#i think with the trans and anti drag panic hitting the US

[goongiveusnothing]

Did you see the clip of him at James’ after party? He has such loser vibes. Same wiener energy as the ones in the Emrata video. He better figure out a way to melt his botox and go back to not looking like a creepy old druggie. My cousin, who is a massive harrie, is expressing displaced anger because she can’t cope so many people are saying he’s very ugly now. She’s been messaging people and telling them he doesn’t look like he smells - no one even brought that up lol - and if anyone looks old and weird it’s ot4. Now all of a sudden, this girl who knows a small few of his songs is saying that she’s only there as a fan of Harry’s music and artistry. She doesn’t care how he looks. She’s such a shit liar lol. Her tumblr account is all old pictures of him and reblogs of when he still looked good. She rarely posts current photos because they don’t look…. as pleasing hahahaha

Link to James video

https://twitter.com/hrrybland/status/1652049615879823360/mediaViewer?currentTweet=1652049615879823360&currentTweetUser=hrrybland

to me he gives off weird sad uncle energy. like that one uncle who always thought he was the most funny or interesting or crazy and they were just middle aged.

also fans are denying he's smoking and claiming it's just a toothpick, but why would he repeatedly need to put a toothpick to his mouth? who does that? just randomly singing and inserting a toothpick into your mouth? considering one person there said he was off his face on mushrooms it makes more sense it's drug or cigarette related.

i said his looks will be his downfall. he's also just cringe. the one consistent thing is how utterly mortifying his behaviour is and like i said, i feel like it was workable when he was an actual teenage boy, but he's almost 30 and he's still doing the exact same routines and cheeky child antics, it looks fucking weird. so i'm still predicting in a few years harry will not be able to sell as much and i also predict some of his hardcore fans who attend all his shows will be denying they were his biggest fans. we've already seen some do that already.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Don’t Run

Prompts: hello hello hello i have a merlin fic idea (which you are Not obligated to write /gen) merlins been hiding his magic from arthur for ages (but arthur already knows about it, doesnt really care, and has just been waiting for merlin to tell him on his own terms). merlins magic gets revealed and merlin is Terrified. he basically begs aurthur to not burn him and instead banish him or something. arthur (who was not expecting this) decides hey maybe its a good idea to let all these emptions calm down before I talk about this with him because clearly merlin isnt okay right now. and so he leaves merlin to let him have a break. but merlin freaks (or gets kidnapped or something idk /lh) and decides 'fuck it time to run before he decides to kill me.' arthur now has to go find this magic dumbass (he's probably very worried about him) However, when he finds merlin, merlin assumes arthur is there to kill him and figures 'well if arthur wants me dead i suppose i'll have to die' or something.  arthur is naturally horrified and rushes to clear things up. again, if you dont want to write this/dont feel comfortable writing it, dont /gen (i know its detailed brain went brrrr at like midnight and thought this up lmao) have a great day!!! drink water or get bonked /lh - anon

me, as the angsty person i am, am a sucker for the 'Person A gets kidnapped or captured for a bit and when they're rescued think they're dreaming/hallucinating' trope. no pressure for you to write this ofc, feel free to ignore this /gen - anon

prompt: can you please do a Merlin gets betrayed by someone he cares about h/c fic? also can merlin be aroace and trans? - anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: panic attacks, betrayal, anti-magic sentiments

Pairings: merthur, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 3725

It was supposed to be a normal hunt. It was supposed to be a normal hunt. 

It was supposed to be this: they get out of the castle so Arthur can be less of a prat, the knights have that weird banter that they always do where it’s ‘we can make fun of him but if anyone else tries, you will be eviscerated,’ and Merlin gets to enjoy being in the woods because it’s nice outside and he doesn’t actually have to do that much. They only tend to hunt small things like rabbits and birds anyway. 

It was not supposed to be most of the knights having to stay behind for various reasons, including Gwaine who somehow got swept into helping Leon with a council thing. 

It was not supposed to be just him, Arthur, and three random knights. 

It was not supposed to end like this. 

Merlin grunts, hitting the ground hard as a sword slams into his back. He gasps, struggling to find purchase on the loose dirt as the sound of shouts reach his ringing ears. He turns over, trying to get up, only to have the point of a sword leveled at his face. 

“G-Gareth?”

Gareth, the knight who had actually been decent to him—which meant he’d helped put away his equipment, helped Merlin tidy up, and actually been nice to him—snarls down at him, sword still aimed right at his throat. 

“What—what’s going on?”

“Don’t play dumb, you wretched thing,” the man growls, the point of the sword perilously close to slitting his throat, “I’ve had my eye on you since I came to Camelot.”

“Your eye on me—what? What’re you talking about?”

“As if you don’t know!”

Merlin’s breathing grows ragged as the sword forces his head back down on the ground. Gareth leans over him, spittle flying from his lips. 

“You’re poison,” hisses the same mouth that called him kind, called him compassionate, called him hopeful, “you’re a plague that deserves to be wiped out. Scum and traitors, all of you, inhuman bastards that drag the rest of us down to your level.”

It’s the shock of the words that does it, bringing tears to Merlin’s eyes as the conviction in the man’s face drives the sword down further. “G-Gareth, I—“

“Don’t.” 

He winces as the sword digs in. 

“Keep my name out of your hell mouth,” the man spits, “don’t try and curse me.”

“What,” says the most glorious and furious voice Merlin has ever heard, “is the meaning of this?”

Arthur.

Arthur storms up to them, his own sword drawn, eyes like flame as he sees Gareth with his sword at Merlin’s throat. 

“Drop it,” he warns in a voice of steel, “and I might just let you keep your life.”

“He’s a sorcerer, sire.”

Merlin’s blood runs cold. 

No. 

No. 

No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. 

Not like this. Arthur wasn’t supposed to find out like this. No, he was—he was going to tell him, promise, he was but—but after, after everything was fine and fixed and then—then he could—

Not like this. Please, not like this. 

“A sorcerer? Merlin? You must be joking.”

“It’s no joke, sire.” Gareth snarls again. “I saw him with my own eyes. His eyes glowed, he threw a spear halfway across the arena without his hands. He has magic, I tell you.”

Merlin looks helplessly at Arthur but all he sees is a stony face. The blade turns him back after a second, back into the face of contempt and hatred and all the things that hurt far worse than any sword. 

“We must kill him,” Gareth says solemnly, “to root out the poison before it destroys us all.”

And before Merlin can say anything, before Arthur can say anything, he lifts the sword and makes to swing. 

“Merlin!”

A blast and Gareth is flying back across the clearing, smacking against the tree and falling to the ground with a clang. 

It rings in the still air. 

Merlin’s eyes widen. 

He doesn’t hear the cries of sorcerer, magic, evil over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He doesn’t see the light glint off of blades as they’re pulled from scabbards. He doesn’t feel the threat of others getting closer over the dread of what he’s just done. 

He’s killed himself. 

He used magic to hurt one of the knights of Camelot. 

He revealed himself in front of Arthur. 

What have I done?

“Sire, what do we do?” He hears the voice from a mile away. “I’ve never killed a sorcerer before.”

Never killed a sorcerer before. 

He’s asking Arthur how to kill a sorcerer. 

Arthur knows how to kill a sorcerer. 

Arthur has killed a sorcerer before. 

Arthur is going to kill me. 

Merlin shies away from them, curling up into a ball before realizing that could be seen as defiance and whimpering, throwing himself to his knees with his hands raised. 

“I’ll go,” he croaks, “I’ll—I’ll leave, you’ll never see me again, just—just let me go. Banish me instead.”

Please, just let me run. 

He can’t look at Arthur’s eyes, filled with rage and contempt like Gareth as he strikes him down. He can’t look at him like that, he can’t do it. He won’t survive that alone. It wouldn’t be the sword that kills him. 

“Please—please, I’ll go. I’ll go and you’ll never see me again,” he begs, “just—just let me go.”

“Pathetic,” another one of them says, “is that the best he can do? I’ve seen a dog beg better than that.”

Arthur still hasn’t said anything. 

“We need to kill him, sire,” Gareth says—oh, he must’ve gotten up— “who knows what he could do?”

Merlin finally looks up, if only to see how close they all are, and his eyes lock with Arthur’s. 

He can’t see any of the man he knows. 

“Return to camp,” says the stranger who wears Arthur’s face, “pack the supplies. We must make ready for a hasty retreat back to Camelot.”

“But sire—“

“Now.”

Two of the knights glance at each other and slowly begin to back away. Gareth remains for a moment longer. 

“Be wary, sire,” he says, “he’s tricky. Did his best to seduce me, he’s a wily one.”

“I can handle him. Go.”

Gareth shoots one last truly disdainful look at him before he retreats into the undergrowth, the sheen of his sword the last to vanish. 

Then it’s just the two of them. 

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, “Arthur, please—“

“Shut up.”

The words are different. They’re not playful, not irritated, not—not Arthur. They’re cold. Impersonal. An order. They strike Merlin like rocks from a sling, making him flinch into a sharp rock that jabs right through the thin material of his trousers. His throat closes until only pained and pitiful whines can escape. 

They remain where they are for a long moment before Arthur begins to retreat as well, sword still held aloft, backing away until he’s far enough that Merlin can hardly see him. Only then does he turn. 

Merlin watches the single spot of red walk away from him until it vanishes into the forest. 

His magic tingles in the tips of his fingers and a soundless yell burns his throat as he shoves his hands against his chest, trying to make it go away, this is all your fault, you ruined everything, you always ruin everything!

He has to run. He has to run because sorcerers die in Camelot, they’re put to the sword or burned at the stake and he can’t look at Arthur while he kills him. He can’t. He just can’t. He’d sooner die of that than whatever execution they can dream up. 

With stumbling and clumsy steps that are dragged down by his traitorous magic that for some reason doesn’t want him to flee from the site of his execution, he scrambles to his feet and runs. 

If Arthur—if Arthur finds him after this, he can say he tried to run. He can run again, he’ll keep running. He’ll spend his life running if it means Arthur won’t kill him and he won’t have to see it. 

He runs harder and faster than he’s ever run before because Arthur is a warrior who’s been trained to kill since birth and he’s stronger and faster and can run for longer and if he catches Merlin—

He loses track of where he is. He just runs. 

But his magic, his damned magic, that has always loved Arthur more than it loves him, won’t let him. 

Like a tether from his navel that twists through the forest, he knows exactly where Arthur is. And exactly when he starts to give chase. 

A wretched sob tears itself from his throat and he pushes on, his magic dragging him back each step as Arthur gets closer, closer, closer, and he’s no longer just hearing his own breath and phantom footsteps as he crashes through the woods. He can hear the snapping of twigs, the rustling of leaves, and that voice. 

That damned voice. 

“Merlin!”

He can’t stop. If he stops he dies. If he stops Arthur kills him. If he stops he—he—

His magic all but throws him over a root and he yelps, turning into a frightened scream as he’s pitched down a hill and into a boulder with a crack. 

“Merlin!”

Leaves rustle as Arthur skids down the hill after him and he’s so close, he’s right there and Merlin has to run, he has to run now, but his legs are shaking and his arms won’t work and his magic keeps tugging him back toward Arthur and he just collapses into a useless, cowering mess at Arthur’s feet. 

“Merlin!”

“No—no fire,” he gasps out, “please, you—you can do it here, I won’t fight, I won’t—you can use your sword, please, no fire, I don’t want to burn—please, no fire—“

A strong hand grips his shoulder and pulls him in to—

No sword pierces his chest. No dagger finds a home in his gut. There are no hissed words, no glares, no low solemn speeches about magic as a plague. 

He can’t even see Arthur anymore. Just the hill. There are two tracks in it. One where he fell and one where Arthur skidded after him. Red fabric flutters in front of him too. Arthur’s cape. 

Why can he see Arthur’s cape?

Only when a head turns and breath starts to puff over his neck does he realize what’s happened. 

“A-Arthur?”

“Don’t you ever,” Arthur says in a rush, chest still heaving against Merlin’s where he’s pulled him flush against him, legs tangled in a heap, “scare me like that again.”

He’s…he’s in Arthur’s lap. Arthur’s holding him. Arthur’s hugging him. 

Arthur has his face buried in Merlin’s neck and he’s telling him not to scare him like that again. 

“Arthur?”

“You,” he says, and he sounds like Arthur again—a very angry Arthur, but at least it’s Arthur— “are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

He pulls back and his eyes are still on fire but he’s looking at Merlin like a starving man. 

“Why did you run? You could’ve been hurt! You were hurt, you slammed into the rock like it broke your back.” He runs a hand over Merlin’s spine as if reassuring himself Merlin’s not hurt. “You idiot, I almost lost you.”

Merlin just blinks. Almost…lost him? Doesn’t Arthur want to kill him?

“Well?”

Oh. Arthur’s waiting for an answer. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

Arthur’s face goes white, slack in horror, then contorts anew in red rage. “No, Merlin, I’m not going to bloody kill you.”

“B-but you—“

“I didn’t want the others to try, you absolute petticoat,” he says, still glaring, “because you’re a little lamb who rolls over whenever anyone is trying to fight you except me—which is rude, by the way—and you wouldn’t so much as lift a finger to defend yourself if they tried!”

…that’s why he sent them away?

Arthur rolls his eyes when he voices that thought. “Yes, Merlin. They’re under the impression that they’re to start back to Camelot without me to gather reinforcements.”

Reinforcements—the knights—no— 

“Calm down, you idiot, they’re not actually going to—oh, for the love of—Merlin.”

Merlin listens to that. He freezes in Arthur’s arms as Arthur’s hand comes up to cup the back of his head. He stares at him pointedly, gaze flicking from one eye to the other. 

“I lied,” he says slowly as if he’s talking to a child, “so they would leave.”

“You…you did?”

“Yes. Because then I could talk to you about having magic—hey,” he says firmly as Merlin tries to pull away again, “none of that. Stay with me.”

Another order. He can do those. 

“Right. I wanted to talk with you about having magic so that now we can work together to keep things like this from happening and—where are you going?”

“What do you mean now,” Merlin asks, eyes widening as he tries anew to struggle away from Arthur, “what does that mean?”

“Merlin, I’ve known you’ve had magic for a while now, and—“

“You what?”

“Come on, you’re not exactly good at hiding it all the—hey!”

Merlin had flailed, succeeding in loosening Arthur’s grip and sending them both falling over. He scrambles up, trying to claw his way free but Arthur is faster and he’s on him in an instant. 

“This isn’t working,” he hears Arthur growl to himself before arms like steel bands close around him, hauling his back against Arthur’s chest as legs lace through his and pin him well and truly. 

“N-no—“

“Shh,” comes Arthur’s voice, suddenly soft and gentle and Merlin hates the way he instantly relaxes, “easy, now. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A truly pathetic whine leaves his mouth and Arthur hums. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” the gentle voice says again, “I’m not going to burn you and I’m not going to use my sword. You will not die.”

But he’s a sorcerer. Sorcerers die in Camelot. 

“I sent away the others to protect you. They’re not going to hurt you either. The knights—our knights—won’t let you be hurt and neither will I.” Arthur’s lips brush the shell of his ear. “You’re safe, Merlin. I’m going to protect you.”

“But,” Merlin gasps, “but I’m a sorcerer.”

“Yes,” Arthur says patiently, “you are. I’ve known that for a while. You are Merlin, you are a sorcerer, and I’m going to protect you.”

“Sorcerers die in Camelot. You—you should kill me.”

“I am not going to kill you. You are mine,” and there’s a hint of steel in his words now too, “and no one is going to touch you.”

His magic thrums in his veins and slowly, slowly his breathing slows. 

“If I let you go, will you run again?”

“N-no.”

“Alright.”

Arthur lets him go and Merlin doesn’t run. He lets Arthur turn him around and cup his neck again, the other hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look mad anymore. 

“Is that why you ran,” he asks, still speaking softly, “did you think I was going to kill you?”

When Merlin nods, looking away in shame, he just hums again. 

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“I know that now.”

“Mhm. So when we go back—“

“Back?” Merlin’s head jerks up. “You’re not banishing me either?”

“What part of ‘I’m going to protect you’ did you not understand?”

“B-but I thought—“

“No, you didn’t,” he says in that soft voice that makes the insult almost an endearment, “you didn’t think because you didn’t realize that I could never kill you or send you away. I’d sooner leave with you.”

His magic hums as if to verify the truth in his words. “You…you would?”

Arthur frowns, but it’s not an angry frown. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“How important you are.”

The forest seems to fall silent. 

Merlin’s eyes widen so much he’s afraid they’re going to fall out of his head. And Arthur’s just looking at him with his face all sincere and his voice is still soft and his hands are gentle where they hold Merlin like he’s something precious and—and—

“What?”

“All those jokes,” Arthur says, “about you and being replaceable and being the worst and a coward…I never really meant them. Never. Well, you are an awful servant, but none of the others. I don’t want you to leave.”

Slowly, like he’s coaxing a skittish animal to him, he pulls him closer. 

“I want you.”

Something in Merlin’s chest breaks and he’s sobbing into Arthur’s shoulder in the next moment, hands scrabbling uselessly at his cape, his armor, his hair, every bit of him that he can reach. Arthur weathers the storm like a castle in a gale, holding him tight enough that he won’t blow away. 

“I want you,” he whispers, sweet rain in the clouded sky, “I want you to stay, Merlin.”

————

He’s on his back. He’s got a sword at his throat. Arthur stares down at him like his glare is enough to burn him alive and he’s snarling out Merlin’s name. 

“Magic is a plague. You’re poison. You’ve betrayed me. How could you do this?”

Merlin can’t speak. His mouth trapped shut. Arthur lifts the sword. 

“You’re nothing but an inhuman beast,” come the words that hurt far more than any mortal weapon, “you, who cannot love, who are of twisted mind and body, you who do not understand what it is to be a human.”

All of the secrets he’d hoped to hide…exposed for the world to see.

“May all of Camelot curse your name,” he growls, “Merlin. Merlin, Merlin—“

“Merlin!”

Merlin gasps, jolting upright, trying to get away from the sword, just run—

“Merlin, calm down,” Arthur says, wrapping his arms around him and coaxing him to his chest, “it’s only a dream, Merlin, it’s only a dream.”

No, no, this must be the dream. Why would he be in Arthur’s chambers, at night, in bed, in bed with Arthur—this can’t be—

“Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs, lying back down with Merlin in his arms, “I’ve got you. It’s only me. You’re safe.”

“A-Arthur?”

“Yes, sweetheart. It’s me.” There’s a mouth on his neck. “Just me.”

He’s still panting, the run still pushing through his legs. Arthur hums, settling him into the blankets and propping himself up over him. 

“Where are you right now?”

“Forest,” Merlin chokes out, “sword. You were going to—to kill me.” He swallows. “Said all of Camelot would curse my name.”

“You’re with me,” Arthur says gently, “we’re in the castle. I’m not going to kill you. Can you see?”

He looks around. There’s the desk. There’s the window. Arthur’s white nightshirt is shining in the moonlight. 

“…yeah.” He swallows. “I’m—I’m not abusing you, am I?”

Arthur almost reels back in shock. “What? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I—‘cause I can’t—I can’t love the way that—“

“Stop right there,” Arthur orders, leaning down and cupping his face in his hands, “don’t you give a damn about that, you hear me? I care for you, I’m fond of you, you care for me, you’re fond of me, yes?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Merlin swallows again. “And I’m not…wrong?”

“‘Wrong?’”

“…you don’t mind—“ he blushes— “my—my body?”

“Your bod—goodness, Merlin, this must’ve been quite the nightmare.” Arthur shakes his head. “No, Merlin, your body’s yours. You do what you like with it.”

It says something about how rattled he is that he doesn’t reach for any of the jokes he could make right now. 

“Hey,” Arthur calls, leaning down and carding his fingers through his hair, “be gentle with yourself, alright? That was a horrible thing that happened, let it heal in its own time.”

“But it’s hard.”

“I know.” Arthur leans over to kiss his cheek. “Trust me, I know.”

Merlin rolls over, wrapping his arms around Arthur as he chuckles in surprise, pulling him into a proper cuddle. 

“You just have to stay, then, until it feels better.”

“Oh, Merlin,” he hears faintly as sleep begins to tug at him once more, “you don’t need to make reasons for me to stay. I’m staying with you, sweetheart, for the rest of our lives.”

[haunthearted]

I wanted to recommend a very good website, especially to my trans, dysphoric or dissociative followers.

Gender Analysis is a very well researched, well-sourced website about the trans experience. I take whatever opportunities I can to write polite, good-faith, educational replies to people on Reddit who don't "get" trans things, and I always rely heavily on GA because whatever the topic, there will be an article filled with the original scientific papers rebutting transphobic viewpoints. It can also be useful for supporting conversations with parents/friends, because it has the primary research right there. For example, today I learnt that all the concept of Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria ("my kid got a tumblr and now she says shes transgender because of peer pressure!") originated on three anti-trans websites, and despite its official-sounding name, has no research behind it. I knew that intellectually, but it's powerful to have the evidence clearly there for you.

Zinna Jones is one of the key writers there, and you may know her other work as she's been a prominent internet trans human for many years (how she has the courage and spoons for that, I will never know). One of her key experiences of gender dysphoria was depersonalisation: a weird, fuzzy, not-quite-thereness. On beginning hormones, it cleared up immediately: she had an "I didn't know what wrong felt like until I started feeling right" experience, as well you might if feeling oddly absent is your normal day-to-day experience. Because it wasn't a focus of how dysphoria was written about while she was coming up, she's done a lot of writing and research on it at Gender Analysis: describing what it felt like, researching comparable experiences in other trans narratives, and most recently trialing an anti-dissociative drug to see how it affected her.

Many of us come to ghosthood due to experiencing similar things to Jones - a not-quite-thereness, an oddness, a sense of timelessness and dislocation. Some of us very clearly associate it with trauma, a mental illness, or gender dysphoria; for others, it's just part of the fabric of life. I would like to recommend reading her posts on this particular topic to anyone who experiences something similar.

Now, if you relate to what she writes it doesn't mean you're transgender - don't panic - as varieties of depersonalisation can be a symptom of all sorts of other things - especially trauma and trauma-related conditions like BPD/CPTSD. But you might still find her descriptions useful.

On the other hand, if you are identifying as transgender and wondering if hormones are for you, you might find it validating or helpful.

(and because the world is horrible, there's no small chance that trans people are also traumatised. There's a great pair of posts that I'm sure you've already read, "That was dysphoria?" - but also her follow up, in which she re-experiences some of those symptoms as a depression.)

Finally, a recent post series explored an anti-depersonalisation drug, which you might be interested in exploring as an option for yourself. I had no idea there was such a thing!

In short, I was re-reading the archives this morning, and it occurred to me that a great many followers here might appreciate or find these posts useful. Make of them what you will, and best wishes to you all x

A tonne more thoughts after the cut:

This isn't meant to be "a trans blog", so I'm not going to focus on this too often. But certainly for me, Jones' posts really spoke to me and my experiences. I think there's a real danger in underselling how weird gender dysphoria feels. One sort of expects or assumes gender dysphoria is "I hate my breasts because I am a man"; there isn't so much written about how it can be "I'm tired, I don't really care, everything seems hollow and false, but I can't imagine life being any different because it's what I've always known, and it's not clearly anything to do with gender". That's been my experience - and it's incredibly hard to spot. I've been through six diagnoses since I was a teen (OCD, depression, anxiety, BPD, ADHD, autism), because while I've always been clearly unwell, it's hard to pinpoint gender dysphoria when it just manifests as brainweird, especially when that brainweird is you normal, as it was for Jones.   For example, I've never really recognised my own face in the mirror. Weird, but whatever. When I was considering hormones last year, I decided to take up weightlifting as part of my experimentation process. It would allow me to see how I felt about developing a more masculine body, in a controlled way, and as someone who *hates* exercise, it would also be a useful test of commitment: was I dysphoric enough to motivate me to go to the gym? Because if not, I probably was not dysphoric enough to transition either. Well, I went three times a week and followed the correct food recommendations for building muscle until I could no longer afford either; and then it happened. I looked in the mirror and it was like a visceral, immediate shock of recognition. And now I can't unsee it. Every time I look in the mirror, my brain immediately pings back "nice Robert Plant vibe you got there man", which is ridiculous; no one else on the planet would see me and think that. But that very small amount of muscle, and slightly-more-masculine-shoulder/arm-profile, was enough to make my brain recognise itself for the first time.

Sometimes you don't understand what "wrong" feels like until you have "right" to compare it to.

(I think those of us with early experience of abuse might also relate to that; the way that being loved and respected by a good person later in life can be both shocking, and bring on a period of processing and heavy reflection because it illustrates how very wrongly you were treated before. Even if you know it intellectually,  just the experience can be profound. Certainly, I've got a few experiences of not-being-taken-advantage-of which were absolutely shattering, like I was being taught how to love myself for the first time.)

And as you might expect, I'm also feeling very reluctant to pursue transition. This sort of nebulous dysphoria is, well - . I envy very much the "I knew I was trans from the moment I hit puberty because I hated the gender I was living in" people, who clearly see gender as their problem. It's very hard to contemplate something as life-changing as transition when its motivated by an increasing certainty that the only cure for my incurable mental ill is a different hormone balance, and as many days I have where I ask myself why I didn't transition 5 years ago already, I have others where I know I'll have to be dragged kicking and screaming through the process as my last resort.

Like, a few years ago I was at a "Even if I am transgender, I think I'd rather live as a woman [for reasons]" point; and now I'm at a "I would still rather live as a woman, but I am desperate to have enough disposable income to buy a really nice set of towels and maybe transition would make me well enough to not only work, but have a real career, and maybe I could buy a car, and go on holiday, and start buying tailored clothes instead of charity shop, and maybe redecorate my house in faux-Victorian style, and I really don't care if everybody hates me and I no longer have a coherently cisgender body, I would do anything to be able to afford unusual cheeses and teas rather than subsisting on stew" point. It sounds so shallow, but there it is; because so many of the problems I have don't feel dysphoria-related, because I'm only understanding them as dysphoria-related because nothing else has made an impact, my focus is increasingly on the little things in life I want to achieve, and maybe could achieve if my brainweird was fixed. I'm now fairly sure that if/when I do transition physically, I'll continue to recognise myself more, and realise how much of an impact physical dysphoria was having.

But it's what I know. And like Hamlet says, easier to bear the struggles we know than fly to others that we know not of.

Sidenote:

Intermittently, you'll see approaches which try to set up trans or mentally ill people as enemies to otherkin people, like the two experiences cannot co-exist, or like otherkin people ought to take the fall for the way transphobic use them as an anti-trans "gotcha". I personally find this very frustrating: I prefer approaches which are open, rather than closed off. Many/most of my followers here are either trans, mentally ill, have trauma, experience dysphoria or some other unspecified bodyweird/brainweird. In real life, I have four otherkin/therian/furry friends - and they too all meet that description. {There are also many otherkin who see their history as spiritual or religious, who aren't trans/mentally ill/traumatised, or who don't really know the source of their experiences - all of which is also OK!}.

I would always prefer to take a holistic and compassionate approach to the way experiences can overlap, rather than a combatative/competitive/polarised one; any hostile or fightin' talk messages/replies will be ignored, blocked or deleted as appropriate, because that's not a value I have for my online space. Although I'm open to discussing or exploring it, so please don't hold back if you want to talk about your experiences in good faith.

In short, there is a fairly significant overlap between people who come to identify as transgender/dysphoric/mentally ill, and those who come to identify as otherkin, or who might temporarily identify with one of those experiences while figuring things out  - and this post is for them. Politics makes things sound so simple and clean-cut, but people are messy and complex, and I'd much rather help individuals navigate and explore their experiences - even if they are contradictory, or don't support my political goals. Trying to figure out brainweird and bodyweird is challenging enough, without making people tread on eggshells during the process.