Three doctors should provide me with plenty of anecdote – I saw them for three years, and they were distinct and colorful. I can remember specific things they said.
For example – my psychiatrist gave me a graph of genderqueerness. She believed that only a tiny minority of the population was transgender – she said humanity was ninety-nine point nine percent cisgender. Within that minuscule subsection, only a tiny fraction – she may have cut them out from ninety-nine point nine percent of trans people – were genderqueer, or ambiguous in their identity. Almost everyone was the man or woman they’d grown up to be; almost everyone who wasn’t wanted to be a man or woman.
While I was transitioning, she believed that I was conventional. When I was going back, she said that she had worried, earlier, that I was too pretty – that I would have difficulty seeming masculine. She said I had gone on to pass perfectly well – I got the impression she was impressed by how well I had seemed to be a man – but that she was confident I would seem normal soon.
So I could still fit into that same majority.
At the time, I didn’t want to be ambiguous at all – I didn’t want an ambiguous body, or an ambiguous life. I didn’t even want an ambiguous past. I wanted to erase my transition – and erase the signs of my transition from my body. I wanted to hear just these words from my psychiatrist.
I also felt deprived of concrete information about how I seemed. I couldn’t believe that I did look normal, or that I ever would – and I didn’t trust anyone else around me to tell me the truth. I saw my psychiatrist as my only reliable source.
I may have felt this way because she was initially negative – more bluntly so than anyone else around me. She told me that I would need implants to have breasts again, and suggested that I make an elaborate production out of my clothing and makeup, so that I would be passably feminine. She gave me this advice because she saw me – and she said this – as no different from any young trans women, except that I was luckier. I was devastated to hear that I might need implants – I couldn’t bear the thought of having ruined my breasts, which I had always seen as especially beautiful.
When I saw her again, six or so weeks later, she was impressed by how much they had already grown. She told me that I almost certainly would not need implants after all.
After that, I trusted her to tell me how I was managing – whether I looked like a woman or not.