All illustrations and words by original author.

Content Note: this piece contains references to family abuse, suicidal thoughts, mental health and self-harm.

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Currently, among other information, my instagram bio proudly displays “family disappointment” and honestly I feel like that really encapsulates me. I know I’m the black (or rainbow) sheep of my family, the weirdo with tattoos, too many piercings and pet rats. The one whose relatives always chide with “you know tattoos are permanent?” or “why aren’t you more like your sister?” and the most dreaded “why do you think you’re a boy?”. This used to haunt me, clawing and piercing through me, a dark and heavy reminder of my failings as a human being, and even now,despite these wounds being long scarred over, they occasionally reopen again like a scab turning into a painful, bloody mess. Yet I mostly feel some twisted sense of pride in being the bad child, the disappointment, the reject.

Naturally it wasn’t always this way. When I was born in December of 1996 I was apparently such a stunning newborn that the midwife (a family friend) called me a “picture book baby”. Although I would say that being assigned female at birth was a major strike against me. In1998 my sister was born and not long after my parents split in a messy divorce. Being an extreme ‘daddy’s girl’ this was incredibly hard for me, especially as we were lucky to see him once a month which meant a grand total of twelve times a year. I also had frequent nightmares but even more terrifying was the thought of waking my mother in the night. At least dreams can’t actually hurt you. This led on to irrational emotional responses and a fear of abandonment which later blossomed into the borderline personality disorder I now have today. However I apparently still managed to be a well behaved, seemingly happy child who was good at school and quiet in church. Often described in report cards as a “pleasure to teach”, who only “needs to speak up more” and preferred to be alone. I had a very difficult time connecting to my peers (and was basically an LED beacon for bullying) which I’d partly attribute to the fact that I was incredibly sheltered in terms of media consumption. Any media I watched had to pass the test of those Christian mummy sites that dissect anything popular for traces of demonic influence. I mean, what ten year old wants to hang out with the strange, animal obsessed tomboy who isn’t allowed to watch Harry Potter or listen to Britney Spears? Even though I was anxious, awkward and socially isolated I was quiet and obedient, making me a relatively “good child”.

This all started to change when moving from primary school to year 7. My dad got me an iPod touch for my birthday and I finally had access to music that wasn’t Christian. As well as listening to the classical pop hits of the early 2010s I began to get into all the songs andbands that connect to out-of-place, depressed teens, to the extreme distaste of my mother. I also began to dread going to school, my mental illnesses really began to come out in full force and none of my prior friends had gone to the same secondary school as me and highschool bullies are a lot crueler. Most weeknights I would spend either faking illness or trying to make myself actually sick and most mornings I spent hysterically crying and begging to stay home, which just angered my mother, making everything more miserable. Eventually I made a couple of friends, one of whom had a parent who’d buy things online for me if I had the money, which quickly led to an intense obsession for books. I was so desperate for both the escapism and catharsis offered by reading that when given lunch money I would oftenforgo eating in order to save up faster. To this day my mother cites reading as the reason Iturned either evil, into a different person or perhaps became possessed by demons. I, on the other hand, would argue that these books not only gave me a way to temporarily escape but also a passion for telling stories that I still carry to this day.

When I was sixteen my home life, mental illness and growing discomfort with being seen as a girl, really tripled in intensity and quickly reached breaking point. My mother and I were fighting almost daily, to the extent that I was locked out of the house or kicked out of the car more than once. I thought about dying almost daily and ended up running away from home and couch surfing at friends’ houses for a week until my dad took pity on me and let me move in with his upgraded family. The day my father and I went to collect my belongings from mum’s was the day I was branded a traitor who callously abandoned her and my sister.After that day my relationship with my younger sister drastically changed forever, it became incredibly hostile and tense. I was also wracked with guilt as my mother had told me that losing the child support from me would mean they wouldn’t be able to afford to keep the power on at home. Although this guilt was unfounded as later that year she bought a brand new car. At dad’s things were marginally better in that I wasn’t being locked out of the house but I felt like an outcast, the unwanted ghost of his previous life that couldn’t be exorcised.My mental health continued to make it’s rough decline into a reclusive depression where I would rarely leave my room unless the house was empty, often not eating until dinner because of this. This had a snowball effect causing me to do absolutely terribly in my final year of school, my final grade being one of my greatest sins in both of my parents eyes. Now it wasn’t just my mother, everyone in the family knew I was a useless failure of a child.

Yet the final, most irredeemable crime I’ve committed is being transgender. This act is the final brutal nail in the coffin that solidifies my status as a bad child forever but I wouldn’t change it for anything. Since moving out I was able to start hormone therapy, change my name (surname included), connect with local trans groups and even gather the courage to come out to my sister who I’m slowly reconnecting with. I no longer fantasize about killing myself every day and have things I even look forward to. In fact at the time of writing this I have a tattoo appointment scheduled for next week. I’m finally at a stage in my life when it seems like I’m actually living but even so, in the opinion of relatives, these are the actions that make me definitively terrible. It feels odd to me, that all the things that have made, and continue to make me the happiest in life are also the things that my family, particularly my mother, deride as bad, evil and wrong. I mean, what point is there in having a child if you’re going to disavow them as a failure for trying to become happy?

This has all led me to one life changing realisation - being a bad child is not indicative of any moral failing on my part and neither myself, nor anyone else, has any obligation to be a good child if it means stripping yourself of individuality and happiness. By indulging in things that make me a bad child like LGBT+ books, piercings, tattoos and pursuing transition, I’ve created more happiness and fulfillment for myself than the path of a good child could ever hope to offer. Which is why I’m going to continue on, not just accepting but flaunting being the family disappointment. If being a bad child is the medal of honour that proves how hard I’ve struggled and how far I’ve come then I’m okay with that.