this is going to touch on plurality, otherkin stuff, and psychosis
i'm also dissociating as i write this so, y'know, strap the fuck in
I. i am* a human existing in this reality
existence has never felt right for me. this body has always felt awkward. even when it was thin it felt the wrong shape, and then some fucking idiot of a pediatrician told my mom to fatten me up.
it never felt right mentally, either. something's clearly wrong when you have to tell your imagination, out loud, to stop looping or doing the wrong thing. it makes adults Worry About You, so it's easier to just, y'know, not have an imagination.
it was always easier to perceive reality as a form of narrative. approaching it like a book or a movie or a tv show made it easier to get through each day, to parse every self-revelation, to deal with every dumb attempt at being social i carried out as a teen.
but at a certain point i started feeling like i wasn't the main character. i don't remember if that was because people stopped talking to me and left me on the periphery of their lives, or if it was to deal with that, but they're certainly connected.
at a certain point it felt like transitioning would let me to steal the pen from whoever was writing this schlock.
II. i am a mouse/dragon/crow(s) existing in this reality
i'm not human. i've never been human. to some extent i've always been something that isn't human, but mouse is what makes the most sense for me.
except for the times i'm a dragon, or a crow(s).
i know this body looks human, but that's a quirk of reality. a glitch. none of it's right anyway. people who don't understand will never understand, so i just don't deal with them, or tell them.
but i'm a mouse. i live here on earth and i have partners and friends and some semblance of a life that involves existing as a mortal being.
III. i am a strategist, dying of the narrative, existing outside of this reality
i'm not human. i may have been human once, but the story of my life just kept hurting me and killing me. over and over and over. i'd wake up, my deaths out of continuity, like a sitcom where nothing matters from episode to episode.
but i could tell it was a glitch. i knew. so i grabbed it. i grabbed onto that glitch and it became a pen and i can write my own story.
but it's not my story. it's alphy's story.
i'm alphy, but i'm not. i'm a layer up. i have my own story i'm playing out, but i can try to make its better.
i think.
we'll see how good of a writer i am.
IV. i am bouncing back and forth between the writer and the written, and i cannot tell where i am at any given moment
i don't know how to ground myself to one or the other. i'm scared.
