Trigger Warning: Mention of bullying, name-calling, depression.

Before moving to Massachusetts, I and my parents used to live in Portland.

One of the many reasons why my parents decided to move there from the bustling city of New York was to get a little space from my grandparents.

Granna and Granddad, as my father used to tell me had always been very religious and very American in everything they did. My father grew up watching them hate Mexicans and Brazilians (basically anyone not American), and at the same time preach Christianity (which negates any divide based on status).

So when my father went against everything that my grandparents stood for, and decided to introduce them to his Mexican girlfriend, it was like the beginning of the Third World War.

There were a hundred attempts to set him up with girls who had a well-reputed family background, but my father was convinced that a girl with good education and hardworking parents also counted as a well-reputed background.

They got married, with Granna and Grandad's consent, but my mother was never fully accepted by them, which is why my parents shifted across the states to Maine and started a life there.

Despite their hectic schedules, Mom and Dad were always there when I needed them, running a law firm by starting from scratch and gradually becoming the best in the town was enough proof of how dedicated they always were to their work, and not ever making me miss them at the same time, is not something a lot of millennial parents can do.

In my pre-school, all the girls had luscious long hair and I liked them a lot. So after deciding that I want to grow my hair long, I stopped Mom from cutting it as she used to every month. When she asked why, I told her that I wanted long hair like the other girls in my school.

I still remember her amused laugh when I said that, 'Boys don't grow their hair long Rom, you can keep them like that for a few days but no more.'

That was the first time I realized that I was different, different than the other boys and girls at my school, and I felt guilty for being different. Even at the age of just eight years, my brain told me to act normal, or the other kids will make fun of me.

And then started the never-ending cycle of ignoring. Of ignoring what my inner self was trying to tell me and to just act normal.

I tried.

I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach when someone called me a boy when I actually felt like a girl. I tried to ignore the way my stomach clenched whenever I was called Roman. I tried to ignore the disgusting feeling I got whenever I looked at my body or at my face in the mirror. I tried to live like a boy but I couldn't.

My classmates soon realized that I was a soft target, and started treating me like all the soft targets at different places in this world are treated. They started harassing me.

They called me names.

Fag.

Faggot.

Homo.

Bitch.

But I tried to ignore these words as well. Because I knew that if I told my parents it would hurt them, and they will want answers as to why I was being treated that way.

And those answers were not something I was ready to give them.

So at home, I behaved like the perfect happy son that they deserved.

But I was able to keep them oblivious only for some time.

Dropping of grades from an A to a D is not something that usually happens to a middle schooler, and when this happened to me, my parents were worried. I tried to assure them that there was nothing majorly wrong and that I would cover the gap soon, but I couldn't. I could never escape the name-calling. My ears rang with them even when I was at home and during my sleep. Apart from the name-calling, I had to fight with my subconscious every day.

I wanted to grow my hair long and pin them up in different styles every day, but I couldn't.

I wanted to wear sundresses and pretty tops, but I couldn't.

I wanted to try my mother's makeup on, but I couldn't.

I wanted to wear pretty swimsuits when we went to the beach instead of those retched trunks, but I couldn't.

I kept ignoring all the voices in my head and kept going, until one day.

I was in the eighth grade and was changing for gym class in the boys' locker room before anyone could come so that I did not have to change with all the other boys. I was almost done when I heard his voice.

"Of course, if it isn't Roman Smith himself," Christian said with disgust lacing his voice.

I ignored him and started stuffing my things in the locker so that I could leave soon.

"What do you think Fos, should we just check him and see if he really is a boy," he laughed, and I stilled.

With labored breathing, I tried to walk towards the exit when Christian stopped me.

"Where do you think you are going pretty boy?" he sneered at me and I took a step back.

"Just let him go, Chris, he never really said anything to you." I heard Foster behind me but that was not going to stop Christian.

"I don't think I will Fos," he took a step ahead, and before he could understand what I was doing, I ran.

I ran outside, towards the student lockers praying that he will not do anything when there were so many people watching us. But I was wrong.

Roman followed me with Foster at his feet and caught up with me sooner than I had expected.

He slammed me into the lockers with the entire grade watching, but they did nothing, they did not even call a teacher.

He kicked me in the stomach twice before I heard Foster's voice.

"Chris, I think that's enough"

"Yeah Chris, it's just better if we stay away from dirt," Hannah said with a mocking glare, and then they left, all of them, while I lay on the floor crying. And then I walked to my home crying and locked myself up in my room, refusing to ever go back to school again.

Whenever Mom tried to ask why I did not want to go to school, instead of answering I always started crying, even more, remembering the monsters that that building housed.

I told my Mom and Dad everything.

About the bullying, the name-calling, teasing, and everything that had happened the last day that I went to school.

I also told them that I was not their son, but their daughter.

Mom cried, she cried with me, punishing herself for being oblivious and busy with work while all of this was going on with me.

The first thing my parents did was call Aunt Heather. She is a Clinical Psychologist and teaches at  New York University and has always been the closest to me apart from Mom and Dad. After having a chat with me, she soon concluded that I had symptoms of gender dysphoria and contacted another experienced psychologist she knew who specialized in treating it.

Mom and Dad wanted the students who bullied me in school to be punished but that would have meant visiting that place again, and that was the last thing I needed.

The next month was a blur. My parents decided to shift to Massachusetts so that the best doctors could be consulted. For the first time in my life, I did not feel guilty or ashamed because of the way I felt. My parents were choosing me before there work and making difficult choices so that I could live a life without being harassed about who I was.

I was diagnosed with Gender Dysphoria at the age of fourteen and sat through several sessions with the psychologists, all trying to make me understand the options I had with me and what all changes I will have to go through if I chose those options.

My decision seemed very clear. I wanted to be a girl. I did not just want to be able to behave like one, but I also wanted to live my life fully like a girl.

And so I chose to undergo the process of transition.

And I was glad that I had that choice because of my parents' hard-earned money.

And here I am, after all those years of tear-stained nights and days muddled with self-doubt.

I have grown a lot in these four years.

I have learned to never dislike myself because of the way I look. I have learned to never judge someone because of the way they look or the way they behave. I have learned to see the world with open eyes, that each and everyone one of us has the right to live the way they want, dress the way they want and behave the way they want.

But one thing that I haven't learned and I don't intend to, even in the future is to forgive the people who made my life hell in school. Not that they have asked for it, but even if they did, moving on from what Christian Perez, Hannah Nelson, and Foster Wilson did to me was absolutely off the table.

Even though Foster never did anything himself, he never stopped it either, and that made him equally at fault.

I realized that my forehead had been pulled into a frown while my search for a job near campus lay abandoned on my laptop when my phone started vibrating.

The caller ID revealed it to be Aunt Heather,and I felt a small smile already forming on my face.

"Sup Rach, How was your first day?"

"It was good, I am really liking it so far, weirdly," I mused stirring the cup of coffee sitting in front of me.

"There is a really nice cafe on-campus, it's called 'The Steam Room', and they have amazing coffee. That's where I am at currently."

"Ohh...I would kill for some coffee right now, I will just order one after hanging up with you," she said exhaustedly.

"Rough day?"

"You have no idea how difficult it is dealing with annoying college students, you tell, is that roommate of yours okay?" she asked pacing through her office, clacking of her heels on the hardwood floor audible even through the phone.

"She is lovely, and is supposed to meet me here in a bit," I said looking towards the entrance, no sign of her yet.

"Did you meet any cute boys?"

"Aunt...," I drawled not wanting to start this topic with her, ignoring the image of Foster Wilson that popped up in my head when she said cute.

"Just saying, I think you have had enough time now, it's a good time to catch some fish."

"Alright, but I have some work to do right now, talk to you later?" I dodged her attempts and strayed the conversation afar.

"Alright hon, call me if you need anything, Love you"

"Love you too Heath."

Just as I locked my phone and put it back in the depths of my bag I heard the chair beside me scratch the floor.

"About time, I have been here for an hour already," I said not looking up from my laptop, assuming it was Olivia.

"Oh, I didn't realize you would be waiting for me, I would never let a pretty girl like you do that,"

I whipped my head towards the sound and mentally cursed myself.

It was the monster himself, and the monster also had an annoying smirk pulled upon his lips.

"I thought it was my friend," I replied, disgust lacing my tone, desperately trying to avoid the strange summersaults that my stomach was doing right now.

"We can be friends too, you know?" He said, leaning forward on the table, eyebrows raised in question and his hand extended for me to hold.

I looked at him again and saw a genuine question in his eyes, bereft of any malice that I was trying to search for. Just when I felt my icy exterior cracking a little, an image of him standing beside Christian while I cried against the lockers flashed before my eyes, and the icy exterior mended itself back in place.

"I don't think so," and with that, I picked up my bag shoving my laptop inside it and marched out of the small coffee house, leaving behind a confused looking Foster in my wake.

Hello my lovely readers!!!
So here's the second chapter. I just wish I have been able to do it justice, coz a lot of research went behind it. Nevertheless, if anything sounds factually incorrect, please feel free to correct me.

So that was about Rachel's past.

1.) Thoughts on Aunt Heather?
2.) And how do you feel about her past now that you know everything?

Vote, share and comment if you are liking this so far( I am hoping you are :p)

Until next Sunday ❤️