I wanted to be happy.
I wanted to be secure.
I wanted to be myself.
Was that really too much to ask?


1. Connie

I'm sorry about this.

I really, really am. I almost hate myself for what I'm about to do, but I can't. I already hate myself far too much already, so one more bad thing won't make any more of a difference.

We are reading An Inspector Calls in English, and there's one character- the mother, Mrs Birling- who completely ignores her son's drinking problem throughout the play. Well, we haven't actually decided yet whether she actually doesn't know about his alcoholism, or if she just refuses to even consider it. But if she had tried to help him, stop him from getting drunk every night, then then Eva Smith wouldn't have died, because Eric wouldn't have raped her, so she wouldn't have got pregnant, so she wouldn't have had to take her own life rather than become a 'lady of the streets'.

And I really hate Mrs Birling, because she could have stopped Eva Smith from dying by just letting herself notice what was wrong with her own son, but she didn't, and someone died because of it.

But I kind of understand her a bit more now. Maybe she thought that if she ignored her son's problem then it would go away, or maybe she never noticed it in the first place- but it didn't matter in the story, just like it doesn't matter now. Someone still died because of it. I'm not saying that you- whoever you are, because I'm leaving this note for anyone to find- are solely to blame for my death, or even a lilttle bit, but I think that maybe if someone noticed, if someone listened, then I wouldn't be about to die.

I'm not saying that Mrs Birling is you, my dear anonymous friend/aquaintance/arch-enemy, or Dad, or Clara, or my teachers, or my 'friend(s)', because you're not. I'm about to kill myself, and whatever people say, whatever people have done to me, this is what I want to do, so if anyone's to blame, then it's me.

I'm looking forward to the peace and quiet, if I'm honest.

Maybe I should just go home, and live the life my dad and my sister and my friends want me to have.

But then I think that it wouldn't be living at all. It's an existance at most- an empty, lonely existance for that matter. And I don't think I want that. I don't want to be trapped inside myself forever. I don't want to lie, lie, and lie again, just to make other people happy. I want to be selfish for once.

And my being 'selfish' is going to lead to my death.

I'm not even going to be selfish now- I'm not going to jump in front of a train, or a bus, or let my dad find my dead body hanging in my room. I'm just going to take a walk down to the beach and not come back. It could be an accident.

But it's not; and you, whoever you are, are going to know it.

Snakes shed their own skins when they outgrow their old ones. They peel them off like wet clothes, and underneath is a new, fresh skin, a gleaming coat of paint that just screams 'new'.

I want that. I want to be new, and happy; I want to be able to start afresh with a brand new 'me', but no one else will let me. Who's the selfish one there, huh? I'm different in their heads- everyone's heads: a clean, pure diagram on a clean, white page. A perfect diagram of a perfect boy, detailed annotations plastered over the page and tattooed over my skin, labelled in ink, labelled in neat, clever handwriting. The diagram is one of the Boy Called Tomas, the Boy Who Loves Football, Boy Who Likes Girls.

But that's not me. I am not called Tomas. I don't really like football. I don't even like girls.

And everyone seems to have a problem with that. I don't know why- when my friend told me that he likes both girls and boys, I shrugged and continued talking about the film that we were going to see later that day. He hasn't told his parents yet- maybe he won't ever now, considering the way they treated me when they found out.

I told my dad what I wanted to be, and although he didn't say it, I knew immediately; I wasn't his son anymore. I wasn't His Tomas, who followed in his father's footsteps and wanted the same things as he'd wanted when he was my age. He still loves me- he said that, anyway- and I still love him, but I'm not what he wants me to be. Whatever I do, whatever I change- be it curing cancer or becoming a girl- I'll never be what he wants me to be. I'm not, and never will be, his son. Maybe not even his daughter.

My own father, however much he wants to, cannot accept me. He just can't.

I didn't tell Clara, but she found out anyway.

Sorry- you probably won't know who she is. She's my sister. Was- I don't really think that she wants to be anymore. But I guess that she won't have to worry about being related to someone like me for much longer. 

Someone at school told Clara and the teachers. They scrawled it over the internet in black permanent marker, branding me, labelling me. After trying so hard to fit in for so long, I succeeded, only to have it all snatched away from me. I've gone from Tom Reddick, the boy whom everyone admires, wants to be like, the popular, sporty, clever Tom Reddick, it's all gone. 

Just because people don't like who I am. 

They don't understand who I am.

They don't understand how someone could be born into a boy's body, but be a girl inside. 

They don't understand how a 'boy' could possibly want to wear dresses, and heels, and maybe even makeup. 

They don't understand what it's like to be insecure inside your own skin, unsure about who and what you are. They don't understand what it's like to hate yourself for the way that you look, or the way your voice sounds, for being physically unable to live up to the crushing expectations and surviving your crushed dreams.

They don't understand me. They don't understand me, and because of that, so many people hate me for it.

I'm sick of it all now. I'm sick and I'm tired, and I just want to leave it all behind.

Whoever you are, please, just give this note to my dad. He has to know that he couldn't have done anything, and that I understand. I do. Just... please let him know that I love him, and that I hope that I don't see him on the other side, because I've been told so many times that I'm going to Hell that I've started to believe it.

Let people know that even though I killed myself, other people helped to kill me, too. If people knew that being like me wasn't bad, that it was normal, then this wouldn't have to happen. Maybe I'll be a martyr, like Manche Masemola, or Socrates, but that's not important. People need to know that what happened to me, and people need to know what happened to me is wrong.

And tell Clara that I don't appreciate what she's done. She's my sister, and siblings are meant to look after each other. She told me that she'd always be there for me, and when I finally needed her, she left. Tell her that I still love her, but that's as far as it goes.

I'm sorry, random anonymous person, that you had to find this. I'm assuming that you're either a jogger or a dog-walker, because no one else would go for a walk over the cliff-tops in this weather. I'm sorry that you had to find this and read this, that you had to become the bearer of bad news, the herald to spread the news of my death. I don't know what I'll look like after the soft swell of waves have carried me away, but I beg you not to look. Picture me as everyone else will at my funeral. Picture me as I look in my photos, or even better, picture me as how I want to be,; as a girl- happy and free and safe at last.

Let the sky be my smoky shroud, the waves my inky coffin.






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