Their Body, Themself
My child casually peeled their T-shirt off; I was the one who felt exposed.
It was unseasonably warm for winter in Maui, according to our guide, and surprisingly dry. We’d hiked an hour through what had been advertised as a rain forest, although I’d been picturing more of a lush-dense-overgrowth-covered-in-moss situation as opposed to the modest, ginger-infested private farmland it turned out to be.
More by this author
“I saw that God I’d been so determined to believe in not as an absolute, but as a construct that couldn’t take a joke.”
“My parents had a shared language I didn’t understand, messes I couldn’t always be there to tidy.”
More in this series
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.