The truth is that even though I don't know why the stuff my mom says bothers me, it does. And the truth is that that makes me kind of a baby. Because it's not mean stuff, it's not bad stuff in any way. I am lucky that she accepts me and I shouldn't complain. My mom has always had deep deep body image issues and every time I try to talk to her about being trans she relates my transness to the little voice in her head that says she's not pretty or skinny enough. In fact, she probably has body dysmorphic disorder. She probably experiences dysphoria in a way similar to how I experience dysphoria.
But even if it's similar, it isn't the same thing. And I wish she would just really listen to what I was saying when I try to tell her about it. I wish she didn't get that stretched out mouth look between a smile and a frown and the crinkles on her forehead like she doesn't believe what I'm saying. I wish she would take what I'm saying as something that is personal and important and difficult to share instead of saying well, everyone has something about their bodies they want to change. It isn't just about my body. It's about who I am. And the fact that, even after four years, she won't call me by my chosen name or male pronouns speaks volumes about how little she understands and how hard it is for her to just listen to me.
But the truth is that I'm still lucky. Whatever is going on with her, she accepts that this is happening and she isn't trying to stop it. I'm not going to lose her in any way. And I know how lucky that makes me. But it's still grating. I'm still letting it eat away at me. Who knows why.
