Picture this conversation:

4-year-old child: why am I a boy? 😁

Parent: because you are a boy! 🙁

4-year-old child: but I don’t want to be a boy! Why do I have to be a boy? 🤔

Parent: well you are, so that’s it 😠

4-year-old child: why am I boy? 🤔

Parent: because you have a willy! 😤

4-year-old child: ………… 🤔……………but I don’t want to be a boy! 😩

Parent: sneering what you want to be, a girl? 🤪

4-year-old child: NO! No, I don’t want to be a girl!!! 😱 Why do I have to choose? 😓

(disdainful uncomfortable silence)

Parent: that’s what god gave you 👼 and you should be grateful that you are not a girl! 🤬

It not just the words—it’s the sneer. Sweep it under the carpet, there, problem solved!

That disgust carves itself into the Soul, hijacking identity, twisting it into something unrecognizable. “You do you” only happens in the movies!

Add to that stimming and “daydreaming” ….

So the obedience lessons begin—every day, drilling compliance into this tiny, stimming, daydreaming body.

And then the spiritual retreats. Pointed at, stared at, prayed over for hours. A dozen voices whispering for the holy something to ‘enlighten’ this boy. Great fix, right?

I guess at the 70s door, this was the mindset.

But then, being taken to a house and being called a girl, and then, hey what are you doing to me …

Take this, it’ll relax you. Now shake your butty … 

What just happened?

And then, somehow, the butt starts shaking where it shouldn’t, and the whispers get darker. ‘What are you doing?’ they say. ‘You’re filthy.’ A child being used suddenly becomes the problem. One moment powerless, and the next, possessed by a Sex Demon.

Suddenly, it’s not their fault—it’s the child’s.

And more retreats—surreal villas on foggy plains, surrounded by unreachable woods. Ominously paraded in front of dozens, made to kneel. They chant hypnotically, slap eagerly, pour holy water zealously, and smear unwashable oil. They cast their prayers like stones at Mary Magdalene, calling out the ‘evil.’  The larger the conference, the bigger the rituals. Relentless! And when done with the prayers, back into isolation, locked away listening to the distant laughs of other children eating and playing.

it’s a bit much for an 8-year-old child.

Thank the brain for creating a dissociated community of children inhabiting an 8-year-old child and saving our life!

Oh wait, grateful? Don’t know. There are things worse than death. Like life.

But hey, at 55, we finally broke the spell. Three years later, we’re fully out—our authentic, agender self. The Zombie Children are still with us, but they’re not as quiet anymore. They whisper now, they reach out—and you know what? They’re proud of us. Our inner children—our survivors—are proud of us. It only took five decades. Yay!