Tidal Rage
Ebbing, flowing, wiping out
Keto-carnivore didn’t last. After a week and a half I found myself magnetized to my bed once again, tearful and listless, dizzy and directionless. I probably shouldn’t have eaten baked ziti so soon after reuniting with carbs but I did the other night. It was the first family dinner I shared with Mr. Miller and Miss Miller since going carnivore. We literally broke bread together. Garlicky, warm, crusty and delicious. And oh Reader did I pay. The next day, into the snake pit did go I.
Maybe that was how I found myself in a rage once more over That Name. Or maybe my rage ebbs and flows naturally, with the tides. Or something. In any case I had this notion, this naive hope that when Miss Miller finally left our local MIF (Marxist Indoctrination Factory) she would see it as an opportunity to seamlessly back out of the funhouse and return to her real self—in name, pronoun and gender. But no. Instead, emails arrive by the handful from her new college, addressing her as That Name.
I don’t usually confront her on these issues. We’ve had our rows and they’ve done nothing to change her mind or her actions where gender identity is concerned. And like I’ve said before, I have to play the long game to keep her from diving deeper, which is so like her, because, ew Mom and everything she stands for.
But on this day, unlike so many other days, I texted her a screenshot of the email from the university, along with these words:
I can’t keep seeing this name. It’s tearing me apart. Please change it.
A few hours later came her response:
with all due respect, no. i will not be changing it. i am almost an adult, and i am starting my own life. i will have my name as what i choose at M________. i will be away from home. if it bothers you that much, we can find a way to make sure you don’t get emails from them anymore, but i am not changing it.
And oh I cried.
I cried more the other day than in months of days combined. Mr. Miller rubbed my back, gave me hugs. He’s committed to putting me before politics after the past two years, and it means a lot. He sees, maybe, finally? how precariously perched atop a cliff our family is. Teetering.
I wish I could go back in time and forbid the name change. Fight it harder. I wish I could have seen sooner. But I can’t live in the regrets, the if only’s. And I did the best I could with the information I had at the time. In my army of one.
Funny thing though. I keep thinking about the WPATH Files. The Cass Review. Miss Miller likely isn’t even aware of their existence. I would have to tell her. But seeing as she’s not requesting an appointment to the gender clinic—never has actually—and after my text, I sense now’s not the time. Maybe next month when she turns 18, along with that letter. Because I know how to celebrate.
Even if she knew about these damning reports I doubt it would make a dent in her gender identity. The devastating receipts in the WPATH Files and Cass Review do not target the hideous ideology—only its medical manifestation. To be fair, it doesn’t help that we live in Blue State USA, enslaved by queer theory and owned by big Pharma.
At the end of the day, my daughter is one of those straight girls who thinks better of herself when she occupies a stripe or three on the flag. I don’t know how to get her to see that it’s all bullshit. I can’t. I’m the last person on earth who could show her the truth of it. And it’s so fucking frustrating.
The frustration will continue next week at her very last high school play when I see That Name and Those Pronouns in the playbill along with her trans and enby cohorts, and it will be even more frustrating in a month when capped and gowned she strides across the stage to receive her diploma and I don’t hear her real name announced. I joke to my husband that I’m going to have a t-shirt made. It’s going to say, “My daughter’s name is F______” but Mr. Miller thinks it a terrible idea—to protest my own daughter’s high school graduation.
“Only if you want to push her deeper,” he warns.
And he’s right. But at least I can fantasize about it here, surfing the edge of sanity with you, Dear Reader.
🌊
Oh my god, I so feel you on the name thing. I’ve had to listen as my daughter’s “chosen” name was announced at her high school graduation and I silently cried as it happened. I tried my best to make it a happy day but it was almost impossible. She’s now legally changed her name and “gender marker” and I hate that fact with my whole being. I also feel like there are only so many people who will listen to me talk about all of this depressing shit and only so many times I can ask someone to listen to me vent. Trying to get through the day pretending I’m not devastated inside is getting so old. I’m glad you vent here. Makes me feel not so alone. All the best wishes for you and your family. ❤️
Right there with you as well. Not really looking forward to graduation, where first I will hear the fictional name and perhaps some reference to my daughter being male if that should come up. Then she will, by text, let my husband, son and I know she will be staying for photos with her friends and their families, and we are to leave. She will see us at home. I will be shocked if it goes any other way. Like yours, my anger, sadness, fear and other negative emotions ebb and flow. I usually keep them in check, but I’m pretty sure that day will be a “flow” day for all of them.
Here’s wishing the WPATH and GIDS news and heroic efforts of some truly dedicated doctors and journalists somehow slows down and eventually blocks the path to medical harm for all of our daughters and sons. And that those who have already been harmed can get the help they need to move on and make their lives as whole as possible.