Helen, the woman who saved me. Or at least she tried to.
"Add more flour, but, do it gently," she'd scold, her voice warm despite the sharp edges. "You're not building a damn wall—you're coaxing something into being." Then she'd laugh, that throaty sound that made you believe in tomorrow even when today was crushing your spirit.
https://thistleandmoss.com/p/my-house-of-pain-the-woman-only-wendy-knew
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Years later, when I finally claimed my identity as a trans woman, stepping into the light of who I'd always been, I felt Helen's hands guiding mine, heard her voice whispering encouragement. The woman who never had language for what I was had somehow given me permission to find that language for myself....
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At night, I'd watch her through cracked doorways, her silhouette hunched and trembling, and wonder which version of my mother would greet me in the morning - the one whose fingers would gently brush my hair, or the one whose hands would clench into fists at the slightest provocation. The uncertainty gnawed at my insides like hungry rats.
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Walt’s fists—always closed, never open—were meat mallets tenderizing whatever flesh they found. They left constellations of purple-black galaxies blooming beneath my skin, each bruise a dark star born of violence. Whatever he felt comfortable using on me, he used without hesitation or remorse.
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wendythedruid
