Would you see me for who i really am?

[blueteddy]

There's this vision of myself—a little girl with long blonde hair, dressed in a simple, white sleeveless summer dress that flows just above the knees. She stands there, smiling softly with outstretched hands, reaching for something or someone, but her hands meet empty air. Her blue eyes hold a sadness that runs deep, and as silent tears fall, she keeps smiling, trying so hard to be strong for everyone around her. She hides her pain because she knows that, in some way, her pain makes people uncomfortable. She's learned that sharing it leads to blank stares, indifference, or even harm.

In my deepest core, I am still that little girl. She's soft, pure, innocent, and unguarded, but she's hidden away now, locked under layers of survival tactics I've built over the years. Society didn't make it safe for her. Every time I dared to show her, someone took advantage, treated her like she was weak, naive, something to be used. So, I became "genderfluid," but sometimes I wonder if that identity is just another mask, another layer of armor that shields her vulnerability from the world. I learned that if I appeared more masculine, if I acted tougher and less approachable, the world might leave me alone. And it has, to some extent. People avoid me to some extent, they think I can't be touch, they assume I don't need that tenderness and care I've always craved.

But the truth is, my genderfluidity feels less like freedom and more like survival. A defense mechanism. Because every time I allowed my true self—the little girl—to emerge, people misunderstood. They saw her gentleness, her innocence, her purity, and they tried to strip it away. And I am terrified that even my closest people, even those who love me, might not understand what this side of me needs. They see my resilience, my strength, the walls I've built, but they don't see her—she's always hidden, always pretending she's okay.

I think about how all this time, that little girl has just wanted someone—a real caregiver—to protect her, to bridge that gap between us. Someone who would understand her vulnerability without taking advantage of it, someone who would hold her close and not let go. She doesn't just need to embark her femininity and child self through art or clothes or makeup or plushies. She needs safety. She needs care. She needs the kind of love that's committed, that doesn't turn away.

But that gap keeps widening, and I am the only one holding onto both sides, trying not to lose her entirely. It feels like a duty, a commitment, to protect her when no one else has. And I can't tell if it's enough, if I am enough for her.

[AphoticAtramentous]

I am not genderfluid myself but my gender identity has definitely been impacted by my trauma, in ways that you similarly describe. It is, as you say, a way of adapting to the world, to become something else - because clearly what we were born with is apparently not up to other's desires or expectations. I think it is unfortunately a very natural tactic for us survivors, to subconsciously try different forms or appearances, maybe they are masks, but we are simply doing whatever we can to keep ourselves safe from harm.

I'm sorry you weren't given the care you deserve.

Regards,
Aphotic.