So I came out to my folks and

Nothing happened. Nothing bad happened. I'm still not sure how to feel. I mean I'm relieved as fuck but I just have this feeling that the other shoe is about to drop. Maybe I should take a dose of the thing, or break out the dry herb vape for the emergency stuff.

[cut here]

I spent the entire day leading up to about three in the afternoon twisting myself into an interestingly shaped knot wondering what was going to happen when I finally did what I had planned: actually coming out to family.

An unplanned, aggressive outing at work has already happened—survival was on the table at that point and I had to get out of there before something permanent happened to my head—and I took a crapton of vacation days all at once to sort things out. Part of that sorting out, I'll admit, was a "get affairs in order" sort of plan. I was honestly done.

But that was negotiated out of me. And everyone who dragged me off of that ledge (AGAIN), thank you.

But that still left one big thing.

My folks. Pops and my stepmom.

They've always been a little dismissive of things that they can't grab as proof or science up or things, and the last time I came to them with any of my problems I got a dismissive "UGH" and a "Yeah well what about JESUS" speech. I'd already decided today that if I got one of those I'd walk out of there. I was going to pack light: nothing for distraction other than what could fit in a coat pocket or seven.

The plan took a different turn han I had anticipated right off of the bat when they decided to pick me up. After spending a considerable amount of time panicking and seriously considering finishing the unholy terror of a taste that is the remainder of the whiskey I decided to just deal and go. Opportunity came about fifteen minutes into me being there: they were out of cold medicine and my nerves were wired enough to need a Bob Marley soda.

I used the walk to do it. I basically took the knife and ripped it all out there and went "HERE IT IS. THIS IS WHAT IT IS. THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE DEALING WITH." I scienced. I biologied. I anthropologied. I basically explained my nonbinary idenity and fluidity with every thing I had at my disposal, up to and including the family heritage. I'd gotten so stressd that I'd actually ended up reverting to a speaking speed that only one person alive—that man, my father—can actually comprehend. It's that thing where you don't type with spaces. likewhenyourespeakinglikethis. (Mom might've, but she's been gone for twenty years now. That's a whole nother angsty vent post.)

"And if that's a problem well there's nothing about it that I can do about it because it's been like that for years and I've only really just figured it out for myself and sorry if this wrecks things."

We stop on the sidewalk abruptly, and he gives me this—it's a RELIEVED look if you can believe it—and just says "Well it's about time you figured it out, and how about you stop worrying about it now?"

The rest of the walk was spent discussing everything that's been going on, the things everyone's going to have to keep straight (HAH. STRAIGHT.), and plans on maybe getting me a job that isn't going to physically disable me within a year's time.

He's going to make the effort.

I'm not getting disowned.

HE'S SUPPORTIVE.

And I'm alternating between trying to clean up, prepping the new TV he brought me to replace the old one that the jackass left behind, and just grabbing at Marcel the plushie elephant because I just can't with this right now.

I don't know if I can actually believe things are turning around.

It feels unreal. So unreal that even the word Big Willy Shakes invented to describe it doesn't feel like enough.