TraumaGenic: A Therian Awakening

Face of foe

The frustration gnawed at me. My encounter in the forest was a bizarre anomaly, a glitch in reality that defied explanation. Research, I thought, that's my only hope. I dove into online searches, typing in every combination of keywords I could think of: "tawny cats," "girl on all fours," "encounters in the woods." Nothing. Disappointment coiled in my stomach, heavy and bitter.

Just then, the bedroom door slammed open, nearly shattering the fragile peace I'd carved out.

"Amelia Wilbert Thompson!" My mother, Jennifer, bellowed, her voice a tornado of frustration. "What happened at school today, young lady?"

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, pounding against my chest like a hard cover book on a wooden desk. Every muscle in my body tensed turning me into a human statue. "Nothing, Mom," I stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "I just... had a panic attack and lashed out a little. I'm sorry."

"A panic attack?" Jennifer's voice held a sharp edge that mocked my words. "People who have panic attacks, Amelia, don't act like you do. Quit lying. Honestly, sometimes I wonder where I went wrong. You're unbelievable. My daughter will not act like this."

Shame burned through me. "I'm sorry," I choked out, the apology dissolving into a pathetic whimper. I never really understood how to make something sound genuine, but I really did care. It feels like the only thing I can do is repetitively say 'sorry' even if it's not my fault. I can't help it.

"Mm-hmm, sure you are. Must be rough having the world's worst mother, right? Not like I was ever your age and I'm certain I had it much worse than you. Isn't your life so hard." she muttered, her voice dripping with mockery and sarcasm. Without another word, she stormed out of the room, leaving behind a suffocating silence thick with unspoken accusations.

Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the laptop screen. My own mother, the person who supposedly loved me unconditionally, seemed incapable of understanding. Everything I did felt wrong, inadequate. Was there ever a time, even before today, when I felt good enough? My mental and physical pain were constantly mocked to a point where real emotion was rare.

I wiped away the tears with a frustrated swipe, forcing myself to refocus. With renewed determination, I plunged back into my research marathon. Hours seemed to melt away as I scrolled through articles and watched countless videos. Finally, amidst a sea of irrelevant information, a glimmer of hope emerged.

Videos popped up showcasing teenagers my age, sprinting on all fours, their faces alight with something I couldn't quite define. But the accompanying text stopped me cold. "Therianthropy," it declared.

"What does that have to do with-" I started to formulate a question, but it was cut short by another roar from the kitchen.

"Amelia!" Jennifer's voice echoed through the house. "Bring all my dishes down from your bedroom!"

The list of chores never seemed to end. It felt like an endless cycle of tasks as if without me the mansion would crumble, all performed under a disapproving gaze. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. Mom always thought she knew best, even when it came to my internal struggles.

Rebelliously, I pulled open my bottom drawer, searching for a small act of defiance. There, hidden beneath unused notebooks, lay the ceramic plate I'd saved from dinner. It was a simple rebellion, carrying it to the kitchen instead of stacking it with the others in my room.

As I placed it in the sink, Jennifer's voice lashed out again, laced with accusation. "There you are, hiding my dishes in your room like a little gremlin and with unshaved legs like those maybe to are a goblin of some kind."

Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and angry. I didn't even bother to defend myself. Instead, I turned and walked away, ignoring the half-hearted "thank you, Amelia" that followed me.

The hypocrisy of it all burned. Anger mingled with the confusion that had been swirling in my gut since the encounter in the forest. One minute, she was critical and belittling, the next, she'd put on a facade of affection, providing me with gifts and true love – especially in front of others and online. All part of her fabulous show of course.

Back in my room, I slammed the laptop open and opened a new tab. With trembling fingers, I typed in "therianthropy." Thankfully, the information here was clearer. These weren't just furries indulging in cosplay; this was a genuine belief system, something you were supposedly born with, possibly related to autism.

But then, another term caught my eye: traumagenic therianthropy. A jolt ran through me. Not only did the description fit the girl I saw in the forest, but it also resonated with a deep part of me. Childhood memories were hazy, fragmented snapshots of being alone, crying, and being told by my own parents, "I don't have time for you." Or even just mocked for showing emotion. I remember being 10 and staring at my cat with jealousy, wanting to be as peaceful as he was. Could this explain the constant feeling of unease, the disconnect from my own body? A realization dawned on me, chilling and stark. Maybe I wasn't just Amelia, the "perfect" daughter everyone thought I was. Maybe, just maybe, there was a lot more to me.

Panic threatened to consume me again, but this time, it was different. It was tinged. Shit.