Dear Mom, I wish you would read the letter.
It took a long time to understand and accept that I was different while living in a remote village. When I was in sixth grade, I started to feel changes in my body that I couldn't understand.
I had a soft corner for my English teacher for the first time. When I didn't see her, I started to miss her. I remember listening to her carefully, waiting to see her and I still remember her in all my experiences. These memories strengthen me and connect me to life.
I had very strange feelings as well as embarrassment. I couldn’t understand this strange attraction. Who could I talk to about this feeling?
Mom, for the first time I wanted to share this with you, but I was shy. I was afraid I would lose my relationship with you. I hated my father because he made you cry. My friends, who I had been friends with for years, walked away when they found out that I was “different”. Living in fear of losing you is very frustrating for me.
When I was studying in the university, I decided to cut my hair short for the first time and after that you didn’t talk to me. You seem to be beginning to understand that I'm different. If you only knew how lonely I felt, I was suffering.
I could not be the child you want to see,mom. Sorry...
You really want me to wear a wedding dress and get married but I can't explain to you that I'm different. I simply can't ... After all, if you love me as I am, you will accept who I am. You complain about the pandemic and can't walk down the street, so you complain about not being able to have a cup of tea and talk to your neighbor. You wish for birthdays and weddings. You complain that you can't fit in the frames when you are alone in the four walls of the house.
You know how I have been afraid of the judgments that have kept me in isolation from you, my father, my relatives, my friends for years. How I was shocked by stereotypes and exclusion.
I am 23 now, who is not afraid to go hungry, to be alone between four walls. Only you can see me. If you can feel the pain that is raging inside me, mother.
Rumors began to circulate among my relatives. They began to realize that I was not wearing a woman's accessories. They said she dresses like a man and doesn't wear make-up. It's as if she's a man, not a woman. They make fun of me, they make fun of me.
I write my words on white paper. How can I show my family who I am with in the picture frame? For years, I lived with an identity that was hidden from me, from my classmates, from my friends, and even from my mother. I feel the coldness of the iron chain of stereotypes in my arms. There is a woman living inside me. It's like an experimental mouse doomed to live with its mouth closed for years in a box. A dumb, dumb animal. I live in a society laboratory that expects me to do what I expect, not what I want. Who will win, who will be the victim?