All about my therapist

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.

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