It was a Wednesday afternoon, one o'clock. School's over, time to go home. I ran outside. It wasn't busy yet; just a few parents were waiting.
My mother was always a little late. Not by much, but a little nonetheless. I didn't mind too much. Although, waiting did make me nervous, I never understood why. Every time someone got picked up by their mom, I felt the need to look around just a little harder. Maybe I just didn't see her? Maybe I'm missing something?
It was a pleasantly warm summer day. I was one of the first to be outside, it means I won the race that nobody else participated in. I think I'm different. I feel different.
Hordes of other kids came outside, some running, some in groups, others alone. One taller guy started running to his mom, who promptly greeted him with a warm hug. With every parent that showed up, at least one person would leave. I felt less lonely when other people were around, even if it was overwhelming.
Every Wednesday was like this.
As my eyes kept darting around the playground, I saw her! My friends' mom! My favourite mom! She greeted me with a warm smile, as she always did. "Heyy, Martin! Good to see you!" I love smiles! They make me smile! Her presence felt like a hug. She was just so wonderful! My favourite flower is the daisy. I think she's like a daisy. Daisies are everywhere. They're beautiful, they're simple, but if you're not looking around, you're bound to miss them.
It's odd, I don't really remember her face, but I remember the way she talked to me. I wanted to be around her. I think it's because she was always so nice to me. I wonder if she likes flowers. I really like flowers. Didn't I just think about flowers? Daisies are so cool, with their little white petals. When I see a field of daisies, I love to just take one and put it in my hair. It's so exciting! I wonder if they get hurt when it rains. They might break very easily, their stems are sooo thinn.. Hmm, do you think they gro...
Oh. Oh! My mother'd arrived. I didn't even notice her. I slapped myself in the face, and my mind snapped back in place. I put up a big smile. "You gotta stop doing that!" she said. "Stop doing what?" I responded. "You know what I mean!" "No" - I responded. She always says things like this. Why can't adults just say what they mean? I noticed my smile was gone.
My mother faced Daisy, and forced out a little smile. "He's so stubborn," "I bet you've got your hands full too." She said as she started facing Daisy. Ugh, mother talk. I just want to go home. I started biting on a wart on my right thumb.
I gave my mother's dark purple dress a few pulls. She didn't respond. I knew she didn't want to listen right now, so I told myself to shut up, gently wrapped my hands behind my back and waited in place for what felt like hours. "Let's go Martin" I saw my mother looking at me. "Let's GO Martin..." my mother said. She seemed annoyed. The world snapped back into focus. "Ok!" I said, the smile returned to my face.
As we were walking back home, my mother calmed down a bit. "I have an idea", she said. I turned sideways so I could look at her while she's talking, walking sideways to keep up with her. "An idea?" - I said. "!!! An idea !!!!" "An idea! An idea! I love ideas! I wonder what it is!"
We didn't live very far, so the suspense didn't have a lot of time to build up. Otherwise I might've exploded into a thousand little pieces.
When we arrived home, she led me into our garage. It was like any other garage, dusty, and stuffed to the brim with things I'd never seen anyone use. She started rummaging through some boxes. I patiently stood by waiting, "Woah" - I thought.
Three boxes later "I think this is it," she said as pulled out three dusty, rusty and *tiny* metal pans out of the box. "These belonged to grandmother." I don't remember grandmother. "We can make pancakes with these, I think that would be fun" "PANCAKES!" I exploded into a thousand little pieces.
"What can I do?", "Oh, I know I'll go make the batter", I said, almost stumbling over my words. As I ran to the kitchen, I took a second to throw my shoes off into the living room. It's a technique I'd perfected. If you give one string just a little pull, it'd come loose, and you can just kick your shoe wherever you wanted. It'd save valuable seconds when time mattered most. Sometimes you could hit something important, but I was aiming at the carpet on the floor, so it should be ok.
"We'll need batter, butter, maybe some sugarrrr... Hmm", I pulled open one of the lower drawers with my right toes, and picked up a blue and white shaker full of powdered sugar and placed it on the countertop. I kicked the drawer back to close it again, and jumped to the refrigerator on the other side, opening it up and picking up some margarine. I picked up the shaker again, and quickly walked outside. I placed the butter and the shaker in the grass.
I saw my mother come outside too, she'd washed the pans. Our preparation continued for about ten more minutes.
My eyes gleamed as I was watching my mother slowly rotate the measuring jug full of batter towards the hot pan, "any moment now..." A steady stream of pancake batter flowed down into the small metal pan, making a loud sizzling noise as it hit the hot metal. "Would you like to try the first one?" - my mother said. "Of course!" - I said, as I moved my attention towards the blue powdered sugar shaker, and a small plate next to it.
This was the best Wednesday ever.
That night, I arranged my stuffed animals in a circle. Placing my dog Spott in the center of the circle. I told them all about the pancakes we made, and how I'd kept some for them too.
I dreamt of pancakes that night.
Three weeks later, on a similar pleasantly warm Wednesday afternoon, we were walking back home again. I turned towards my mother, walking sideways "Can we make pancakes again?" - I asked with a hopeful smile. "Pancakes?" - she responded in a tone that didn't seem to acknowledge my hopefulness. I felt a slight knot form in my stomach, and started looking at my right thumb; the wart that I'd been chewing on had been healing a little bit. I didn't like it healing. I wanted it gone. If it healed, it'd just grow back right as it was once again. I hated that. The knot in my stomach grew a little bit. Only three seconds had passed since her response.
"We made pancakes last month already." - she responded in frustration. I felt my excitement drop down into my throat. "Sooo..?" - I asked with the last remaining bit of hope in my voice. "I threw the pans away of course. They were rusty and old. We have normal pans in the kitchen for normal food, what were you thinking?!" She wasn't looking at me as she threw her words at me. The knot in my stomach grew way larger, but it had grown too large for me to notice it anymore. "Why'd you want pancakes anyway? Aren't you satisfied with my cooking?" - she continued with her accusatory voice.
I didn't explode into a thousand pieces.
In fact, I remained exactly as I was.
"Oh." I responded. "Ok". I turned back to walk straight again, but I didn't face forward. I was facing the small wart on my hand. I put my thumb to my mouth, and took a risky bite. Sometimes I'd tear off the skin next to a wart, so this could hurt a lot, but I had to get rid of it, I was so close. "I got it", I thought to myself with an obsessive frustration. I felt my heart pumping in the place where the chunk of thick skin used to be a second ago, it hurt, but it was worth it; this time it won't come back.
I don't remember the rest of that afternoon.
I didn't dream of pancakes that night.
Nothing is more difficult than trying to create something meaningful when your mind is telling you everything you try is worthless.
So here I am, lying flat on the floor, writing in a small notebook.
I haven't had breakfast yet. Why would I? Yes, I'm hungry, but I have to write. I have to write because I wouldn't be myself if I couldn't.
There are many people like me—creators, dreamers, explorers—our inventions, our stories, our novels, essays, toys, doodles, the games we make, the memories we form, the food we share. This is what makes us feel alive.
So why then? Why the fuck do we teach our children they're worthless for even trying? My whole childhood was like the short story in the beginning.
"Look! I made this painting!"
It's not that special. You're not van Gogh. Why would you show me this?
"I hope to inspire people!"
"Martin.. Nobody looks up to you. I'm baffled you're even considering this.
"I hope maybe dad can help me find an apartment"
"Have you completely lost your mind? There's no way you could live in an apartment on your own. You'd be a danger to yourself and others. You wouldn't be able to take care of yourself, let alone the space around you."
In the Netherlands, we have a proverb
"Doe maar normaal, dan doe je al gek genoeg.", or literally translated to English: "Just be normal, that's already crazy enough." It's similar in meaning to the English proverb "The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.". I was that nail.
Telling me to stop creating? To stop dreaming? To me, this felt like murder. Not murder of the body, but murder of my spirit. For my entire childhood, I've been told I was too different. Too weird. Too strange. Worthless. Too much. Too fucking gay.
So I took society's advice. I adjusted. I took a vow. Every single time someone expressed disapproval about my behaviour, I'd stop. Forever.
Can't cross your legs because people point out that makes you a faggot? Alright, I'll put my legs neatly next to one another like the boys do.
Someone on the train scoffing at my overly loud enthusiasm when I'm talking about a glorious book I recently read? I'll stop talking about the books I like. I'll stop talking too loudly. I'll stop expressing my enthusiasm.
And so I did. I was like a tree, and if I wanted to fit in, I had to prune the bad branches and snip off the leaves of my expression.
At age 21, there was nothing left of me. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk.
There's a book to be written about the journey I've had to take to get where I am now; it involves two years of clinical inpatient psychiatric help, a gender transition from male to female, losing a valued friend to suicide, finding love, rekindling friendships and finally - where we are now; reconnecting with my curiosity and the urge to create. There's not enough room to tell the entire story here. Not yet.
I've been working on this essay for three weeks now. I cried over 7 times. I've had moments where I wondered whether I should throw myself or my laptop out of the window. I've told myself there's no point in trying, that there's no chance to succeed, that there'd never be an essay; and even if I'd ever be able to produce an essay, it wouldn't be worth sharing.
Because I'm worthless.
Yet, here you are. Reading it. Wherever you are. Whoever you are. I don't know who you are, but you do. Perhaps you recognise something of yourself in this story. Perhaps you've been pruning yourself too.
So stop.
Create.
Share.
Let your branches grow. Let the sunlight reach your leaves. You'll have plenty of time to die. Don't take that matter into your own hands.