Performances of Denial

Nothing’s wrong. There’s nothing for us to talk about. I don’t have to have this conversation. I can’t do this right now. I don’t want to do this right now. Why are you pushing this? It won’t get you anywhere.



Why do you keep insisting there is a problem, when it’s much easier and more pleasant for me if we don’t talk about it, and if you just act like everything is fine? Why does it matter what happened last month? Last year? Over the past few years? Why must we talk about it? Can’t we just move on? Can’t we just pretend you’re happy? Can’t you get out of my face?

I do not acknowledge that there have been conflicts in our relationship. I do not acknowledge and will not discuss any matters in which you might think you are right and I am wrong, or in which you might characterize me as having done something that was in my own best interest but which tanked our relationship. I will not  talk about our relationship.

I will remain silent, or walk out of the room, or cry if you try to force a conversation on me. I am the one controlling how the relationship goes, not you.  What? You say that your experience is tied to mine because I’m your mother? I’m your boss? I’m your colleague? You need me to talk about ways that our relationship has been unequal? That I’ve hidden behind silence, departures, and tears? You think you need to talk about how I’ve used you when it suited me– to project an image, or to protect me from criticism, or to make a case for me? Is that what you’re whining about? Well. I’m not having this conversation. There’s nothing for us to talk about. Nothing’s wrong.

Dressed up as a fab girly teen

Dressed up as a girl

That’s me and my father, Gary. Looks like Christmas, circa 1969. Dad, Mom, my little brothers and I lived in a slate-gray, mid-century modern, 3-bedroom house in Casper, Wyoming. In this photo, I am wearing two of my presents… a super-cool, mod robe, and a fall (that is, a shiny, blonde half-wig).

Without all the frou-frou, I more commonly appeared as I do in the blog’s main photo. In it (taken the summer of the same year) I am a tousled, towheaded daydreamer in a grubby t-shirt, dreaming that she’s a boy.