For the past week, I've been working on my car. I crashed it one rainy night, deforming the driver's side. That was two months ago. For a month it's been sitting in my garage in varying states of undress. It vexes me, knowing that it's out there, waiting to be driven, but handicapped because of my stupidity. By now I've replaced the door and taken new window glass from the junkyard, but one major problem stands in my way: the door won't lock. I've spent hour after hour hammering away, but it feels like I'm no closer to being finished now than I was a week ago. I feel so powerless; I know that there must be something I can do to fix it, but I can hardly tell if I'm making any progress.
I've been going to therapy for two months now. It's an interesting experience, really; at times it feels like this cooperative collaboration aimed towards self-growth, and at others it feels like being vivisected. I don't really feel too enthusiastic on the concept anymore. While it's necessary to go through the whole therapeutic process to get gender reassignment surgery, I can recognize the subtle feedback I get from the counselors I'm paired with. It's not quite doubt, not quite confusion, but ... a certain ambivalence. Which is, ironically, what they tell me that they sense in me.
In further analysis, the whole thing seems ludicrous. Earlier in the game, I felt that the 'transsexual' model was the only valid model of variant gender expression. Therefore, I changed my perceptions to fit what I believed to be the one true schema; if only transsexuals got to change their bodies, then I was to be a transsexual. Not the best way to operate, but my overriding principle of dealing with the world seems to be, "Sometimes you have to change yourself to fit your situation."
When I look at it, though, the clinical vocabulary I used/use to describe being a boy who wants to be a girl ... it's all a way of distancing myself from having to ask any questions, critically analyze myself. Or take a hard look at what I can't help but view as the medical structure that keeps all of these classifications in place. When I was simply a student of psychology, I viewed it as having a bad rap; very few people want to be psychoanalyzed, which I interpreted as a fear of learning the ugly truth about oneself. But now that I've had psychiatry applied to me (consensually, if not fully willingly) I see another element to it.
Perception creates reality. How we are perceived many times governs how we act, even how we feel, and most especially how we view ourselves. If you're told that you have a sickness, you certainly begin to feel ill. I once read somewhere that it's most advantageous to have a self-image slightly move positive than realistic. I can believe it, really; my best moments of introspection don't really coincide with high motivation or self-esteem. For me, the process of therapy creates a feedback loop. I feel pressured somewhat to conform to whatever sort of behavior the counselor unwittingly lets on to be acceptable to them, and suddenly I'm torn: I can follow their expectations and get closer to one of my specific goals (hormones) or I could be and do as I feel internally motivated to, continuing to wrestle with presenting myself in an acceptable light to those who have been put in a position of judgement.
It gets on my nerves! I mean, I didn't have to go through x months of therapy to be male in the first place; that was a non-choice. I'm entirely willing to accept the negative consequences of any decision I make, because, dammit, it's my decision to make. No one else has to live my life; while some people may ultimately be affected by my choices, I'm the only person who has to live with them 24/7. While I respect the stated goal of the gatekeepers to prevent me from making a decision that I'll ultimately regret, I can't help but recognize that they're also trying to cover their asses from any liability that could be incurred. When you're coming to a shrink willingly, you've already been marked in some way. The paradigm of the reluctant, long-suffering transsexual is deeply rooted into the psychiatric consciousness, I think, which also means that it's deeply rooted in the consciousness of the psychiatric patient. Am I paranoid for believing that I'm suspect for earnestly wanting to transition?
Then again, the entirety of what I just wrote smacks of some misplaced energy. I've had very little held back from me by the psychiatric profession and most of my observations are second to third hand at best. There's a kernel of truth to my ranting, but I think I'm really more angry at myself for trying to adhere to a black/white male/female dynamic and failing. And I'm scared that if I give it up and recognize my own fluidity of gender, that I'll also give up my ability to transition from male to female, which is my paramount desire. What I've realized most potently is that only my own intercession will provide me with any security, any truth in my life. I can't look for outside validation of some sort of medical diagnosis to legitimize my need to become female-bodied, because then I'm setting myself up to rely on some external source of motivation/control.
But does this mean that I should work my shit out independently of any establishment? I wouldn't be averse to it, really; while it lacks the smack of official sanction, I truly do detest formality and implied authority. I'd still be able to obtain hormones (probably more easily than if I were to muddle my way through a full course of diagnoses) and, more imporantly, I think I might be able to more easily own my femaless if I didn't feel that it required someone else's validation.
Ack. My prejudices show clearly when I allow myself to write freely. It's a good thing, I guess. My only talent when self-analyzing is my ability to be mostly honest with myself, something that a lot of people seem to lack. Is life a narrative, or is it a non-linear, non-fictional jumble of events? I don't really know what's going on here, but I've got more than an inkling now. My victory lies not in seaching searching searching for some type of answer, but in letting it find me as I live my life.
Look, here's my unnecessary, somewhat cowardly (I mean, no one even reads this, but I guess it's all about principle) declaration to the world: I'm your she-male, you boy who wants to be a girl. I'm not afraid.
Most of the time.
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