I've had a lot of nicknames in my life, most of which felt like an oversuit that didn't fit. Nicknames felt confining or itchy, and I found myself assigning myself different names as I outgrew one after the other. This cycle ended up having a similar frequency to a reptile shedding its skin* but isn't that what being young is? Searching for one's identity, that is. Shedding proverbial layers of skin until you recognize the person in the mirror. I think this is difficult for everybody, but I do have some circumstances that made it difficult for me to find myself in the muck of growing up. Starting at a young age, I was medicated. Between the ages of about eleven and sixteen, I was heavily medicated. So on top of puberty, I was swimming through layers of antidepressants, mood stabilizers, etc. My background with medication began in first grade, where I was diagnosed with ADHD with Sensory Processing Disorder. Another time, I will have to go into the profound "othering" I was exposed to as a child, but for now, I'll press on. A weeklong stint on adderall, and it became apparent my little first-grade body was not handling the medication well, and my parents took me off of it (I also remember taking part in occupational therapy. I remember it fondly. I'm sure it helped, but I must ask if it would have been necessary if being me had been allowed by the school system at the time. Again, more on that later, I'm sure.)

In the late 2000s, approaching the 2010s, I was exposed to a lot of trauma. A lot of which were unavoidable and normal changes, nevertheless traumatizing to my- how do I word this? My profound depth of feeling. Some of which were much more severe, putting me in bodily and psychological harm, but due to already feeling othered and isolated, I wouldn't disclose these until years after they happened. I remember feeling distinctly alone and that my problems were mine alone to solve. My imagination was vivid, and now, with my grown-up perspective, I believe that due to compounding stresses and triggers, I began to hallucinate** around the end of my fifth-grade year. I began growing paranoid in middle school, often feeling watched or hearing my name being called when it wasn't being called. I was put on antidepressants, which only seemed to exacerbate the issues. I remember, at the time, being only 11, wanting so badly to get better and feel normal. I was so willing to do whatever the doctors told me. I did not understand my own autonomy; I couldn't advocate for myself properly, which is not a good state to be in when you're being prescribed anti-psychotics. Now, I can't even imagine what I thought normal was. Maybe, happy, secure? But everything felt wrong, and I was constantly slipping in and out of different layers of flaky, unstable snake skin.

I think I'll tell more stories about growing up later on. I say most of this to illustrate that, growing up, identity seemed to be something everyone else had, and my own was wrapped up in so much pain or discomfort that I just wanted to abandon ship and start from scratch. Being me sucked, I had convinced myself, and I had developed quite the proficiency for acting as a child.

My first role was a witch in some kindergarten play, which I believe was about Humpty Dumpty? I only had about two spoken lines, but one of them was sarcastic, which I had quite a proficiency for, even at that age, thanks to my father, who was fluent in the language. I decided to add air quotes to my line and got a huge laugh, and that feeling of knowing that I had brought a whole room of people to laughter was addictive. Then there were the improv games every child remembers, and for me, it was a place where my imagination could flourish, where anything was possible. Most importantly, I could be anyone. For years after getting off medication, I attributed my therapy to theatre. I had seen no recovery in myself until I was creating, acting, and slowly becoming dependent on the validation stage presence gave me. This is how I lived my life up to the pandemic, when again the mix of family tragedy and uncontrollable change gridlocked me in my fear and isolation. I was twenty and distracted myself in the way twenty-somethings do, posturing and peacocking, looking for validation without my beloved theatre to anchor me.

I guess what I'm trying to say is my identity has always been connected to something impermanent, which made for a poor foundation for my personhood. My identity felt tied to things assigned to me or things that I had diagnosed myself doing as surface-level work on myself as possible. Right now, I am probably still not as self-reflective as I would like to be, but that's a process I'm working on. I know I'm changing constantly right now, trying to be better and shape the world into one I can be proud to pass along. So with all this change, what has stayed the same?

There was really only one nickname I've ever really loved being called, that's Zippy. I don't know where it came from, and I know it wasn't even unique to me as I was growing up. I have a twin sister whom my father might also occasionally call that nickname. However, there was always a certain swell of pride that warmed my chest when my dad would call me this. It was always "Slow down, zippy," or "Way to go, Zippy," and not in that sarcastic way I mentioned earlier. In my childhood, being called Zippy always made me feel seen and celebrated for my goofy, eccentric ways. It felt like my dad kissing my hair when I was too old to be kissed on the head. Being called that nickname felt like when he used to lift me onto his shoulders to show me parts of the world I couldn't yet see, in turn making me feel like a giant, the world swaying and bending at my will. So I picked Zippy as my byline, hoping to carry that feeling with me as I write.

It is my hope that in time I can write stories that make other people feel like they are standing on the shoulders of giants and inspire my readers to connect with the world around them in genuine ways, and if you've read this far, I want to really thank you for taking the time to get to know me.

-Zippy McGee***

*Upon a quick Google search, I found out this frequency is about 4-12 times a year in the lifespan of an adult snake, which, for dramatization purposes, I will say is an accurate telling of events.

**I am lucky in that, after quite a bit of therapy and treatment, my peace of mind was restored, and I have lived most of my adult life without any psychotic symptoms.

***This byline is also an homage to my initials (MZ), a name I have also come to love.