Musing on the beginnings of an idea, sorting out a path to explore a more artificial alternate, but no less real, version of the disaster lesbian you all know and love.
CW: Dysphoria, Euphoria, Death
You know how you felt, and you know how not to feel, so from this you can figure out who you are. You are not this, so you must be that.
That is the lie you tell yourself so you can sleep at night, because wondering if this really is it? If this skin will ever fit? If the thoughts of wrongness will fade?
Dreading whenever you wake up as you are, with this weight on your chest making it so difficult to breathe?
Everybody must feel this way. You're not special. You're not unique.
If you spend too long there, that's sure to drive you mad. So you look to others for examples, the strong masculine features that make you certain you are a man. Examples of how to be right. This is just how it is.
You do what's expected, because what other choice is there?
And even though you spent your whole life figuring that out, trying to live as you should... It doesn't last, that tenuous balance.
Lots of ways this could happen, but honestly? It can be as simple as a question that trips you up. Making you ask not, "Will this ever get better?" and instead "Why can't it be better?"
So you start over.
The self-discovery is intense as you try to unlearn 'you-that-was' and find 'you-that-is'. It is painful as you consider all of that wasted time in a shell you didn't really live in, in the first place, but gods did you try. You let resentment go because this is another thing there is no point in dwelling on, let's face it;
How much time do you really have left? Do you want to spend it sobbing over what could have been? How unfair life was?
No.
So you push into this new era. The new self.
You let yourself find joy in small things. Smiles hidden in words like, 'pretty'. The feeling of soft cloth on even softer flesh. The swell of a heart ready to burst when you look into a mirror, and finally, blissfully see your eyes alive for the very first time.
Recognizing you.
You forget about the last body. That itchy suit that always made you uncomfortable. You embrace this existence with everything you have because this is you.
You found you.
A new life with all the possibilities of wonder it holds.
Finally, finally you wake up, and breathe.
And then?
It's over in an instant. At least that was what it felt like for her. All gone in a flash of light.
She was lost, she was found, and then she was lost again. So went the life of the late blooming supervillain. The struggle between right and wrong was real. Magic was real, and apparently so were functional disintegration rays.
Consciousness floating, not in the wrong body, not in the right body, just... existing.
"... Shit."
