Dear Mom and Dad

Dear Mom and Dad I want to know why I am expected to parent others before I parent myself. I want to know what ever happened to the smiling little girl you point to in the pictures who brought you so much you couldn’t help but show her off in albums and wallet-sized photos to strangers on subway platforms and crumbling sidewalk squares. I want to know how she really saved her daddy’s life, how she really saved her sister’s, why she really can’t remember any of it anymore. I came out to you last year, and since have been labeled selfish and toxic and different than the rest of you, when just four years ago I was your rock, your strength, your pride and inspiration. I want to know where that girl went or if she was ever really there in the first place. I want to know why I never got to meet her. You say you thought I’d turn out different? Well let me tell you—so did I. I swore I’d be an actor, introduce you to my stage, my lights, my skinny little body, my one-woman show, my blue-eyed, blond Prince Charming. I know gay is a scary word and it doesn’t match the dreams you had, but I want you to know those were your dreams, not mine, and if you ever try to plant those seeds again, I might not make it like last time. So please, when say I need my space, stand two seas away, and when my words turn sour, hold me tight until your joints are stiff and brittle, and when I say I’m not hungry, sit there ‘till I eat what’s on my plate. Let me squeeze your hand, let me claw and kick, and tell me I’m strong enough to beat this, that I’ve come so far. I think you’re forgetting how much kids need their parents when their worlds are falling apart. I know I’m getting older but I’m not the only one—I can’t be your rock, but maybe I can be your daughter.