Being “different” is difficult. I would know. I’ve been “different” as long as I can remember. Throughout my entire life, I’ve never really fit in anywhere. I tried. It never mattered what I wore, or how I acted, I was still an outcast to the bunch. I braided my hair, and wore dresses and frilly pink shirts. Nothing mattered.
As life moved on, it only got worse. I had a friend group but even there I felt unwelcome. Unsafe even. I was an outcast among outcasts and even there I did not fit in. I eventually gave up my strive and struggles. I remember it like it was yesterday. I stare at my phone, standing isolated in a corner at the dance. Disbelief, disgust, self-loathing.
I was different. I was in denial. After a lot of self-degradation, I accepted it. I was too scared to admit it. Just the thought of verbally admitting to the truth made my stomach churn with repulse.
I remember when they found out. I lost friends. Almost even family. I was treated as the equivalence of some monster. I wasn’t a monster though. I was just Dallas. Not Ava. Just Dallas, and what was wrong with that?