When did you realize you were being gaslit by your entire family

The Role of the Ghost Son

My parents only had me, so I could play the role of my dead little brother. My parents chose my gender for me, and now I want to switch back.

I was six when my mom started calling me Mikey instead of Matilda. I recognized the name immediately.

It was the name of my dead baby brother that my mom miscarried before me, the one they always talked about.

Well, I didn’t want to be difficult, so I responded without complaint. But from there, it was like a switch had flipped.

First, the Barbies disappeared from my room, replaced with Hot Wheels tracks. Mom would beam whenever I crashed toy trucks together instead of brushing doll hair.

Dad bought me a baseball glove for my seventh birthday, even though I’d circled the Easy Bake oven in the Toys R Us catalog. And it was around this time that I learned that getting my parents to love me was infinitely more important than what I wanted.

So by the time I was in elementary school, I’d perfected the act. Cargo shorts, graphic T-shirts with sharks on them, hair buzzed short every three weeks at Frank’s barber shop.

The first time I used the boy’s bathroom, my hands shook so bad I could barely work the zipper. But I did it for them.

Naturally, this led to a few questions arising, but I’d always shut them down with authority and tell them this is just how things are. Or at least as much authority as a seven-year-old can humanly possess, lol.

Eventually, I think my teachers actually started believing I was a boy because the questions faltered. And you know what’s messed up? The better I got at being Mikey, the more they loved me.

Dad started taking me to Nicks games. Mom made my favorite chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday, ruffling my short hair while calling me her perfect little man.

She’d get this look in her eyes sometimes, staring at me like she was seeing someone else. At night, I’d lie in my NASCAR sheets and imagine what it would feel like to paint my nails purple and be called Matilda.

That was my real name, the one they’d picked before they wanted me to be someone I wasn’t. But then I’d remember how Mom cried on the anniversary of Mikey’s due date. And I’d push those dreams down deeper.

Middle school was when the cracks started showing. I had to tape down my chest to flatten what was growing. Wore hoodies in summer to hide my changing shape.

The worst part was Dad. He’d get this uncomfortable look whenever I slipped up, giggled too high, sat with my legs crossed wrong, gestured too delicately.

He never said anything, just cleared his throat and looked away. But he knew. We both knew.

And we both kept pretending. Then came the morning I woke up to blood. I was fifteen and thought I was dying.

I ran sobbing to my parents’ room, pajama bottoms soaked red. Mom took one look and went pale. “Get out,” she screamed.

“Get out. Get out. Get out.” Dad grabbed my shoulders, steered me to the hallway. His hands were shaking.

“Matilda,” he said. My real name sounded foreign in his mouth.

“We need to talk.” That’s when he told me everything.

“When you were born a girl, Mom couldn’t handle it,” Dad whispered. The doctor said playing along might help her heal. Rage boiled my blood.

“Nine years,” I said. “You made me pretend for nine years.” It was the first time my family gave me permission to be angry.

And now it was all coming out at once. “Just do it for a little longer,” he begged for her. “Please, you’re all she has left of him.”

I felt something inside me break. “I’m done being your ghost.” The next day, I took my babysitting money to Target.

Bought everything Mikey was supposed to hate.

Sundresses, lip gloss, hair clips, pink everything. The girl at the register smiled and said I had great taste.

I almost cried right there in the checkout line. Mom was waiting when I got home. As soon as she saw the bags, her face went dark.

“What did you do?” “I’m done being Mikey,” I said, pulling out a yellow sundress. “My name is Matilda.”

She grabbed the kitchen scissors so fast I didn’t see it coming. Started shredding the dress, screaming about how I was culling her baby all over again.

Dad tried to stop her, but she turned on him. Scissors raised. That’s when I dialed 911.

The cops separated us. A social worker with tired eyes asked me questions while Mom sobbed in the kitchen.

“I need to see some documents,” she said. Birth certificates, medical records. Dad returned with papers, hands trembling.

The social worker spread them across our table, cross-referencing on her tablet. Her frown deepened. “Mr. Peterson, you said your son died in 2009.”

“March 15th,” Mom whispered. “I held him for six minutes.”

The social worker showed her screen to her partner. They exchanged a look that made my stomach drop.

“There’s no death certificate on file. No birth certificate either.” In fact, she scrolled.

“There’s no record of your wife giving birth at any hospital that year.” These medical files show her only pregnancy was with Matilda.

The room spun. Mom started laughing. This broken sound.

Before anyone could say anything else, my mom screamed, “He was real. I have proof. The shoe box.” I stopped listening after that because that’s when I knew my life had been ruined for no other reason than my mom being an effing psycho.