Allow me to explain myself

Hey dear diary. I forgot all about you, if I’m being entirely honest, which is something I’ve promised myself I’d do more often. Be honest. 

You were a birthday present. Courtesy of my mother. A slim, spiral bound notebook. Covered in pink. 

I hated you. And I did. For years. I was twelve when I unwrapped you and hid you in my closet. I went through puberty, high school, the big firsts, without you. 

The mere existence of you was an insult. Of course, it doesn’t seem like that. But I knew it was. You were pink. 

Ever since I was born, my mother wanted me to be dainty, traditional effeminate. The walls of my bedroom were painted rosy when she was pregnant and they stayed that way. Trust me, I tried to change it to a new color, one I actually liked. It always started an argument, so I did the next best thing- I covered them with movie posters. 

I did fight back about clothes. Some of my earliest memories consist of Mom forcing me into dresses. Dresses for holidays, Sunday church, dinner parties. They were itchy, polka dotted and I didn’t feel comfortable wearing one. I’d tell her over and over again, and she wouldn’t listen to me. So for years, I kicked and screamed. Then I tore a gown with scissors. That was when she stopped. She stopped combing my hair and fixing it. She stopped with the makeup.

According to Mom, I was a tomboy and stubborn, at that too. Even so, it looked like it was settled. And then I got you as a birthday present. 

I had spent years with dolls and beauty kits I left unopened. However, after that day, when I told Mom I didn’t like dresses, makeup and especially the color pink, she asked me what I liked. So I told her. I loved movies and music and photography, so for a while, my presents related to that. I finally felt understood by her. I may have not been her ideal daughter, but we were starting to get along. 

She asked me if I loved the journal and of course, I lied. I hugged her and cried what she thought were happy tears. The moment I saw you, I hated you. I wanted to toss you in the trash, but I didn’t want Mom to find you. After all, we were getting along, so I hid you instead. I forgot about you and did my best to be normal. 

When I got my first and only boyfriend, Mom was ecstatic that someone actually found me attractive. And since I’m being frank here, I was too. Puberty hadn’t been the kindest to me, nor the most effective. By then, I was a junior in high school and sexually curious. Dating Oliver Bates naturally made sense. It didn’t hurt that he had Paul Newman’s blue eyes and James Dean’s hair. So when he asked for my phone number, I gave it to him, 

I loved him. Something I never thought I’d do. I fell for him hard and fast. And he did the same. He didn’t mind my tangle of hair and pimples. He never mentioned that. He’d hold my hand and hear me ramble about the movies we’d see. He’d spend weekends with me at random parks, while I took pictures of sunsets, trees, blooming flowers and the glimpse of his smile. 

I forgot about more than just you. I forgot about myself. 

We were dating for years, throughout the highs and lows of university, and got our first apartment together. And I was happy. We got an orange tabby I insisted on naming Henri, but with an i. 

Still, I couldn’t help myself. I kept cutting my hair. It went from a bob, to a buzzed cut, to bald. And in between all of that, it became all kinds of vibrant colors, aside from pink. That night, Mom had decided to come over and help me make some dinner. I left to use the restroom to pee and well, I did more than just that.

The hair had begun to grow from the previous buzzed cut to a wavy fro. It brushed over my ears and had been bothering me for a while now. 

Oliver was out drinking with some friends from college. And his razor was in the cabinet. 

 Mom was chopping onions when I came out.  

“Louisa-” 

I refused to make eye contact with her. No, I wasn’t going to feel guilty about something I had wanted to do. I was an adult. 

“So what? I gave it a trim. It’ll grow back.” And I checked on the rice. 

She stayed and ate in the living room with me. The only talking came from the Spanish game show Mom liked. I looked over in her general direction and caught tears rolling down her cheeks. After that, I didn’t find my tacos with rice appetizing.

 When it was time for her to leave, she gave me a tight, long hug. She told me she loved me and then let go. 

Mom didn’t mention the haircut once. 

Maybe everything would be alright with us.

Oliver came home at midnight. He mentioned how great dinner smelled and ate a plate, presumably sneaking scraps to Henri since I wasn’t there. I had locked myself in our bathroom, mulling over the consequences of my decision. Being bald felt liberating, though it’s a hard sensation to explain to your partner. Bald was a step further than buzzed cut, and I wasn’t quite sure if Oliver was ready for that.

“Babe.” Knock, knock. “What’s the bathroom door locked for? You never do that.” 

I closed my eyes and hoped he was drunk and exhausted. “Louie, is everything alright? Are you alright in there?”

Well, time to see if he still was attracted to me. 

“That depends…”

“On what? If you’re not feeling well, then you’re not alright.”

I covered my mouth with my sleeve and tried not to scream. “That depends on if I want you to see me. And really, that feeling is pending and I think it will until later today. Maybe after you get some rest.”

The door handle rattled some more. “Let me in. I’m not tired.”

“Eh, are you sure about that?”

“Come on.”

I cursed him for being a considerate partner and opened the bathroom door.

“Surprise, I suppose? I’ve decided hair is overrated and I don’t really need it anymore.”

He was quiet. And he had a look on his face that unnerved me. A lump formed in my throat. So naturally, I rambled on.

“Did you have fun tonight with your friends? Who was all there again?”

Nothing. He just kept staring. 

“So it looks that bad, huh?” Stupid me brushed a tear away as quickly as I could. “Well, it’ll grow back eventually. In the meantime, I could wear more hats, like the ones I’ve been meaning to wear. Like my berets and bucket hats.”

He sat down on the floor and sighed. “Can you be honest with me?”

I looked away, “Is that what you want?”

“You can tell me anything. Remember that.”

“I don’t like dresses. Or skirts. Or the color pink. I hate makeup.”

“I know, babe.”

Now it would come out: words I thought I’d never have to say. “But that’s not it. That’s not what bothers me. This,” I gestured to my body, “feels wrong. I’m not comfortable like this and I’ve tried to be for so long. And it doesn’t work. I’m happy with you. I love you and Mom. But this body isn’t right for me. I don’t feel like I belong in my own skin.

I thought maybe after puberty, I’d grow into a matured body and it’d make sense. But it hasn’t. And I know some people transition, but it’s expensive and Mom would hate me. I bet you’d stop loving me. And I’d understand why. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I just thought if I kept forgetting, I’d be okay with this body. I’m so sorry.”

I took a deep breath and gripped the bathroom sink to steady myself. It was cathartic, letting it all out, after all these years.

“So what do you think? About all of this?”

“Well,” he stood up and reached for the cabinet, “it looks like you missed a few spots.” 

“But...but what about this? What do you think about it?” 

“It’s not bad. Now sit, and I’ll help you with the rest. I think you were going for bald?”

“Mom, though. What am I going to tell her?” 

“What you just told me.”

“It’s not that easy.” 

He sighed, “She hasn’t told you yet.”

“What did she tell you?”

“I think you should talk to her.” 

“You won’t tell me?”

“Fine. Louisa, your mom is dying of cancer.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since yesterday. She didn't know how to tell you.”

I stood up. “I have to go.”

“She’s probably asleep.” 

I kissed him. “I love you and I’ll see you soon.”

She was asleep and I knew she would be. But I had to see her. I wanted forgiveness. 

I unlocked the front door with the spare key she had given me and ran to her bedroom. “Mom,” I shook her arm, “Mom, I’m sorry.”

“What time is it?”

“Mom, are you listening to me?” I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry for not being an easier daughter. I’m sorry for fighting with you and hurting you. I just never wanted to be a girl. It doesn’t feel right to me. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but it does to me and I have never known how to tell you. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t go.”

She sat up and wiped away my tears. “Since you were a kid?”

“Since I was a kid.”

Mom patted the bed and I sat beside her. “I can’t promise I won’t go, but I will never hate you.”

“I know. Oliver told me. Well, I made him tell me.”

“I’m doing chemo soon. It’ll make all my hair fall out.”

“Are you scared?” 

“Yes, I had been,” she smiled at me. “I don’t think I am now.” 

“Would you like me to cut it? Oliver can come in and help with what I mess up.” 

She laughed and so did I. 

“Yes. I would.”