The illusion of synchronicity

two months ago, i broke down in tears and told my mother the truth about my identity. in the immediate aftermath, there was a fleeting moment that felt like a breakthrough. she hugged me. when i apologised, she asked why i was even saying sorry, telling me that we seemed to be fine. she told me she wouldn't stop loving me, that i'd always be her child, and that we would simply learn as we went along.

for a second, the heavy, suffocating depression that usually keeps me anchored to my bed lifted. the relief was so palpable that it felt like a physical shift; suddenly, i had the energy to get up and take care of the house, picking up chores before anyone even asked. it felt like progress. it felt like hope.

but the reality of coming out in an environment built on generations of deep-seated ignorance is never linear. the initial cooperative stance quickly devolved into defensive rants and denial. her generation isn't familiar with this, and while i tried not to blame her for her lack of exposure, the pushback began almost immediately.

navigating that resistance triggered an incredibly eerie, familiar anxiety. given how my childhood went, my default state is to wait for the other shoe to drop. my trust issues aren't a flaw; they were a survival requirement. even when i could tell her intentions weren't explicitly malicious or offensive, the trauma made it utterly impossible to let my guard down. i remained constantly apprehensive, terrified of being backstabbed by the people who are supposed to protect me.

now, two months later, the situation has settled into a quiet, frustrating stagnation. it wasn't the explosive disaster i originally feared, but the reality remains quite exhausting: she completely denies it. she acts as if that entire conversation -- the vulnerability, the tears, the confrontation -- simply never happened.

it is a total erasure masked as normalcy. her behaviour has become completely avoidant, driven by a mixture of pure ignorance and internalised queerphobia. she pretends the reality of my identity doesn't exist, choosing instead to coexist with a ghost of who she thinks i am.

living with someone who actively chooses blind spots over understanding is a lonely endeavour. it forces you to realise that acceptance isn't just about the absence of violence; it's about the presence of actual sight. despite the cognitive dissonance holding my domestic life hostage, i am still moving forward. the path to autonomy is messy and painful, but pretending to be someone else just to keep the peace is a price i am no longer willing to pay for much longer.