Time Lost
I spent my childhood moving from one nameless suburb to another, perpetually the new kid who never stayed long.
I started school right after the wake of 9/11, which meant my arab mom and afro-latino dad, who loved me with every fiber of their being, were genuinely terrified for my future.
It was a overbearingly strict life where I'd go from front door to school, school straight back to the front door. No hanging out, no staying after, no lingering in parking lots with kids who they thought might be bad news. And who knows? Maybe they were right. I was the only black person in a sea of white, casual racism being slung from my classmates and teachers while they smiled at me.
Outside to them was a hazard zone full of nameless anxieties, and they didn't want me caught up in that. So I stayed in my house, either on my computer or watching television, and had lost the instruction manual for how to exist around other human beings. I had my share of arguments with them asking to bring friends of hang out, but to no avail. I was never going to bond with others, with no stories to tell or way to hang out.
Then I graduated, and they, thinking they did their job, suddenly stepped back.
You're an adult now. You're allowed to do whatever you want; we love you.
It was like being kept in zero gravity for my whole life and then fucking slammed onto the floor without warning. The cage door was flung open, but my legs had atrophied. I had zero social skills, and no idea how to turn an acquaintance into a friend.
I had skipped the entire "make mistakes and learn" part of my youth, and I was mourning an adolescence I never even got to live.
Losing my Voice
I used to love the sound of my voice. I had this cheap little plastic MP3 voice recorder that i'd use, singing my heart out, making goofy covers, hitting those high notes, and listening back to them.
Then male puberty hit like a fucking truck.
My voice cracked, and slowly became this booming bass. Almost overnight, the high-pitched sound I recognized as me was erased, replaced by a heavy baritone squatter living in my throat. I didn't have the vocabulary for dysphoria back then; I just knew something had been ripped away from me.
I threw the MP3 player away, stopped singing, and went silent. I figured if I couldn't sound like myself, I just wouldn't sound like anything.
Years later, the universe decided to take me to the brink. What I failed to mention was I did have one person they let around, and it was my person. The only person I ever saw a real future with, my one human who actually saw through it all and made me feel okay, my person who also realized I was trans even before I did.
I got a call walking home one night from their parents, telling me that they had passed.
The grief I had following that genuinely destroyed me, and I went into a depression so deep that months bled together into one long, grey twilight.
I was truly alone.
When I finally managed to drag myself out of that abyss years later, I was holding onto a revelation that I was a trans woman. Finding that truth saved my life. I'm proud of who I am, and proud of the woman I survived to become.
But transitioning doesn't just magically reset your vocal cords. Every time I open my mouth, that deep baritone speaks over me, breaking the illusion before I even get a word out. It's a cruel piece of cosmic irony; finally figuring out who you are, only to realize the tool you need to express it to the world sounds like a stranger.
Talking offline and online felt like walking onstage in a costume I never agreed to wear. The reason I didn't try to even make friends was because I felt like I didn't deserve to talk to them but that they got the right to, for some reason.
I was still feeling guilt.
frie nd slop
The Friendslop genre, as much as I don't like the term, is a great thing. It's the modern third place, made for an isolated generation during the lockdowns of 2020.
It's also cheap, and it bridges friends, no matter where you are. But for me, there's a non-negotiable cover charge at the door, my voice.
In these games, your voice is your presence, your body language. Without a voice, you're an inert lump of data standing in the corner while everyone else enjoys themselves around you.
So, what does my dumb ass do? I buy them anyway.
I explore these games alone. I look around an abandoned industrial moon holding a flashlight and a shovel, surrounded by ambient wind audio and three empty spawn points meant for a squad I don't have. I walk through the empty hallways in silence.
It's a dark comedy right? Paying fifteen bucks to fill an empty party. I'll stand in an empty lobby, and just break down crying.
I don't hate the friendslop genre- fuck, online multplayer as a whole, out of spite. I hate it because it built a house party for isolated people, and it slammed the door in front of me and this voice that I'm too scared to use.
curing the fear
â recWhy can't I just turn on the fucking mic? Why am I so scared to open my mouth? What the fuck is wrong with me??
Hey Alli you idiot, if you're raised sheltered as fuck, watching your voice vanish right when you're figuring out who you are, break down after the worst possible thing happened to you, and then yourself to throw your dysphoric voice out into a room full of internet strangers... of course you're going to freeze.
What I do know though, is that buying those games and crying is proof that the part of me that wants to connect is still alive. I still crave connection. Child me would be so happy to know that I have friends now, and I have a life I'm proud of, because I'm actually trying.
But I'm still scared. My throat still feels like a trapdoor waiting to spring. Big Walk just released, and I'm terrified but also excited to ask somebody to play with me. I am done beating myself up for being afraid.
I've made it here, haven't I?
Voice training is a slow mountain to climb, and unmuting might take a million baby steps... But I'm going to take them. Because if these games need a voice to belong, then eventually, on my own terms, they're going to hear mine.