone to notice. Not now. Not ever. The bus pulls up and I sigh as I prepare myself for school.

The zero hour bus is cold, dark, and nearly empty. I lean my head against the window and stare out of it, thinking about my new revelation.

I always hated my body. When I was little, I was upset because I felt that my shoulders were too broad or that my jawline was too sharp. I still get bullied for that. People make fun of me because I look awkward and wrong in dresses and skirts. But, I don’t care.

What I care about now are the tiny feminine qualities that my body holds. The barely noticeable curve of my chest and bottom. The petiteness of my structure. My hair. I loathe it. I hate my thick, wavy, hair. It used to be my pride and joy, my hair. I would brush it every day. But now, I just tie it up and leave it. I wish I could just take a pair of scissors and cut it off. All of it. It weighs me down, the biggest tie to my femininity. I despise it.

I had heard the term transgender before. I knew what it was. But, I didn’t realize I was related to it. I began questioning just this month when the hatred for myself was at its worst. When I just wished I was a boy already.

Last night, I spent hours in bed on my phone searching up different gender identities. I explored the spectrums of sexuality. It all made so much more sense. I was beginning to understand why I never liked boys, but still felt more comfortable around them. Of course, there were some things that were still a mystery to me, but I was getting it.

I felt a sense of accomplishment at figuring myself out. But still, on top of that accomplishment, there lies a blanket of dread, like a mass of whipped cream on top of pumpkin pie. I was terrified. I could not tell anyone. I couldn’t have any chance of my mother finding out. I don’t want to know what might happen if she did.