Nolan v. Moriarty

Trigger warning: sexual violence, mental health, suicide and self harm

Extra warnings: mentioned substance abuse, coarse language, sexual innuendo

Dear stranger,

Apparently the world keeps giving me signs to be grateful. I know, that sounds like some hippy shit. I don't believe in all that universe stuff, but Dr. Laura said to do this so... here we are. I’m writing a letter to a random address and drinking a cup of tea at my grandparents' house, where I don't even want to be. Opa died, Bubbie has started losing her mind, I hate my parents, and my therapists are useless. So- what am I grateful for? Absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, that's not how this is supposed to work, so maybe one thing. One person. Nolan Hanson.

You see, Nolan is the kind of man that understands. His words carry me through intolerable days. He keeps me from running away, relapsing, or worse. Nolan listens. He sees. When I was feeling severely dysphoric and couldn't take my hoodie off, he simply nodded and told me to take it slow. On the same day, Meg (my caretaker, though more like a sister to me) wanted to film me for my mum. I knew I had to take my sweatshirt off to avoid punishment from my parents. Nolan clocked the mask that slipped onto my face, but didn’t question me or bring attention to the shift. He just raised his padded hands for me to hit.

When I feel completely hopeless, the gym is my only motivation. I despise physical activity- sports bras, sweat, body odor, what’s to like?- but I savor our conversations. I vent, he helps me by talking about his life- relating to me, lifting me with his wisdom. Easing my agony. Damn, that's sort of poetic. Holy shit, am I a poet? Should I start wearing black turtlenecks and brown cardigans and drink chai lattes? No, shut up, Charlie, back to Nolan.

I think it was during our last session that I realized how much I value him. I was doing bicep curls, talking about how my family was trying to work on fixing the problem with my pronouns (and my parents' lack of respecting them. Such awesome people, super grateful for them). I remember what he said next so clearly, the words seared into my brain. I whisper it to myself sometimes, at night, when the sorrow presses against my skin, wrapping around my throat.

I don't know if anyone's ever told you this... you are not a problem that needs to be fixed. You are not the problem- the society you were placed in and the people around you are the ones in need of fixing. You got it?

I had just stared at him, mouth hanging open, blinking silently. His eyes softened at my dumbfounded reaction. He was right- no one had ever said that to me. I hadn't realized how much I felt as if I were causing everyone pain, thinking I needed to be fixed. Like I was just another annoying obstacle to hurdle over. Bollocks. I’m pretty fucked up, aren’t I? Maybe all trans people are. Shut up, Charlie, some have it worse. Then again, some have it better. Some have hormones and parents that use the right pronouns and top surgery and bottom surgery and their legal name changed and- god. This isn't really working, is it?

I think I need Nolan right now. Our forty-five minutes is never enough, and when it ends, the depression just creeps back in. I can't stop remembering the horrible things that happened to me in the past, the horrible things happening to me now, how so much more horrible stuff is going to happen to me, how that stranger over there probably went through something horrible, how that other stranger is probably being abused right now, how I'm just an ungrateful little twat. Why am I such a dipshit, you ask? Well, ton of crap happened about a year ago and I turned into a liar. A huge fucking liar. When I was struggling with my gender, I was in enough of a dark place, then I was sexually assaulted and my whole world fell apart. It wasn’t even that bad, to be honest- in eighth grade everyone had already shagged someone. But no one listened to me, which led my classmates to bully me further after it happened. There was no punishment or apology or whatever because the person who did it was a girl, and at the time people thought I was a girl. So I slashed my damned wrists. And still no one listened. So I cut myself every day until I was in the psych ward. If anything, the asylum was probably the most traumatic. It was three days after my twelfth birthday and I was put in a ward with seventeen year olds. They taught me how to make homemade drugs (which I never did), ways to self-harm without being caught (okay, I did do that), and which nurses were hot (I didn't really see the appeal, they were all douchebags that didn't care about us whatsoever). My only friend there got in a row with a homophobe and eventually attempted suicide. I was banging against the glass door because they had trapped me away from her. I never saw her again, I was pulled out the next day. I don’t even know if she’s alive or not. While I watched her head smash against the wall until she collapsed, I raked my nails across my face, drawing ugly streaks of blood. And still, even in the hospital, no one listened. So- and I hate talking about this, but I have to- I started lying. I said that when I was eight my best friend raped me. It’s inexcusable, though thankfully I was put in a facility and the truth came out. My best friend never did anything to me, we had just kissed once. I think what fueled the lying was a lack of attention when I was younger, if that's any way to put it. My parents weren't neglectful, it was just that throughout my life I had been bullied, both physically and verbally, and every time I told the teachers or mum nothing happened because it just 'wasn't that bad'. So when it did get 'that bad', I didn't talk about it. And when I finally told someone, I chose the wrong person (the shitty principal. Fuck you, Nathan, you sonofabitch). The sexual incidents on the school trip were shitty, but absolutely nothing compared to the other patients in the hospital and at the facility (which I stayed at for four months).

I don't want to worry you. I have a great support team. My parents aren't abusive or anything. I have four therapists- I usually meet with Dr. Laura twice a week, then Dr. Kristina on the weekends that works with all of us as a family. Dr. Sarah and Dr. Esperanza just weigh in every now and then. I love my friends, which I've never been able to say because I've never had friends. I mean, they're not the best, but they support me. Well. They usually support me, but... the last time I texted my group chat about what's been going on recently, all I got back was 'oop' and 'that sucks dude' before they went back to talking about bloody stupid-arse memes (sorry, when I get angry or panicky I turn British like mum even though we live in New York. I am pretty British, though. Not like an accent or anything, but I have at least three cups of tea a day. That's not good either, is it? Well, at least it's not suicidal ideation).

As for what's been going on recently, my parents found out I've been packing (stuffing my boxers to create the illusion of a cock. No, I am not using the word ‘penis’, it sounds gross and clinical. ‘Cock’ rolls of the tongue nicely. And not in that way, you dirty-minded bastard). They said I'm hypersuxalizing myself. Said it's bad for me and if I don't stop there will be 'punishments'. They said a ton of shit during our 'family meeting' before I started to tune out. I decided to channel my inner Moriarty and completely rid myself of all feeling. Those wankers hit me with their words and I pretended to let it all bounce off, laugh and roll my eyes. In reality, it sunk in deep. Now I'm just trying to be numb. Better than pain, if you ask me. Arseholes.

I wonder what Nolan would say right now. Maybe he would tell me that what my parents are doing is fucked up like he did last time, because god knows I need someone to give it to me straight (or gay, that works too. God, I’m so hilarious, aren’t I. Shut up, Charlie). Meg can't say anything bad about them because she's the most ethical person I know and also doesn't want to get fired. My therapists can't tell me the truth because they need to remain impartial. My friends aren't emotionally developed enough. No one is allowed or able to validate how absolutely crap this situation is... except for Nolan. Then again, I may just be dramatic when I say "what my parents are doing is fucked up". They just don't use the right pronouns or let me pack or support medical transition. At least they use the right name and tell others my actual pronouns. They think they're doing what's best for me... but they're not. I love them, yet hate them.

So, you could say that what they're doing is bad and no one should disrespect and invalidate who their child is. On the other hand, I'm hesitant to claim this, as I just watched Patrick Melrose and the main character kept saying "no one should ever do that to another human being" regarding his dipshit father repeatedly raping him. It makes me feel even worse for saying that stuff about mum and dad because compared to that, they're saints. I might've been able to handle that show, by the way, if it hadn't been based off of a true story. Don't you hate that? When you watch a horror show or a some really depressing film that makes you want to shoot yourself, and you remind yourself it's all fake to calm yourself down, then you look it up and it actually isn't? Like The Imitation Game (coincidentally also starring Benedict Cumberbatch, one of my favorite actors), where that guy saved fourteen million people then killed himself after his country filled him with chemicals as punishment for being gay. Shit like that makes you start thinking about how those people just suffered so much, then you think about the untold stories of others that suffered but never went viral, then your own suffering. Then you start to feel bad for yourself, then bad for feeling bad for yourself because others have it much worse, and it's like this endless cycle of pity and hopelessness. Jesus, this got dark.

I find I compare myself to books, shows, poems, songs, artists, movies. Charlie, my namesake, in The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The reader in Ode on Melancholy by John Keats. AJR in the song Inertia. Van Gogh (no, Dr. Laura, Dr. Kristina, Dr. Esperanza, and Dr. Sarah, I don't want to kill myself. Been there, done that. How did you even get this letter, anyways?). Jim Moriarty in BBC's Sherlock (that one may be a tad bit problematic. I'm not homicidal, I just crave his emotional emptiness. That's not very DBT of me, is it? Unfortunately I ran out of fucks to give). Adam in All of Us Strangers (also not great how I'm relating to a dead guy played by the same actor as Moriarty. Andrew Scott's also one of my favorites. Why does he always play such relatable murderers? I mean, Ripley was amazing. I think I'm using way too many parentheses. Whatever).

I keep mentioning Moriarty. If you haven't watched Sherlock, he's the villain that's hilariously terrifying, like Bo Burnham if he was an evil psychopath. I tend to latch onto things easily and let it occupy a part of my mind at all times (one of my therapists says it's called 'hyperfixation'). My Sherlock obsession has probably lasted the longest, and I've only recently focused in on a specific character. He keeps himself emotionless and, for lack of a better word, insane. Moriarty killed a shit ton of people, tortured others, even committed suicide to mess more with Sherlock's life. I wish I could be as apathetic as him, but my brain just won't work like that. Maybe it's my meds. Maybe they're making me feel too much. Then again, they're not exactly working either. Obviously.

I wish there was something healthy I could use to escape- I've been tempted to steal a fifth of vodka from the basement (that makes me sound like Eminem, haha). I've only had a few glasses of beer in the past, but the buzz it gave me stirred something inside. I would indulge in this if I hadn't witnessed multiple teen alcoholics and drug addicts going through withdrawal at the place I went to over the summer. Yeah, no thanks. Honestly, though, maybe I should drink- it'll happen eventually, and there's nothing else I can do. The world is too fucked up, might as well get the addiction out of the way- I know I'm gonna be an addict because in health class I ticked all of the boxes for risk factors. Whatever. Who cares? Everyone's a jackass these days, I'm just smart enough to try and escape.

Am I turning cynical? Honestly, whatever. I may be starting to sound like I'm Holden in The Catcher in the Rye- a spoiled, whiny teenager- but I don't care. Maybe I'm just depressed because I have major clinical depression. That would make a lot more sense, wouldn't it? Why do I keep asking you questions when there's no return address on this thing? I hope you don't think all trans people are bitches like me. Most are really nice. I'm just unique (which is another word for mentally ill fucktards).

Speaking of mentally ill, I often lie back, steeple my hands, and pretend I'm in a coffin. I like sleeping. I don't wish I was dead. I wish I were asleep for a few years, then suddenly wake up and be old enough to move out and be myself. When my parents didn't know I was packing, I would go to bed with a sock in my shorts and pretend I was cis. Pretend I had a flat chest and a dick and a deep voice and facial hair. Then I'd wake up and the sock would've fallen out and I'd look down at my C-cups and start sobbing, then try and stop crying because boys don't cry. I'd go in the shower, flick the lights off, and sing along to some angsty song. I'd lay back down and dissociate until I got through my shower playlist, then watch YouTube and eat cereal in bed.

Like I said at the beginning, I'm writing this at my grandparents' house, in my Opa's old office. I keep staring at his huge bookshelf with books by Aristotle and Plato and Dante and the government (he and Bubbe were lawyers). As I stare, I can't stop thinking about how he must have picked up one of these books up when he felt like it, thumbed through the pages, made little notes. I know it's not one of those shelves people just have for decoration, because every single book has those notes and worn pages. I keep seeing him picking up those books, and then he's a kid, and he was probably abused or something because pretty much every kid was abused back then, and then he's in law school meeting Bubbe, getting married, having kids, then he's a grandfather and having a heart attack during surgery, then he's lying in his coffin like I pretended I was. I want to go to an art college, make a graphic novel, get married and have ten cats, but I doubt my life will go like that. I keep seeing myself go through the same path of a little kid going through shit, then I'm getting married, then probably divorced because I turned into an alcoholic, and I never have kids, and I die alone and sad despite finally transitioning because that won't solve everything. I'll never solve everything, will I? Even though I've been on meds and in therapy for over two years, I haven't gotten any better. I hate everyone around me with their half-arse lies and stubbornness. I hate everyone. Well. Everyone except Nolan.

Maybe I'm attaching myself too much to him. Last time someone helped me, I became overly dependent on them and it broke my heart when I had to leave the facility and go back to my life. I'm not dependent on Nolan, I'm just writing a letter about gratitude and my life is so dark that he's currently the only light. I haven't known him for more than a year. I shouldn't get ahead of myself. But even if he couldn’t talk to me anymore, he would help me just by existing, letting me know that there’s a happy trans man out there. Dr. Kristina says I'm trapping myself in a bubble and I'm not giving my parents and others a chance. I think that's horseshit.

I am Moriarty, and Nolan is helping me, but not to murder anyone- he's helping me heal. Helping me fight the demon inside. The Moriarty inside. I am grateful for something, random stranger. I am grateful for Nolan.

-Charlie