Never been read harder than when my little brother saw this and said ‘I really liked it but YOU’LL love it’. This must be how some trans people felt seeing the Matrix, feeling seen, feeling called out, a generational disillusionment and a deep dysphoria acknowledged. But The Matrix is a power fantasy by directors who love to ape black aesthetics but hold a disdain for us, blame us. This is a cautionary tale, one full of empathy but good god I cannot be this.

I thought I had scheduled an appointment for this morning to talk to a provider about HRT. I spent the previous night wrapped in anxiety about what if things go wrong, what if they change for the worse, what if it won’t ’fix’ me, what if I talk to these people and they call me out, I’m not trans enough, I’m confused. It didn’t go through, I guess. They never called. I scheduled another in two weeks, got the email confirmation. And a part of me was relieved. Passed the buck down. A misunderstanding I can wash my hands of, a perfect excuse I could not be faulted for.

And then I saw this. As if to wash the doubt away. This hollowed me out. I feel raw and exposed and empty like it dug my heart out. I’ve been Owen. I am Owen. I don’t talk right, it’s hard to look people in the eyes, my skin doesn’t fit right, I feel hollow and I look in the mirror and often I see something disgusting and rotting. Owen in the ending is like my biggest nightmare put on screen. I got chicken tenders at the theater, I know, I’m a weirdo, and they asked for the name of the order and I used my birth name. Here. At no risk to me, nobody who knows me, I still couldn’t use Jaycee. I don’t use it at drive throughs. The name I chose, that the people I love and trust call me across the internet, that I use on the dating apps, I couldn’t use. Why? Because I don’t feel like I’ve earned it? Because it doesn’t feel time? There is still time.

I could say more about how this hits as someone who grew up on Buffy and Whedon shows for better and worse in high school despite being born a year before the show premiered, how it hits a nostalgia of a time I knew from behind the screen and then how time skips into now, like a shattering of the escape. I could talk about the attachment formed to a show before the Internet showed you all the fans who loved it like you, seeing yourself in it, projecting onto it what may not be there and reckoning with that as you grow. I could talk about Smith’s aching wound of a performance or Liddy-Paine’s killer monologue, or the breathtaking lighting and cinematography, but all I need to say is what I needed to hear.

There is still time. But that doesn’t mean there’s time to waste. I’m going to do that appointment. I’m going to use my name. I’m going to claw to who I want to be and who I am inch by inch. And like Owen, I may be alone when I take that path but I will be so relieved to be on it, I will know who I am, and that will be in part due to seeing the TV glow.