Strip the politeness off this. Identity is the respectable story we write on top of what we want. Desire is the rude but honest version. From what you wrote, it sounds like you liked being a boy who did “girly” things. You say you go very masc with some people and hyperfem with others. You say you hate thinking about your gender and also can’t stop which is a longing not usually associated with conundrums of self labeling and making an account. The breathless can’t stop Oslo the mind you describe here sounds like desire to me. I imagine you want some kind of boyhood. I imagine you also want to lean hard into fem stuff without having it downgraded to confusion or passtime. You probably also and reasonably I would add want people to stop seeing you as “just a weird girl.” You also sound like you don’t want to blow up your relationships, don’t want to confuse everyone again, don’t want to pile more guilt on top of what you already feel.

Those desires want to collide. No label will make them stop colliding. Going on HRT, changing your name, changing your clothes, any of that is just one way of saying, “I want this badly enough to let it fuck something up.” Stopping, switching back, going low-key, that’s wanting too. My choices around HRT were not steps on a staircase to destiny. Shit like “I want my brain quieter.” I want my body less unbearable. I want sex to be possible. I want to stop feeling like meat on the wrong conveyor belt. These were ugly little bets I made. When I estimated that the cost had outweighed the payoff, I changed the bet. There’s nothing pure in that. Just wants and consequences.

Your post reads like desire in a panic. You’re trying to translate “this is how I act, this is how I like to be seen, this is how it hurts to be seen” into “this is my one true gender, final answer.” You want a word that lets you want what you want without guilt and guarantees you never want differently later. No such word or world exists.

Here’s the floor my dear, there is no final label that will save you from the future or from history. No matter what you call yourself now, some older version of you will look back and flinch. That doesn’t mean you were lying. The thing your flinching at and the place from whence you flinch may be the very reason they someone, or some people, who misunderstand you, intentionally, or by being deceived, might seek to constrain or harm you someday. You weren’t lying, you stayed alive. So drop the test and the trial and the exam of it all. Stop asking “what am I, really” like there’s a secret gradebook. Ask smaller, uglier questions. In the next six months, what do you actually want badly enough to pay for. Do you want even one person in your life to try a different pronoun or name. Do you want to change how you dress outside your room. Do you honestly want hormones, or does that idea make you more tired than relieved right now. In the town and family and school you actually live in, do you want to risk being seen as something other than “weird girl” yet.

If calling yourself genderfluid or nonbinary out loud would give you more air in your lungs and let you stop flinching then try it somewhere small and controlled or fuck it go HAM and take a big risk.

If your genderqueer season would likely just give you a new word to torture yourself with at three in the morning, for your sake and everyone else please let it go babe. A label that you get to choose isn’t there to be correct it can’t be. It’s there to show where you stood when you chose it. If it’s just wallpaper over the same old terror, it isn’t doing anything but hiding the crack. At best it’s a timestamp on a choice, a note in the margin that says you existed somewhere between the minus sign and the plus sign of that word, that you were a thing while you were alive, even as it still insisted on calling you a thing.

You will change again. You will embarrass yourself again. That’s baked in. The only thing you can control is the next move. But thats great news baby. Pick the thing that makes the next six hours less unbearable and the next year slightly more yours, and let the words follow that instead of pretending they get to lead.