You are nine years old and you do not fit into your body. Lockdown hits, you celebrate your birthday alone in your room, and you get sucked into a rabbithole of tiktok compilations about a world you never knew of before. A girl jumps in a field. A boy cries about how his mind doesn't match what it should like you, this is like you, you are like them, you are one and the same in this part of you even if you deny it. This is unfamiliar to you but it settles in your bones in a way you've never felt before. The thought crosses your mind - are you actually like they are? - but you ignore it. You're not. You're human. You know them, and understand them, but you're not like them.
You are. You just don't know it yet.
It's a thought that sticks in your mind sometimes. When the nights are cold, and the darkness comes closer, all you can think about is those videos you used to watch. Those creatures, so content in the knowledge of their wrongness, sharing a connection over something inside them that was broken. That's what it is, what it has to be, because you're not broken, and so they must be, because then you can't be one of them.
One of your friends is. You don't really talk to her much, but you know she is. She's cool. You research what it means, just for her, as it's always good to learn more about your friends. You don't quite understand what they mean. How do you identify as something you're not? Is that even an identity? You don't understand, but you still try to learn as much as you can. It's good to know.
Your friend says he doesn't like how dissimilar he is to the characters he loves and you see how happy he gets when he's compared to those same characters. You recognise it from the nameless hours you've spent searching the darkest depths of the internet. You assume he knows, but you're not like that, so you have no right to ask him about it.
He doesn't know. You don't either. But you will. Give it time.
You don't know when you realise. It's slow, like the tide coming in, the realisation as to who you are settling over you like a weighted blanket, heavy information weighing down upon you, comforting and terrifying.
You build a mask out of clay not even a week later. It doesn't help you, but its a start.
You make another mask, this time felted, and paint it over Christmas. You try to make a tail. It doesn't work that well, but you try. You have a bad day and make gloves with paw pads made out of hot glue. You learn a thousand different ways to make these things and slowly the wrongness you've felt ever since you were born leaves, piece by piece. You start a Tumblr to talk about it with creatures like you and your partner realises something similar. You are afraid to know but you are finally whole. You wish your friend a happy therianthropy day on bonfire night and you think she knows, now. You recognise your symbol on another friends bag and it makes you smile every time you see it. The world is not all good things but sometimes things are easier now.
Nine-year-old you would be proud, I think.
