These are my pronouns.

Please don’t respect my identity.

All my life I have struggled with my identity.

At an early age I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate this struggle I just knew that the strong protect the weak and I was stronger than my older brother. I also knew girls don’t fight and boys don’t cry. But boys can have asthma attacks and punching a bully in the face isn’t even a fight if they don’t hit back and just sulk about being beat up by a girl. I could square the circle.

I loved my best friend because we were both poor, lived in crowded houses and knew what made us both real but unimportant. This also meant I hated her and we would physically fight as often as we would trade secrets in the quiet corners of the playground.

Moving to a church run secondary school from a very poor, very working class juniors was new. Many children came with me and then there were children from the outskirts bussed in because nice parents liked nice uniforms and strict discipline.

Within 6 months I was separated from all my friends because I was academically able yet by some arbitrary measure they were not. I kept reading and growing and learning. Feeling both inferior and resentful yet annoyed at the ignorance and slowness of the peers in my classes. At the same time alienated and outcast from my own circle of friends by new girls who liked to form friendship clubs with the girls I grew with.

Boys were interesting. I’d had 3 “boyfriends” by the time I’d been at “big school” a month. All petty, silly children fascinated with the pretty girl from the rough school who seemed to be smart.

Within a year I’d been physically assaulted by another boy who was angry at me for being from Radford. Fuck off you fake. No you’re not from my endz, you’re too fucking posh and you don’t even speak right. I refused to cry. Cut my ripped tights around my ankles to wear as socks and threw them in the bin in the girls toilet. It was a place girls fought in private, and where they healed in private. I didn’t grass. And later of course I got revenge in a more devious and manipulative way that hurt more than a bit of blood.

After being elected by other young people as the first member of the UK youth parliament for my area (on a platform of shut up because you know fuck all about homeless people so don’t dare blame them for being on the streets. Yes I’ve always been angry) I had a busy year. It including a spell in an adolescent psychiatric unit.

Here I was repeatedly held down by groups of nurses, often male, in order to be sedated. The “safest” way to do this was to pin me down, pull my trousers down slightly and inject my bare arse.

I also met my first manic pixie dream girl. She was as crazy as me and the only other girl there who had not starved herself into crazy. We did of course eat masses of chocolates and have food fights while they cried into their full plates, horrified at being forced to consume something they feared so much.

I said I was crazy, not perfect. Obviously I was an insensitive little shit but I think you can make allowances for that sort of thing from children.

I had a terrifying reaction to risperidone and can remember being fully conscious but not able to move my neck at all. My mum was wiping saliva from the edge of my mouth where it was dripping out. Moments later she was in a rage about irresponsible doctors giving medicine to children that wasn’t licensed for them and had only ever been tested on adult men. Meanwhile my dad rolled his eyes and told her to stop making a fuss and that everyone was trying to help me get better.

By 15 I was the manic pixie dream girl to the boys who had left the year before and were busy becoming adults at college. They were also busy making mix tapes and writing love letters. All in an attempt to convince themselves of their own deep and meaningful existence by convincing me to have sex with them.

By the time I was at college myself i was the white girl with extensions (and I don’t mean the kind Cheryl Fernandez Face wears). I was facety and gobby and used sex as a tool to humiliate men. I was also articulate and well read. And living with manic pixie dream girl. And back in hospital by the December after one short term of “academic freedom”, at an FE college for smart people and lazy people to work out which people they wanted to be more.

Then more sex, more alcohol, more fun and craziness. Fucking people because it was funny to fuck with them, being photographed naked because why not and I’ll get paid well for it.

I’m not even going to get into those later identities of pregnant teen, mother, office worker, rape survivor, minimum wage monkey, mature student, feminist (although this one has been there all along).

It wouldn’t help for you to add more layers, more stories, more depth to my humanity. Of course you can’t respect my identity, you can’t identify my identity.

One would hope after so much time on this earth you’re all able to identify humanity though, including mine.

Yours sincerely,

The wigga, scum, slag, bitch, snob, whore, two faced cow, TERF lite, racist, cis woman.

My pronouns are stop your noise/fuck your nonsense/over this.