Mommy Issues

A question came up recently, about something I considered a moot point. But maybe it isn't so moot. The answer seems fairly obvious, at least to my rational mind, but my feels taunt me with doubts. 

This is the question: Do I come out to my mother?

This would be through a proxy, naturally. Either my father or brother. My rational thinking and all my feels are on the same page about doing it directly: I'm never speaking to her again. Well, there is a tiny part of me that wants to directly tell her off about how she interfered with my discovery of myself. Tell her off about a lot of things, actually.

I have a lot of history with my mother. Most people do, but by history I mean history. She has many guises, she's had many more, and I have dramatic history with all of them.
I could never be sure if she was going to lavish me with insincere praise or rip into me and twist the knife as only she knew how. I learned from her that people only tell you what they really think once they've lost their shit with you.

You know, for a while I had the urge to experiment with femininity (shocking, I know). Cross-dressing wasn't an option, but there were little things I felt compelled to try, like wearing my clothes differently to attempt to approximate the look and fit of girl clothes, or tying my ponytail up high on my head. Mom did not approve and quickly corrected anything like this. I learned pretty quick not to do it.

She was the "cool mom." The mom who helped us throw a kegger in a hotel room she got us. The mom who partied with us. The mom who talked about backstage at Fleetwood Mac concerts. The mom who connected us with a weed dealer who always hooked us up fat. 

She was also the woman who assaulted me in a fit of pique while I was recovering from spinal surgery, necessitating another surgery to repair the damage she did - damage she very well knew would result from her assault. She remains unapologetic to this day and will engage in wild histrionics to defend against any criticism for it.

Another time: slap me around, throw me out of car, call police to involuntarily commit me, take me home and pretend nothing happened when the psych ward refuses to admit me.

She's the woman who could tell three contradictory stories about something of tangible importance in under a minute. She's the woman who wouldn't speak to me again unless I met her alone at her cult meeting in Bumfuck, Arizona

And yet...

I want to rub my transition in her face. I want her to know that I'm my own woman and there's fuck-all she can do about it. I want her to know that whatever she did to me, and whatever she tried to do to me, I'm okay now. Well, not completely okay, but okay enough to give her the finger and say "you failed at what you tried to do."

I want to tell her she may have one son, but she has a daughter only by blood. I want to make sure she knows I'm her daughter, not her son.

But...

There's her histrionics. She would turn to fake tearing up and "oh I'm so happy for you," all the while plotting how she could use it against me to twist the knife in. She'd want to insert herself back into my life completely, my own wishes on that be damned. She'd make a big deal about it to everyone she knew, and certainly in very hurtful ways. "Oh, my son is a transgender and I'm so happy for him." Trust me, I know how she'd talk.

Still...

Maybe after cutting ties for so long, she finally got the memo that her shit was not okay and she needs to treat me with dignity or lose contact with me again?

However...

My therapist has shared horror stories of how estranged parents downright force themselves back into their transgender children's lives once they learn their child is trans. It's not about reconciliation, it's about image and validation. And my mom is exactly the kind of parent to do that.

So...

I don't think I'm going to let my mom find out about me. For the sake of my own sanity, I can't give her a chance to get back into my life. But that doesn't mean I'm not conflicted. I mean, whatever else she may be, she's my mother. Does she deserve to know she has a daughter?

Ultimately...

Fuck you, mom, you goddamn bitch. You don't get to hear nothing about me. Talking to her is the one time I will give someone (read: dad or brother) permission to refer to me as "Ryan" and "he." The deception is necessary to keep her from finding out. Because if she does, Eris help me.