Everyone looks at me like I’m a disease, like I’m something to pity, or their own personal fixing job. I hate it. I started cutting when I was twelve because of the amount of pain I saw my mom in. I could never do anything right. I was always doing something wrong in her eyes, even when I was doing everything right. I got into fights constantly and developed a reputation as someone who was distant and not to be messed with. Never once did my mom ask why I had been in the fights or why I did what I did. I did everything I did for her. I never got into fights over petty things, but when someone made a pass at my mom, they regretted it. Cutting was my way of escaping the pain of knowing that all I was, was a reminder to my mother of my father, and as a disappointment to her for all the things I did. I found my dad’s service knife when I was twelve. I was at home after school, waiting for my mom to get off work. I missed him and went to my mom’s room and to her closet to his gear. He had. "They spent the next 40 minutes with my face. They applied a lightfoundation, powder, ruby blush, a lip stain and liner, then top gloss,soft tones with deeper shadows on my eyes and mascara three times!Florence said, "We don't like false eyelashes and the hormones havehelped extend yours."They brushed and adjusted the fall of my hair, and then they somehow gotit partially up, so that it only reached my shoulders blades.They allowed me to stand and move to the tri-fold mirror where I nearfell over with shock. Sixteen weeks had proved too much. The man I was inthe past had become a beautiful woman."Oh, Oh my, this can't be me."I stared at my reflection. How was this possible? No one would recognizeme. Shit, I didn't recognize myself. I couldn't be more than 60kg. Justthin, model thin, at 178cm tall, but here in 140cm heels I was toweringover my two attendants. Florence came behind me first, brushing her handsdown my back to the cleft of my bottom.Margrette was more assertive as her hand.
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