"Did something happen to you to make you like that?"

Nothing "made" me ace like nothing "made" you ask me that.

I've known who I am for a long time. For forever. When my sisters and everyone around me start taking notice to either boys or girls and I was left out early on, of course I knew something was up.

Watch me try my hardest to embrace myself—of course I've accepted this. It's who I am and there's nothing wrong with that. There's something wrong with my shoulders raising up in mixed company, anticipating the topic coming up.

"Oh, Meredith is actually—"

Once I already can't speak for myself and look there, I'm outed, then there's nothing else to say. Smiling and nodding while everyone makes some sort of bid to "turn me normal" or some way of convincing me that I'm just confused? That's pain, man. My blood is boiling and my stomach churns louder and louder just to try and shut you out.

But when you ask me stupid questions, you're saying that my pain is a necessary sacrifice for your opinion to get out there in the world.

Maybe you happened to me. I was fine before you started to talk.