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He was right. I do do it too. I learned about life from visiting my father, but I learned about love from my mother. My mother's love was improper and destructive and selfish, transsexual but it was also huge, and it was all mine. When I was trapped underneath it, it frightened and enraged and suffocated me, and yet once I escaped it, I found myself at odd moments missing it, craving it: that transsexual too-much love. That's what made me write this down now — figuring out that she's not dead. It's her looking back at transsexual me out of the eyes of these sad, angry, grateful, suspicious men I keep finding. Life is but a dream I like somebody else's weight on me. It feels like I have a body: theirs in mine. Then it's over and I'm lost and floating again. Before I discovered men, I was only floating, all the time.
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