“It creeps into morning consciousness, still fresh and naive, and sucks the life out of it. Pastel colours of a once calm mind turn grey and staticky.
Good God, who CHOOSES pastels?
Gleugh!
“A new day, that was supposed to mean new opportunities and mundane magic, is now a pointless stack of minutes and hours, like old gum pulled thin and long.”
It’s the same minutes, snowflake.
Your belief you lost something taints the magic and the opprtunities.
“It collects mothers’ tears, gulps vitality, and steals fathers’ sleep and dignity.”
Oh, fuck off.
Your child has a condition that requires acknowledgement and effort on your part. And you write depressing imagery instead.
Poor, poor, put-up baby.
“It turns them into some unfathomable currency called euphoria.”
Your kid has found their own truth. You could be happy for them, or fucking sad for yourself. You choose…
Me. Me. Me. Me.
“A child in pain trades her wholeness for it.”
Well, yes, trying to live his life as your daughter was painful. Finding herself is, if nothing else, a great lift off their shoulders.
“It doesn’t kill hope immediately;”
Ah. Because YOU are looking for a reset button. YOu think they’re going to come back to you and validate your bigoted outlook.
As they become more an dmore comfortable inside their own skin, not anxious, not living a lie, not paranoid, you’re hoping it’s temporary.
“Eventually, something dies out. ”
Nothing dies. IT’s burned. You’ve burned all the bridges between you and whoever thinks transgendered transitioning is a valid choice.