Warning: include_once(/homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/wp-cd.php): failed to open stream: Permission denied in /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/post.php on line 1

Warning: include_once(): Failed opening '/homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/wp-cd.php' for inclusion (include_path='.:/usr/lib/php5.6') in /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/post.php on line 1

Warning: session_start(): Cannot send session cookie - headers already sent by (output started at /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/post.php:1) in /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-content/plugins/popups/public/includes/class-spu-rules.php on line 10

Warning: session_start(): Cannot send session cache limiter - headers already sent (output started at /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-includes/post.php:1) in /homepages/40/d589602162/htdocs/LGBTPost/wp-content/plugins/popups/public/includes/class-spu-rules.php on line 10
A Trans Believer | LGBTPost

A Trans Believer

Dear God, Dad says I have to go to church to warship. I don’t know what that means. But I like the man in the dress who tells us to pray and bosses everyone; even dad. I’m suppose to ask your for Guinness. And to talk to you when I need help.

I go to school with Maria. She’s my best friend. Most of the other kids don’t like me cause my arm is hurt. Maria always plays with me. We hold hands on the playground; help each other coloring, and sleep close during naptime.

I’m not allowed tom play with her anymore. They said Maria shouldn’t play so much with a boy. Am I a boy? I don’t feel like one. Why does mom always call me her "big man"? I don’t like it. I don’t understand. Why am I broken? I just want to be me. I want mom and dad to see me. I want my friend back–Amen.

. . . . . .

Dear God, I told Opa all about my teacher Mr. Hand. How he lets us use chalk to mark the blacktop every hour to see the shadows move. And that he gives us peanuts when we do a good job. Opa loves to listen to my stories. He even plays Lego’s with me and my sister Rachael.

We visit with Oma and Opa every Christmas. When I was little I thought they lived in another country because they didn’t always speak English. Opa really loves taking us to his church. He laughs out loud every time Rachael tries to say hallelujah.

Mom and dad always tells everyone that I’m a lot like Opa; smart, athletic, and talented. But I don’t think Opa is like me. He likes being a boy. He likes being married to Oma. He likes to tell me that I’ll be a strong man one day. I don’t think he knows how much that hurts my heart. I don’t think he would love me anymore if he knew I wanted to be a girl. I don’t know what to do. Please–tell me what to do–Amen.

. . . . . .

Dear God, what did I do to make you so angry? Do you hate me? I had a dream last night; about a boy. I was his girlfriend. What’s wrong with me? Father Joseph says that you don’t make mistakes. That means you made me this way, why? Why create me at all? Why send me here, a girl, in a boy’s body? And then force me to like boys, why? I’m waiting for you to–please–ANSWER ME!

. . . . . .

Dear…it’s unbearable. The pain I feel in my soul. Tortured, day in and day out, inside my skin; watching how happy others seem to be in theirs. I’m tired of feeling like a freak. Tired of crying myself to sleep. Tired of your silence, your indifference. End my suffering. Please, please, please don’t make me wake up another day–a boy.

. . . . . .

Are you even there? Do really hear my prayers? Do you even care? Are you just some fantasy conjured up so we don’t feel so alone in the universe? It would make me feel better to exist in a world without you. I’m daunting the eternal love of an omnipotent creator that would allow me to go through life as some pervert who steals his sister’s underwear.

I’m a monster. Unfit to live in a polite society. I think that I’ve figured it out. You don’t exist, can’t exist. And I’m just talking to myself. Life is sick and cruel. A pariah such as I am, cannot flourish from the shadows.

What am I even doing right now, talking to you, to air? It’s stupid. A knee jerk reaction to my anguish. No one really cares. No one is going to miss a creature like me. They’ll all be better off without me. If you’re really up there, you enjoy watching me suffer. You’ve never bothered to intervene. But if you had any love for me at all, you would stop me–stop me from killing myself.

. . . . . .

Dear God, it has been some years since we last spoke. I’m still here. Somehow, I made it. I’m a survivor. I came here to sit before you in the very church where I first learned of the undying love that you possessed for all of mankind. Here I sit, a woman.

My parents still believe in you. Still sing your praises. My Opa and Oma dedicated their lives to worshiping you. But they don’t know you like I do. Here I sit, a proud transgender woman.

In spite of your failure to comfort a scared and helpless child when she needed you most, I sit.

In spite of your willingness to lay idle while a young woman screams out to you in pain, I sit.

In spite of perhaps your worst betrayal, not existing, I sit.

And so here I sit, a daughter–in spite of you.

2016-01-23-1453514189-2871298-Facebook20151104053617.jpg
Author, Trans Woman, Daughter.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.



Read More..

Top

Powered by themekiller.com