This is when gender ideology came on the scene. It was a slow crawl from wanting to be “no woman” to “non-feminine” to “gender-non-conforming” to “gender-non-binary” to “man”. With every step, the promise of liberation from the socio-sexual tyranny in which my female body imprisoned me grew. I was offered an escape without death. I was only too happy to do and say what was asked of me by those who offered the way out.
At this point I had been to several NHS therapists. They were all eager to confirm the ideas I had about myself, rather than help me question them.
“Maybe you’re gay?”
“Maybe you don’t feel sexual attraction?”
“Maybe you’re a man?”
These “maybe” weren’t open shrugs. They were suggestions. encouragements. Worse than confirming the ideas I had about myself, it seems the purpose of the sessions was to get me to confirm what version of me they had already established.
Perhaps these therapists can be forgiven. NHS therapy is prescribed in doses of 8-12 weeks and if you are not “cured” by then you will be sent to the back of the queue, antidepressants in hand, to request more. This system is designed for those who need a little guidance after a minor shock or death. Not for those who doubt their whole sense of being.
Denial of femininity
What had begun by others as a denial of my bisexuality had become a denial of my femininity—and then my womanhood: for these people, whoever I was, whatever I became, it wouldn’t be straight, and it wouldn’t be feminine.
And so this confusion continued and got worse for several years – during which time I shaved off my long hair, started shopping in the men’s department, and pressed my developing breasts to my chest with bandages and bras.
My pronouns had gone from she/her to she/she, to she/them, to them/him.
Back then, adopting every new male stereotype felt like a step closer to that “real,” “authentic” self that my friends had idolized. I was who I had to be. Still, I had less confidence in myself than ever. I felt more attacked than ever. I was more depressed than ever.
And when I looked around at friends who also “live their most authentic lives”, they were just as unhappy as I was. They smiled, as did I, and reveled in how free, fair, and authentic it all was. But it’s no exaggeration to say that each of them had at least one major unattended mental health problem: panic, suicidal depression, self-harm and eating disorders, one of the most common manifestations of something not right.
But if we were unhappy, it’s because we hadn’t reached our destination—not that the destination is a dystopia or that the destination doesn’t exist. And we were all sure it was.
In such a position, there are two options: admit you’re wrong and ask for help, or double down. We’ve all fallen twice. And if any of us had ever expressed any doubt, among ourselves—or even, as I did, with medical professionals—we were encouraged or persuaded to stay within the herd and fulfill our “queer destiny.” It was a cult.
Surgery
When I first went to the GP to discuss gender-confirming surgery, it was never about having breast reconstruction and a fake penis added to my body. It was just to have my female organs removed – breast, uterus, vagina. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a man, I just didn’t want to be a woman. I wanted to be kind of a non-gender person, as if such a thing could really exist. But I was led to believe it was possible.
But this time, for the first time, the medical system turned me away without a referral. At first I resented this doctor. She was just an accomplice of the oppressive patriarchy trying to keep me trapped in ‘the wrong body’. That’s what I said to myself. But I was discouraged and embarrassed enough not to go to the doctor for the next few months. In retrospect, this woman probably saved my life.