Yesterday my sister, who is off this week, drove my parents on a day trip.
It’s exactly a year since my sister threatened to call the authorities and lie to them about me being a danger to my parents so they would remove me from the house unless I complied with demands. My parents put her up to it; my father thought I might take it better from a “peer” than from an “authority figure.”
So I left a document for the parents to sign saying that over the past year I had never intentionally hurt them, nor had I threatened to hurt them, and that they felt safe over the year.
When I got back my sister was just leaving. She told me about the details of the trip.
My parents didn’t say anything, so I looked by the computer. They had signed it, my sister even choosing to make a line and sign.
That’s not the odd thing.
The odd thing is that no one said anything about it.
Not even “Thanks for taking care of us.”
Nothing.
My sister’s off this week. You might think she would try and make some time for me, take me out for a meal or a drink or some such.
Nope, nothing scheduled yet.
Silence.
And me hidden away, invisible as the transwoman I am, so I can’t even reach out for support.
I once had a co-worker who, when speaking of e-mails from me, said that he put them in the “too-hard basket.”
Maybe that’s where I will always live.
Callan 
I’ve been accused of something similar, I think — never giving a simple answer. My response was that there’s no such thing.
Maybe everybody’s too-hard, Callan, and it’s just more obvious with you and I? Don’t know. I only know one truly simple person, and he’s one of the problems in my life.
Actually, my biggest sin has always been about the questions I raise, not the answers I give.
That’s one definition of liminal; living in the questions rather than in the answers.
I suspect that if you are willing to live in the answers, you can be managed. It’s the questions that tend to tear things open.
Thanks for your comment.