It’s Nearly 4 AM

It’s nearly 4 AM, and the house is unbearably quiet. I’m here alone, surrounded by the same walls that stood witness to a childhood I’ve tried so hard to forget. My father bought this house, but it was never a home—it was his domain, his kingdom of control. He’s been gone for many years now, but the weight of his presence still clings to every corner.

My mother never stood up to him, never shielded me from his anger or his fists. She wasn’t cruel, not in the way he was, but her indifference cut just as deep. When I needed her, she turned away. When I cried out for help, she told me to stop being so dramatic. Now, she’s confined to the sterile halls of a nursing home, lost in a fog of age and time. Part of me wants to forgive her, but the rest of me wonders if she even wants or deserves my forgiveness.

I didn’t come here to stir up old memories, but the house seems to have a way of pulling them to the surface, whether I’m ready or not. Tonight, I found an old photograph of myself in my father’s desk, along with a lot of old medical reports from doctors, dating back to the months following my birth. I don’t know why I opened it—maybe I was looking for some kind of connection, perhaps a bit of closure, or at the very least, something to explain the tangled mess of emotions I can’t seem to unravel.

In the photo, I’m eleven years old. My long brown hair tumbles down past my shoulders, framing a face I barely recognize. I’m smiling, but it’s the kind of smile a child wears when she knows she’s being watched. I can see it now—the tightness in my jaw, the wariness in my eyes, as I’m standing in front of my parents house. Even then, I was bracing for something, though I didn’t know what.

That was the last year I was allowed to look like myself. The next year, my parents decided I wasn’t who I was supposed to be. My father hated that I was soft, hated the way I carried myself with a feminine gentleness he despised. My mother didn’t argue when he decided it was time for me to be fixed. Cured of my female affliction, as he used to call it. They cut my hair, stripped me of my identity, and found a doctor who would inject testosterone into my then eleven-year-old body.

I stare at the photo now, trying to find the girl I used to be. She looks so distant, like a stranger I might pass on the street and never think of again. But she’s not a stranger—she’s me. Or she was. Before they forced her into hiding. Before they tried to erase her.

It’s strange to mourn someone who isn’t dead. The girl in the picture is still alive, and well. I’ve spent years trying to rebuild myself from the fragments they left behind, but some pieces are missing, perhaps lost to time, or buried too deep to find.

I wonder what she would say to me now, if she could see who I’ve become. Would she be proud that I survived? Or would she grieve for the parts of us that were taken away? I want to tell her I’m sorry—that I fought as hard as I could, even when it felt like there was no fight left in me.

The clock ticks on, each second pulling me closer to morning. The sky outside is starting to lighten, but I don’t feel ready to face the day. For now, I’ll stay here, holding this photograph of the girl I once was, and the woman I will continue to be.

December 14, 2024