Dear mother of dragons...

Dear Khaleesi,

Wow, this is going to be so difficult. I **really** don’t want to do this, but my therapist says it will be good for me, so here goes.

I know this is going to be difficult for you, too. After all, you’ve defined yourself by the fact of being my mother for so long.

I mean, I know things were difficult for you, too. I know you had just lost dad, and there was that whole thought-you-were-about-to-be burnt to death thing.

But still. Other mums go through tough stuff, right? I heard of more than one mother who actually died giving birth to her son. Sometimes - I feel awful saying it - but sometimes I think maybe things would have worked out better that way for all of us. After all, I never asked to be hatched.

The truth is, I think I spent half my life trying to live up to your idea of me.

You were always so keen on fire. Like, really keen.

Drakaris this, drakaris that. And you only had to say the word, and we would leap over one another trying to do what you wanted. I have to say, with a little perspective, that seems pretty sick to me. I can’t believe the stuff you made me do. The stuff you made all three of us do.

Dot - that’s my therapist - thinks that’s where a lot of my issues come from. I never told you this, but all that freshly roasted meat, all those singed and charred pieces of flesh: when I ate them, I was thinking of salads.

I really was.

BTW, I think you should know - I’m a vegan now. Dot says I’m just trying to make up for guilt, guilt I don’t need to carry. But I can’t help it. And I’ve lost so much weight! My scales are just hanging off me. You’d say I look too thin, but that’s only because you’ve always relied on me to hold your inner anger. Can you imagine what the stuff does to a kid? To have to be a receptacle for the burning rage of their mother? For so long, I thought those were my emotions. But they weren’t. Not really. They were yours.

OK.

Breathe, Drogon, breathe.

Stay centred.

Namaste.

That’s what I do now, whenever the anger wells up.

I just remind myself that it’s your anger, and I do my breathing.

And I try not to accidentally set fire to anything, obviously.

Fine.

So much for how you raised me.

Then there was the abuse. The trauma. The neglect.

Most mothers, they think having some stability for their kids is a good thing. You know: familiarity, building relationships, the importance of routines.

And what did you do?

You marched us half way round the world! No sooner had I got settled in one place, than we were off.

And always razing places! I hated razing.

Bloody hated it.

You called yourself my mother, but I never came first. Not really.

Do you remember the time you locked my siblings in the dungeons beneath the city? I mean, dick move, mum! Even for you, that was a pretty shitty thing to do. And all for the sake of a few charred bones! And I mean, what did you expect? You had spent the last few years telling us to burn anything you didn’t like the look of!

It was just really shoddy parenting, that’s all.

I just wish someone had called social services.

Things would have worked out so differently.

The thing is, I was never going to be the son you wanted me to be.

It was all an act. It was what you wanted, and so that was what I pretended to be. But underneath…it just wasn’t me.

OK, so now we are coming to it.

This is what I’ve been wanting to say to you for so long. Dot said I won’t get closure until I confront you about it. So here goes.

Mum, I never identified as a dragon.

I know that was how you saw me. I know that was how I looked.

But inside, I always felt different.

I spent so long fantasising, so long imagining myself in a different body.

Now I am finally making it happen.

Sure, sometimes I get called names - then I have to try really hard to remember I’m a vegan now, and that I don’t want to go around burning people to death, even nasty ones.

Sure, I’m fully grown now, and nothing I can do will unstitch my biology.

But none of that matters.

What matters is I’m living my best possible life.

I’m finally being on the outside, who I’ve always felt I was on the inside.

Mum: I’m a human now.

I might look big, sometimes I feel really ungainly. But I’ve got the right outfits. I found a specialist in NYC who makes clothes for, shall we say, the larger gentleman.

The larger gentleman who needs special slits cut in the shirts for the wings to go through, I mean.

I know what you’re thinking.

It’s so predictable. Sad, really.

You’re thinking, will I get the operation?

Well, maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

Modern techniques are really something. I know this one dragon from my group - Smaug the Magnificent is his name, but we just call him Smouy - anyway, he’s post-op, and he gets mistaken for a human all the time. It’s amazing.

But whether or not I get the operation, you know now.

That’s the important thing.

I’m out.

I’m a human.

I don’t like roasting people alive. I don’t like soaring across the world, bringing death and misery to whole continents. It’s just not my thing.

Sorry/not sorry.

And now that I’ve finally, finally said it…

Well, I still love you.

That’s the truth, too.

For all the problems, all your mistakes.

I love you, mum.

After all, you’re only human.

***

Thanks for reading!