When a confession attracts the wrong audience.

Okay let me start out by saying ick, ick, ick.

And then I'll go on to say that I put our lives on the line on a regular basis by writing about my family's experience raising a transgender child. Families have been reported to child protective services, and while this usually just creates some bureaucratic stir, it sometimes ends up with children being removed from families or granted custody to estranged spouses unconvinced of their child's condition. With an adopted child, having an outside agency step in had a higher risk.

I write because I want others to know they're not alone. Both parents of gender variant children and adults who wish they'd had more understanding families find meaning in my stories. Maybe I'll save one kid from a life of turmoil.

I used to write intermittently, heck I only had 28 followers. Then I discovered the statistics counter. I had readers in Russia! Australia! Japan and Denmark. In Slovenia I have one  lone regular reader.  I imagine her sitting there late at night in a room lit only by the glow of her computer screen.
The stats taught me something much more dark.

One day I decided to put myself out there. I wanted to contemplate what it means to have the wrong body. There are parts of me I hate. Lying down in the tub looking down at the wild p*c brush that has no bikini line and fades practically down to my knees I cringe. I can barely shave for raised painful bumps, same goes for waxing. And I feel almost shame when I ask for skates at the rink. Men's 11, I mumble. These are nothing compared to hating your v*a, your br*sts, your p*s , your 5 o'clock shadow. I described how my child pined for br*st bds like her blossoming peers.

Then I read my stats. The search terms included "br*st bds" and "p*bc hair." Countries that never visited popped up. 17 from Argentina, 17 from Iraq. I pictured a bunch of soldiers gathered around the computer jerking off, thinking about my daughter, my crotch.

Shocked I deleted my posts. I deleted any photos that showed our faces. Still I know that somebody out there is getting his yayas out reading my blog.