I am a person who is unsure how to write about herself. As a child, I would typically write about what I liked when prompted to describe myself. "Drawing, animals, Zelda, mommy." I don't think I knew then, either. Perhaps it makes sense; a youngling who has not the words yet to describe how it feels. Now I have those nouns, verbs, and adjectives, and still I struggle. I'm uncertain if this is a result of the baby animal that resides beneath my adultish flesh like a poorly-articulated mannequin, feigning growth, or evidence of the unpinnable human soul we each possess, metamorphizing without limit nor bias. I want to believe it is the latter, but then what of the mannequin child? Do I disregard her? Tell her to 'grow up', to 'stay', or that she is not tangible? Maybe this paragraph serves to paint more about me than any descriptor ever could.
But I will try futilely anyways.
As of writing, I see myself as a queer amalgamation both in the literal and cultural sense of that first word. A human, yes, undeniably. But one that has always acted inhuman-like; one that jumps upon unexpected noise or touch, however slight; one that sneaks around on the tips of her toes; one that hunches and sways her shoulders when investigating something as if to pounce upon it; one that feels the pressure of ears where they do not exist; one who wags her right foot when excited, stimulated, or otherwise interested; one who kneads and claws with her thin fingers; one who purrs too realistically, earning disbelief from her companions; one who was nicknamed "Beast" in childhood due to her inclination to suddenly tackle and bite the ankles of those who dared to walk past the table she hid herself under. I chalk this behavior up to an autistic brain coping with its differences and trauma in a way that stuck rather than other (valid yet non-applicable) ideas of "therianthropy". Growing up, I couldn't relate to other people in a way that clicked, but when with animals, I felt assured. Not explicitly for the fact that they could not express their judgement of me, but because their methods made more sense. The best way I can put it is that, simply, I find how cats react to things more relatable and reasonable than how humans typically react to things.
So while you cry, I may stare owlishly for a moment too long, outwardly appearing indifferent to your pain, when in fact I am writhing inside like an insect sprayed by pesticide empathy. In a world where you would let me, I would tentatively crawl to you, bump you with my warm, peach-fuzzed cheek, and purr to drown out your troubles. I feel human emotions through the filter of a primitive brain, or, I feel animal emotions through the filter of a complex brain. The highlight here is that I do still feel. I was ashamed of my more animalistic tendencies until recently, when I realized I didn't actually care enough to harbor a sort of Catholic guilt about it. It is not as if I am prancing about outdoors this way, disturbing the peace: my mannerisms are mostly reserved to environments where I feel secure, like my house. Though, I would be lying if I said I do not get these instincts in public, or occassionaly and involuntarily show teeny glimpses of my natural reactions around others. I simply learned to mask, as the majority of my fellow-minded brethren have. C'est la vie.
On the other hand, a queer amalgamation for my untypical identity. A woman, a man, a shemale, a transsexual, a gay dyke, a lesbian cub, a bisexual femme, a faggot tranny, a butch-lover, a hermaphrodite, a gender-non-conforming gender-conformist. There is more in me, but I think you understand what I'm trying to convey; I am too complicated to work within the bounds of labels, and yet I try. Why? I guess because I tell myself it's better than nothing... And, regrettably, can be somewhat fun and euphoric-- when you forget the overwhelming stress that hits when you do go outside as your strange little self in a world that is constantly considering whether or not to filet you alive. Most days, I just settle on 'GNC lesbian trans girl who uses she/any pronouns'. Sometimes I throw in my whiteness, jewishness, or disabledness for good measure, too.
Do you want the run-down? You probably want the run-down. Here's the run-down: I'm twenty-one and I don't know who I am. That isn't really an issue or a crisis in my eyes. How I see it, we change so often as individuals that it's hard to ever fully know ourselves as a definitive, single thing. Maybe I could be described as kind, yet I'm not sure I believe in good and evil, and "kind" inherently comes across as some sort of endorsement of my person. In other words, biased; subjective. I'm fine proposing that I sound awfully pretentious for that, though... hah. My bottom line is that human beings are far too fluid to attempt to trap within the porous vise of our very language. I can comfortably say I am beautiful, rare, arousing, and impressive not for anything I've ever done but for merely being born to Homo sapiens.
If you read everything, I love you.
If you didn't and are only reading this last part, I love you.
If you understand nothing or disagree, I love you.
Thank you for being human with me. You can call me Safona, Kotku, or Kitty. Or, if you want, just 'phi1l1y'.
~ BONUS! CHILD-ME ALSO GETS HER WAY OF DOING THINGS: