2013.

On January 5, 2013, two years and one day ago as I write this, I sent out the email that had been sitting in my drafts folder since Thanksgiving. My therapist had looked over it, and I’d talked about it with friends.

It told my parents that I would have no further contact with either of them because of what had happened to me as a kid. I’d stay in touch with my little sister, the only member of my family that I could trust, and she’d inform them that I was alive, basically. I told them that they should give me money, because I suffered from extreme mental disabilities, and because once I started transitioning, I knew it was going to get very difficult for me to find work, even when I would be able to work.

My father emailed me back and, in a line that sounds so corny it now pains me to type it, he said that I knew that if my “accusations” were true, it would destroy both his and my mom’s lives.

Left to the wolves, but for my silver spoon.

The money kept me under a roof, and for that privilege, I am very grateful.

I thought a lot about God that day, and that January. I remembered when I was five years old, how I sat in the crying room at the church, and thought, “A man can’t walk on water.”

Everyone in the congregation repeated phrases in unison, robotically, and it scared me.

My suspicion lay way under my skin. My experiences with my parents taught me that the ground could crumble underneath me. Any fucked up thing could happen at any time. I was dirty. I was stupid. I didn’t matter. I was a toy.

When I got my Communion at age 13, I soothed myself by only mouthing the words. I knew I’d get a cheap computer as a Communion gift from my grandpa. I ended up using it to explore porn that confused and scared me, but I felt a compulsion for, for reasons buried deep in my body.

The night of January 5, I walked home towards the sublet I lived in, and looked down from the Walnut Street Bridge at the Schuylkill River. I saw an image of my body hitting the surface of the water, made hard by the impact. I turned away from the river, and thought of jumping in front of a passing car. I cried and walked straight ahead, my feet hitting the sidewalk and nothing else. I turned from thoughts about hurting others, to thoughts about hurting myself. I thought about “This Year.” I did not, as you know, kill myself.