Elektra. Complex.

So glad you asked this.

What I’m about to say is not to be perverted into something twisted or kinky in any way.

Back in my initial heyday of diapers and littleness, I subtly confessed my secret to my mom. Not to shock or upset her, but just innocently and vulnerably, I wanted to share with her, what felt like an exciting discovery about myself. She seemed unalarmed.

She was very cool about it. She was one of very few people who knew about my secret in real life.

We never talked at length about it; it didn’t get brought up, but she started sewing me Hello Kitty cloth diapers. 🥹

I never used them as diapers - mostly used them as dishtowels in my kitchen, but every so often she would deliver a new one to me. (She also sewed me a super cute pair of ruffled panties that were a perfect diaper cover.)

It’s so crazy because we butted heads so much. We had a very complicated relationship. But damn. She always loved me. She always supported me. She sewed me fucking diapers for christs sake. Just to be supportive. Just to give a silent nod of approval to whatever little thing made me happy. Just to be my mom, no matter the situation.

I’ve been bracing myself to lose her since one horrible night when I was 15 years old. She didn’t mean to, but she inadvertently taught me to always keep up that little bit of a wall with anyone who would be hard to lose.

Now she’s gone. The terrible thing I’ve dreaded for years and years, is fucking here.

It’s a lot.

I forgive her. I hope she forgives me. To her absolute credit, she never again tried to check out early. I never could let her all the way back in. We still loved each other. She still was my mom no matter what weird secrets I confessed to her.

So to answer the question, surprisingly, yes. My mom knew I wore diapers sometimes. And she loved me just the same.

And I will miss knowing that kind of love exists out there for me.

My mom died today.

In my opinion, she died 5 days ago, when the vehicle she was in fell 20 feet off of a cliff and she was trapped there, unconscious, without a pulse, for longer than we can confidently confirm.

She never came all the way back. Even though they resuscitated her, and expertly delivered her to the very best care I’ve ever personally witnessed.

But she was never coming back. And, I was never again going to exist in a world where she also was.

I’ve never done this part of life before. But I suppose I’m doing it.

This has been a very surreal experience.

Tonight, while I had a random thought of her, I realized, as if it were the first time, that she no longer is.

She was.

And I told myself “it’s going to be like this for a while.”

I’m giving myself some space to mess up while I process this reality. I will be sort of dramatic about it sometimes. I will also come across as callous about it sometimes. I’m just trying to figure it out.

It’s 3am, and I’ve finally washed off the urban grime of a city that isn’t mine, the traumatic scent of intensive care, and the initial layer of life-changing circumstance.

And as soon as I eat the food I just ordered, I’ll go to sleep; I’ll dream about her, and I’ll wake up tomorrow wondering for a second where I am, and what the hell has happened.

Tomorrow-me will quickly remember, and the weight of it will be crushing, but I’ll get up, and I’ll get dressed, and I’ll finish living the rest of my whole entire life.

My life won’t ever be the same as it was yesterday - In a way I can’t describe, and can’t convey - but in a way that someday everyone else will also know. Because this is life.