a thick layer of dust sits atop all the surfaces in my childhood bedroom-

my current bedroom-

the bedroom.

it smells like home here. it's comforting. i love it. i dont want to leave. i want to stay in bed forever. i hate it.

at the beginning of last summer, i "spontaneously" decided to rearrange my room. with my mom's gracious help, I moved the shelves and tables and- most crucially- the bed to the point where the angle at which I sat could not hurt me.

the angle couldn't hurt me anymore. I would not look at the door, sitting in this same place I have sat for years, and I will not think about things that have upset me so poorly.

On my dresser, among the dust, I have stuffed animals abandoned. I have a landline phone, disconnected. There's a paper model of a cake, signed by old friends-

signed by my abuser-

signed by people I no longer know.

I don't speak to any of them anymore. They changed my life. I love them. I miss them. I hate him. Why do I have the cake, still?

I'm a sentimental person. I keep things, either on display or hidden in boxes and drawers, leaving love letters and drawings for my future self to weep over. i haven't done anything like that in years. maybe this is my love letter to my future self. maybe this will show them what I was feeling, on this warm october night.

When did October nights get warm?

In third grade it snowed on halloween. My best friend-

My neighbor-

My ex-friend-

My sister-

My-

She tripped in the snow, over a rock that was covered up by it. She was unhurt. She was a bee for halloween that year, I was a skeleton.

It's her birthday today, as I'm writing this. She's 20 now. When did I last get her a birthday present?

When did she last get me a birthday present?

When did she last contact me?

Where is she?

She broke my trust. I never want to see her again. I miss her. I love her. I loved her. I hope she's okay. I hope she rots.

I wonder.

Sometimes I feel like I can feel myself being ripped away from my friends against my will. It's in my control. I am doing it on purpose. I hate it. I don't mean to do this.

I just want them to care about me, for them to reach out, for them to help me out and to care for me.

I don't want anyone to do that. I need to be independent. You can see how these ideas are contradictory.

If I have people rely on me, then I'm good and strong and useful and helpful and people will like me. But that's too much pressure, I'm just one Jay, so nobody should rely on me. I should rely on others. I shouldn't rely on anyone. You can see how these ideas are also contradictory.

I'm just one Jay.

Have you ever changed your name, legally? I wasn't always just one Jay. I used to be someone else. I was always me. I used to be something else. I'm not a thing.

This wasn't always my name, is the point. She was supportive when I first changed my name, socially. Was it fake? She helped me come out to my parents. Was it fake? Was it fake? Did she ever care? Did I ever care, or am I obsessed with a person that never existed? With the idea of a childhood friend?

A lot of trans people fantasize about running away to somewhere that nobody knows who they used to be. I am not a lot of trans people. More and more people who know who I used to be are leaving.

They don't like who I have become.

There is something to be said, of course, for chosen family, and chosen friends, and loved ones who see me for who I am.

There is also something to be said about muffled giggles in the night, gossiping about elementary school drama and wondering aloud for the first time if girls can date girls, if boys can date boys.

There is something to be said about somebody who has seen you since you were so small and still chooses to love you.

There is something to be said about how nobody cares about old family movies anymore, and nobody in those movies sees you the same.

Where is she?

My friend's parents don't like me. This is expected, because I am queer, but unexpected, because I have been beloved by parents for years. I don't care. I hate being hated. They don't understand me and they never will and I don't care. But I care so much.

This life, being torn between aloof unconcern and horrific anxiety about how I am percieved, is exhausting. I want to be percieved. I want you all to read this and reply to it and share your thoughts. I also don't want anybody to see this. I want it to be hidden away behind my file folders, never to see the light of day, until 5 years later when I am feeling nostalgic for these warm october nights.

How warm will october be, in 5 years? Will you still be here, reading what I write? When are you reading this? The week I post it? Years later?

Do I still update this website? Am I a ghost that you have once loved or cared for, vanished into nothing? Do you know what I'm doing? Do you know where I work, what I've accomplished? How is my relationship with my family? How is your relationship with your family? Why does my mom look at me so sadly every night? I work so hard to not make her sad. What did I do wrong? Is she just sad a lot? Is that my fault, too? Is anything my fault, or is none of it my fault? Can I make it better? Can I pretend better that I love being home for so long? Can I pretend that this bedroom doesn't feel like an itchy sweater? Can I pretend the dust isn't suffocating? Would that make her sadder?

I forgot Pikachu at my dorm. He's 3 hours away. I miss him. I used to cry into him every night. I don't need him as much, anymore. I like knowing where he is. I miss him. My mom calls him Pika. Will she notice that he's gone? Will she ask? I don't want to admit I forgot him, not out loud. I'm sorry Pikachu. I'm sorry for forgetting you. I love you. I wonder if stuffed animals can feel love.

Where will I be in 5 years? What about you?

Will any of them still talk to me? Will you still wonder about me?

Do you know me in real life? Will you mention this blog post, will you give me a hug, will you assure me and make me feel safe and cared for even though it's uncomfortable? My therapist said I should let myself be cared for, even though it's uncomfortable, because I deserve to be cared for. I should let people make me food, and hug me, and get water for me if I'm busy. I should ask for help more. I should not contact her, even though I want to, and even though it's uncomfortable and I should do more uncomfortable things.

I should go to a concert. I should let myself be cared for. I should stay safe. I should eat when I'm hungry. I should sleep when I'm tired. I should stop making my mom sad.

I don't know why I've been like this lately. Maybe it's therapy, maybe it's class, maybe it's being home in this comfortable, dusty room I never want to leave. I want to leave so bad. i need to claw out. I need to curl into a ball and sleep. I miss Pikachu. I love him. I loved her. I love you.

♥ Jay(click to go back!)