All the good things I can remember about my psychiatrist

…is my prompt.

She had a warm voice.  She seemed easygoing.  She had a professionally warm manner.  She displayed the impersonal empathy I assume therapists are trained to develop.  She tried to help.

She was obligated to help.  She told overlong stories that may or may not have been relevant.  She – or her employer, my insurer – would not agree to see me more than once every two or so weeks right after I came back.  She didn’t have much useful advice beyond the confines of masculine and feminine, hormonal and surgical, legal logistics.  She tended to see me within the confines of transmasculine then transfeminine.  She did not seem aware of the incapacitating internalized transphobia that stayed with me for years after I came back, years after I was outwardly normal.

She was helpful when it came to logistics – she was informed about the vagaries of hormonal response.  She had decades of experience, and approached hormonal changes with confident pragmatism.  When I was going back, she offered me the solidity of that pragmatism.  She didn’t encourage me to worry.

She told me I would probably need breast implants, a few weeks after I went back.  A few weeks after that, she confirmed that I was developing.  She told me I looked definitely feminine when I saw her eighteen months or so after I went back.  She also told me that I had had “the body of a supermodel” before – before I had gained weight.

She had a calm demeanor.

She didn’t much see the need for me to be upset.

I have no idea how much of this is my own interpretation – and how much of it is even my own interpretation – I am looking at all these things not only as a patient, but as a patient several years later.


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