They call me Tiffany. I hate it. I hate it so fucking much but I’m stuck in my own head and can’t get out.
I can write, but not well. The words never connect in my brain. I try to read but it gets confused and jumbled. It’s alphabet soup on a rollercoaster and I’m watching from the ground
T i f f a n y
Mom hasn’t slept since Dad left. It’s been over a week and she’s sitting in her room staring at the walls. The first couple of days I tried to force her out. I made whatever noises I could. I cried. But she didn’t move.
I know she blames me for Dad leaving. I would too. I haven’t been to school since Tuesday. They’re probably wondering where I am.
I don’t have words for my feelings. “She” feels wrong, but I don’t know what that means. When I came out to my parents, a combination of gestures and small words, they were silent. I thought, maybe they’ll tell me what this means. Maybe they can fix me. Then Dad started yelling.
“He”. He feels better. When Dad left, Mom started sobbing. She wanted her little girl back, but I couldn’t give that to her. I sat on the couch motionless and she tore through the house. Not sure what she was looking for. I can still smell the alcohol. I’m not sure what was worse
I went out this morning. It’s been eight days since he left. I checked on Mom and she was motionless, just like always. I packed a bag with some of the clothes Dad left. I need to get some more.
Anthony. That’s what I told the police officer when I walked into the station today.
I scribbled it down again, carefully writing each word.
My name is Anthony.
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