Therapy Session 1, Part 1.
February 4, 2009: Wednesday 3 p.m. - 4 p.m.
In downtown Galveston, inside a Bank of America resides a displaced gender therapist from a local hurricane devastated hospital. Walking in the building, going to the proper floor which houses the suite his practice currently resides at, I’m feeling queasy. This has been what I’ve waited 7 years for; since my first attempt had failed and I came to the realization Waco did not have gender therapy. The front desk clerk is extremely nice; a MTF is waiting in the small lobby reading a paperback being quiet & then is called into the therapist’s office for a short session before mine. How laid back the clientele was just waiting around, the clerk’s easy office banter and setting suggested that I might have made the right choice in picking this particular doctor. Still my gut, as it has been telling me all day, suggested that maybe I was jumping the gun on celebrating. Fucking gut is always right.
After the client leaves he calls me in to sit down at a dark wood desk. This desk along with 2 large bookcases, a computer and 2 chairs, one on each side of the desk, are all that have been packed into the office so far (since this is a temporary location it’s not indicative of anything). Shortly after having a seat I began to stare out the spacious office window overlooking “the strand” in the hope to calm my ‘nerves’…the leading cause of prior therapy sessions’ emotional/verbal-diarrhea outbreaks. He walks in and asks the basic question, “Why are you here today?” and I reply, “I’m transgender, um, so gender “issues”. Oh, and I’d prefer Jenner, I just used my birth name for possible insurance reasons.” He looks at me for a while and states a perplexed, “yooooouuu’rrrrrreee….. (Pauses for answer on my birth sex)” I’m utterly confused as to what he is wanting from me. Tank girl busts into my head with, “The tank’s… happy….saaadd….MAD….come on just an adjective and we’ve got a whole sentence.” He states all of his queries this way: a pause, a baffled look…sometimes no comment at all then another seemingly off topic question.
I say “seemingly” because the meeting left me wondering if he was doing some subversive gender test. Let me go back to the last question in the last paragraph…he quizzes, after his long pause and it’s obvious I don’t understand that he is confused by my gender presentation, “Are you a BOY trapped in a GIRL’S body?”. Defiant to the black and white slogan, I lean a bit on the desk after feeling like the air has been knocked out of me and state, “If you must put it that way…but, man I hate that phrase, sounds simplified, myopic.” He asks, seeming, once again, to be frustrated or perplexed, “How would YOU put it?” Nerves in my throat, an emotional quiver answers him back, “I feel if I HAD been born male there wouldn’t be trans issues I’m fairly sure, BUT because I am female, raised as a female in society, grew up isolated and feeling separate from cisgendered boys (knowing that if genderqueer appearances might puzzle him the term cisgender certainly would I add…), or biological boys, whatever term you want to use. So my history will always be transgender, not a man’s.” He gives me “the look” again and says, “OOoookkkaaay. *bit of a sigh* so you want to be a boy. You feel like a boy, right?” This is not a good sign.
This PHD has written essays in the transgender journal, participated in speeches at international FTM conferences and my gender fluidity baffles him. “What do you want to do? Take hormones? Chest surgery? Hysto?,” he directs this question at me with a tone I can’t quite place. Quickly I rattle off, “Testosterone. Bilateral chest surgery & a hysto/oophorectomy. I’ve researched the doctors I’m interested in also.” The nerves are threatening rebellion and my eyes are red now. “What do you do for a living?” he asks while writing various answers on a single sheet of paper. I shamefacedly explain, “I went to college for graphic design/art, but had trouble getting a job in that field…currently I’m not working.” He looks up and adds, “Why not get a job in another field? Are you looking for a job currently?” Shit. This is where I knew my life would sound dreadful.
Slowly answering, looking away,” I currently want to focus on this issue solely since my social anxiety has prevented any real successful employment history in the past.” THE LOOK happens again and I know the tears will come shortly for me. This is my waterloo: my workless gaps, social isolation. “What do you think transitioning will DO for you?! Do you have an attack plan? Help me understand,” the doctor phrased in a pitch that only exacerbates my anxiety about this delicate issue. “I might go back to college for a two year degree in a more common field like radiology. Possibly try living in Austin with a friend for a while and work at a company called Blizzard that does online gaming,” I put in plain words knowing the argument is feeble and full of “maybes”.
“How are you going to pay for all of this,” he reasons after a long period of not writing anything down whatsoever. “I’ve got a nest egg in savings from an inheritance,” and decide what the hell, I already look like a total loser, so I add, “and I live with my parents currently who support me in this.” “Ohhh you live with your parents here. Why did your family move to Galveston?” he continues. “My brother called up one night about a year ago and asked our father how he felt about being a granddad. So, we moved down here to be with my brother and his new family. Plus jobs were scarce in Waco for everyone and our family member ties to the town were now gone. Grandparents passed away few years back, nothing holding us there…,” as I explain my whole ego self begins to feel very small. “How old are you?” is his next inquiry. “I’m 30,” stating softly while studying my lap. Sitting back in his chair he sighs and comments, “I have to tell you, I see you as being very androgynous. When you first walked in here I didn’t know whether you were male or female. You dress, act and look very androgynous…that and added to your personal description of how you feel…frankly I’m confused.”
In downtown Galveston, inside a Bank of America resides a displaced gender therapist from a local hurricane devastated hospital. Walking in the building, going to the proper floor which houses the suite his practice currently resides at, I’m feeling queasy. This has been what I’ve waited 7 years for; since my first attempt had failed and I came to the realization Waco did not have gender therapy. The front desk clerk is extremely nice; a MTF is waiting in the small lobby reading a paperback being quiet & then is called into the therapist’s office for a short session before mine. How laid back the clientele was just waiting around, the clerk’s easy office banter and setting suggested that I might have made the right choice in picking this particular doctor. Still my gut, as it has been telling me all day, suggested that maybe I was jumping the gun on celebrating. Fucking gut is always right.
After the client leaves he calls me in to sit down at a dark wood desk. This desk along with 2 large bookcases, a computer and 2 chairs, one on each side of the desk, are all that have been packed into the office so far (since this is a temporary location it’s not indicative of anything). Shortly after having a seat I began to stare out the spacious office window overlooking “the strand” in the hope to calm my ‘nerves’…the leading cause of prior therapy sessions’ emotional/verbal-diarrhea outbreaks. He walks in and asks the basic question, “Why are you here today?” and I reply, “I’m transgender, um, so gender “issues”. Oh, and I’d prefer Jenner, I just used my birth name for possible insurance reasons.” He looks at me for a while and states a perplexed, “yooooouuu’rrrrrreee….. (Pauses for answer on my birth sex)” I’m utterly confused as to what he is wanting from me. Tank girl busts into my head with, “The tank’s… happy….saaadd….MAD….come on just an adjective and we’ve got a whole sentence.” He states all of his queries this way: a pause, a baffled look…sometimes no comment at all then another seemingly off topic question.
I say “seemingly” because the meeting left me wondering if he was doing some subversive gender test. Let me go back to the last question in the last paragraph…he quizzes, after his long pause and it’s obvious I don’t understand that he is confused by my gender presentation, “Are you a BOY trapped in a GIRL’S body?”. Defiant to the black and white slogan, I lean a bit on the desk after feeling like the air has been knocked out of me and state, “If you must put it that way…but, man I hate that phrase, sounds simplified, myopic.” He asks, seeming, once again, to be frustrated or perplexed, “How would YOU put it?” Nerves in my throat, an emotional quiver answers him back, “I feel if I HAD been born male there wouldn’t be trans issues I’m fairly sure, BUT because I am female, raised as a female in society, grew up isolated and feeling separate from cisgendered boys (knowing that if genderqueer appearances might puzzle him the term cisgender certainly would I add…), or biological boys, whatever term you want to use. So my history will always be transgender, not a man’s.” He gives me “the look” again and says, “OOoookkkaaay. *bit of a sigh* so you want to be a boy. You feel like a boy, right?” This is not a good sign.
This PHD has written essays in the transgender journal, participated in speeches at international FTM conferences and my gender fluidity baffles him. “What do you want to do? Take hormones? Chest surgery? Hysto?,” he directs this question at me with a tone I can’t quite place. Quickly I rattle off, “Testosterone. Bilateral chest surgery & a hysto/oophorectomy. I’ve researched the doctors I’m interested in also.” The nerves are threatening rebellion and my eyes are red now. “What do you do for a living?” he asks while writing various answers on a single sheet of paper. I shamefacedly explain, “I went to college for graphic design/art, but had trouble getting a job in that field…currently I’m not working.” He looks up and adds, “Why not get a job in another field? Are you looking for a job currently?” Shit. This is where I knew my life would sound dreadful.
Slowly answering, looking away,” I currently want to focus on this issue solely since my social anxiety has prevented any real successful employment history in the past.” THE LOOK happens again and I know the tears will come shortly for me. This is my waterloo: my workless gaps, social isolation. “What do you think transitioning will DO for you?! Do you have an attack plan? Help me understand,” the doctor phrased in a pitch that only exacerbates my anxiety about this delicate issue. “I might go back to college for a two year degree in a more common field like radiology. Possibly try living in Austin with a friend for a while and work at a company called Blizzard that does online gaming,” I put in plain words knowing the argument is feeble and full of “maybes”.
“How are you going to pay for all of this,” he reasons after a long period of not writing anything down whatsoever. “I’ve got a nest egg in savings from an inheritance,” and decide what the hell, I already look like a total loser, so I add, “and I live with my parents currently who support me in this.” “Ohhh you live with your parents here. Why did your family move to Galveston?” he continues. “My brother called up one night about a year ago and asked our father how he felt about being a granddad. So, we moved down here to be with my brother and his new family. Plus jobs were scarce in Waco for everyone and our family member ties to the town were now gone. Grandparents passed away few years back, nothing holding us there…,” as I explain my whole ego self begins to feel very small. “How old are you?” is his next inquiry. “I’m 30,” stating softly while studying my lap. Sitting back in his chair he sighs and comments, “I have to tell you, I see you as being very androgynous. When you first walked in here I didn’t know whether you were male or female. You dress, act and look very androgynous…that and added to your personal description of how you feel…frankly I’m confused.”