My second therapy session was pretty much just picking up where we’d left off two weeks earlier. She asked questions. I answered questions. She wrote notes about what I said. Then there were questions about what else I wanted to do to transition. She peppered me with questions about pronouns, name changes, surgeries, testosterone. She’d caught me off guard. I knew I’d already said that all I wanted was top surgery, so this line of questioning made no sense to me. I assured her that I was good with just the top surgery and had no plans for anything more. She reminded me that my options were open if I changed my mind. Again, I assured her that I was good with my decision. I tried to figure out why we were even discussing these things. They had nothing to do with my letter as far as I could tell. I didn’t need them or want them. I could only figure that she was doing some sort of therapist thing where they have to present all of the options, so I let her ask and I responded – rather uncomfortably, if my memory holds. Besides, she was running this show and I just wanted my letter and to be done. Clearly this therapist was thorough and for someone who was all business, she was pleasant enough to be around; but, the longer I sat across the room from her the more I knew that therapy was not for me.
We ended the second session by setting up an appointment for three weeks in the future. That would allow enough time for the letter to be written and we would then review it and discuss the content. If all was agreeable, I would walk out with my letter. What? I couldn’t believe I would need to have a third meeting. I almost asked if mailing or emailing the letter wouldn’t be possible, but something told me to just leave it alone. One more session wouldn’t kill me. Besides, we would just be reviewing stuff we’d already talked about so how bad could it be…right?
Waiting three weeks seemed to take forever. I am usually a fairly patient person, but I so wanted to be done with this part of the process. Finally, the day came! It was October 31, 2017 and I was sitting there in her office, impatiently waiting for us to begin reviewing the letter. The therapist was explaining how this would work. She would read the letter to me and then open discussion about anything that may or may not make sense or was unclear. The letter seemed to go on and on. Had we really talked about all of that? Aside from one small change, that I now can’t remember, the letter was unaltered. Three pages of her interpretation consolidated less than two hours of non-stop back and forth words flying around the room and outlined my entire 53 years existence. Everything fit onto three pages. How was that even possible?
Two sessions, then the letter. Done. I most definitely did not understand therapy, and I don’t know if I was supposed to feel different or what other expectations there were; but I left there with what I needed to complete my transition. Knowing I would never set foot in that office again, I met her promise that I could call anytime and that she would always be my therapist with a quick thank you; then I was out the door with the letter in hand. I had withstood therapy and was glad that I was done!