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PITT Parents #pratt #quack #sexist #transphobia pittparents.com

Open your mind now and think your own thoughts;

stop parroting devious Instagram rot.

Can someone be born with the wrong DNA?

Will surgery sweep your confusion away?

And what if it’s fluid and you realize

you’re really a furry in human disguise?

Who will you marry and who will you date?

Do hot guys go out with small men named Kate?

I know that you’re certain and sure of yourself,

but what if this notion winds up on a shelf?

You’ll never convince me that you’re not a girl.

I’m macho compared to your pink princess pearls.

So, here’s what I desperately want you to see.

A girl’s the most glorious thing you can be.

Average Dad #transphobia #fundie pittparents.com

As PITT parents we share your pain and agony, trans is one of the worst things ever foisted onto society, forcing your mom and dad to call you wrong pronouns and a new name. Trans is to humanity what Islam is to Christianity and the broader society, calling what is good, evil, calling what is evil, good, not creative, not building, not striving, not empowerment, not bettering yourself or anyone else, just pure decay, destruction and death. All I can do is keep hope alive for my daughter and yours, as I walk this cursed, sad, broken hearted, lonely road, pretty much alone. It's truly unbelievable, unimaginable. God help us all!

Parents with Inconvenient Truths about Trans #transphobia pittparents.com

I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. Then I remembered it wasn’t a nightmare, but my new reality these days. The anger washed over me like a cold wave. I got up and splashed some water on my face, drank some coffee, straightened my back, and prepared for another day of dueling with my thoughts.

[some childhood story about a ride-on train that wouldn't work "as promised”]

And now you live in the same frustrating place.

You believe the promises adults are selling you for their financial and societal gain. You believe when other kids say that their train runs perfectly, even though you can see with your own eyes it is a mess. You are too smart not to observe the pieces of their train falling. Yet you continue to believe the promises of teachers who say, ‘if you just can learn the instructions well enough, it will work.’ You believe the promises of doctors who say, ‘if you just put enough magic medicine in the engine, it will run just how you want it to.’ You believe if you work on it long enough, it will become a reality. You believe you can fix your own train.

Because mentally you are the exact age of your trauma, you stay working on that train.

What you can’t believe is the hard truth that dad says, “it just won’t work, son.” He sees you working and working on this train trying to make it something it is not and he hopes you will stop and redirect your efforts to something more productive. You can’t be swayed by mom making you your favorite dinner, pointing out to you there are other things in life to appreciate and look forward to. You can’t believe your siblings when they tell you that the train is really just a figment of your imagination and, even though they support you in your train endeavors, they really are hoping you will just give up on it and come outside to play.

jigsawjj #transphobia pittparents.com

I carry the corpse of my son, the son he once was. Geeky, funny, talented. He could build anything. I also carry the corpse of who he could have been.

I carry the corpse of the old me, so naive and purpose driven. I see old pictures of her and feel nothing but pity. She doesn't know what's about to happen to her life and everyone she loves.

I carry the corpse of our old marriage. We were playful, forward-looking, project driven. We're still married, but it's not the same marriage. We've been forced to witness each other being hurt beyond comprehension.

I carry the corpses of all the relationships that have been broken or just faded away because of trans.

These corpses I carry everywhere I go and follow me with every task: to the grocery store, while gardening, going for a walk, meeting with "after" friends (who know nothing of my grief). On the outside, I suppose I look normal. Most days I go about my life carrying these corpses. (What choice do I have?) And then there are days, even 7.5 years later, where the weight is just too much. And the tears flow. And the anger screams out. And then I get up, corpses still clinging to me, and go on.