Hello. My name is Tanya. I'm an eighteen-year-old only child. Tanya isn't my real name; I'm using it as a pseudonym to protect my identity. My name is false, but my story is fact - sadly. ...... I apologize for the direct and simple style...
My name is Tanya. I'm an eighteen-year-old only child.
Tanya isn't my real name; I'm using it as a pseudonym to protect my identity.
My name is false, but my story is fact - sadly.
I apologize for the direct and simple style of my writing; I need to tell you this quickly.
You see, I'm not allowed on-line - I'm taking a risk here.
I'll begin three years ago when I was a carefree fifteen year old. Everything was going good — life was sweet.
Being an only child I never wanted for anything, Mum and Dad indulged me.
I had noticed a shift in my parent's relationship: increased bickering, more silences, a tension between them. But it wasn't anything I worried about — until it was too late.
My own father abducted me.
It wasn't your classic 'snatched' type of abduction — no — I went with him willingly.
He told me we were going on Holiday, to Europe and Mum would follow a week later when she had finished work. It made sense.
I've since learned that this trip had been years in the planning.
I have literally vanished. My missing person pictures are still running on milk cartons and posters back home.
I'll never be found, unless I give myself up. Even if I did that, I doubt anyone would believe my story - it's beyond comprehension.
My father and I landed somewhere in Eastern Europe. We travelled by hire car through a large and chaotic city, which gave way to thrusting highways and then small winding country roads.
We passed through tiny villages and dense dark woodland. The roads became narrower as the landscape became ever more remote.
My unease began to grow as large as the trees that surrounded us.
I noted the signal on my phone vanish as we climbed ever higher.
At some point I remember saying, "Dad, this is really creepy!" When he didn't answer me I was hit with a cold blast of fear.
Suddenly — I was frightened of my own father - and where he was taking me.
We arrived at a place that was almost impenetrable — I doubt a vehicle other than our 4X4 would have made it.
The main house was an ancient stone built building, covered almost entirely in creeping growths of every kind — it reeked of old age and secrets.
Smaller, equally decrepit buildings lay sprawled about the isolated space.
As my father walked with a knowing stride toward the front door, I realised with another shot of fear - he'd most certainly been here before.
I can't recall much of my first week in isolation. My father locked me in one of the smaller out houses, visiting me three times a day with meals and medication.
The medication made me feel: weird, confused, scared.
I continually asked for a reason: was I sick?
He gave me no answers.
My father was perfectly pleasant to me, I even thought he seemed excited — he had these sudden bursts of exuberance, like the kind an expectant kid has the night before Christmas.
Then The Surgeon arrived.
My father and The Surgeon explained what was going to happen to me with a cold detachment. I had no choice in the matter. It was my father's wish, his dream and he would have it realised at all costs.
My father took great pride in reminding me that The Surgeon was highly experienced and respected - I already knew that.
All I can remember from what they told me on that day is an overriding sense of disbelief - that their words, their intentions were NOT real — surely?
When they showed me the State Of The Art Operating Theatre, located in one of the out houses, the truth of their intention slammed into me. Adrenaline flooded my body and I bolted like a horse at the start line.
But there was nowhere to run, no hiding place - my father and The Surgeon had made sure of that.
When the day of my surgery arrived, I was resigned to it. I was now sixteen; I'd had a year to get used to my fate.
I longed for a mother, for my old life. But as I lay on that operating table, blinded by the harsh surgery lights, I knew there was no going back.
Afterwards, I welcomed the physical pain that is the result of major surgery; it helped to hide the emotional hurt of what had been done to me.
I am young and my physical recovery was swift. And, I'm slowly adapting — every new day brings more acceptance, a greater understanding of their motive.
I have much to be grateful for: I'm alive, fit and healthy, pretty, popular, intelligent and I get lots of appreciative looks from the guys around here (attention I don't really want.)
Today, I have had a major set back — which is why I want to confess everything to you, my dear reader.
The Surgeon arrived back from a trip to my homeland this morning. I was given the cruelest of gifts, handed to me with a huge self-satisfied smile, "Take a look at this Tanya, you have to admit, I did a great job," said The Surgeon.
It's my missing persons poster.
I take it to my room.
I quietly cry when I look at the handsome young boy.
The words above the image of the smiling teenager read:
I weep for Thomas — he'll never be found. How can anyone find Thomas Miller, when he's now me, Tanya Lebowski?
My Father knows I'm upset. He opens my door, "Are you OK princess? That poster was a little insensitive," he says. "I'm fine Daddy," I lie, pushing the poster under my bed and running my fingers through my long hair.
My parents knew I would be their only child - they both craved a girl.
When Thomas was born, their disappointment was profound. My Father said they began to plan my gender reassignment surgery a week after I was born.
I can forgive my Father, but not my Mother.
I no longer see her as my Mother.
What kind of Mother would do this to her son?
You see — My Mother is The Surgeon.