Letter In Hand – Moving Forward

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.

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I Think I Can…I Think I Can…

You know that thing that you don’t want to do but you know you have to do and it takes a whole lot of you convincing yourself that doing it is not only the right thing, but okay to do and something that you can do? Well, that was therapy for me. Walking into that first session was more difficult than any other part of my transition.

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What! I need a therapist? I was only looking for a surgeon!

Let me begin by saying that not much of what I will be telling you about my transition mirrors the stories other people have shared with me or with groups where I’d heard others reveal experiences.  For starters, when I’d finally made my decision to transition, I didn’t even know that I would need a therapist.  I’d never considered therapy as an option for me – for any reason whatsoever.  If anyone I knew was or had ever seen a therapist, they’d not shared this with me.  Therapy was just “not something we did.”  Therapy was for people who struggled with keeping their life together.  Therapy was for people who couldn’t take responsibility for their actions. Admittedly, I didn’t even believe in therapy.

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