As I was dealing with the final fracturing of my life outside the mental hospital, I was desperately trying to do what I needed to do to get out of the hospital so that I ceased being powerless to influence events. Unfortunately, the doctors at the facility weren’t so helpful at first …
How many people have I confessed my transsgender feelings to in the last 24 hours? Too many for my comfort. Two social workers at [ER hospital], plus the admitting nurse here, plus another social worker, plus maybe the doctor who saw me when I got here. I’m not even sure. There have been so many repeated questions, like “Why did you try to kill yourself?” that I’ve lost track who I might have said what to.
Nominally, I’m not here because I’m transgendered. I’m here because I tried to kill myself after seeing my wife kiss another man. But that was just the immediate cause. If I were secure in who I was, losing her might not have wrecked me so. If I was secure as a man, I maybe never would have lost her in the first place.
For the depression, the divorce, and the dysphoria, the time has come for the secret to come out. My life will never be the same, thanks to my stupid, stupid act. Sigh …
I’m not sure what reaction I expect when I tell yet another social worker or therapist I’m transgender. I don’t seem to see the same person twice, so I keep having to tell. Generally, though, they just seem to skip over it, onto the next question (it’s always the same form questions, too). I’m not sure at what point I progress beyond this stage, but I don’t have high hopes. These are not gender specialists.
Still, every time I say it, it gets easier. “I am transgendered.” “I am transgendered.” They don’t know what it means, I think, but saying it aloud is important in any case.
I AM GETTING NOWHERE! Twenty-four hours in this facility, and I have answered many of the same questions three damn times and none of the times has been for the formal psych eval that starts to get me out of here!!! I’m two days off my meds, I cannot blog, I cannot listen to music, my parents are coming, my wife is leaving, and I am a fucking caged animal here. FUCK.
CAGED. FUCKING. ANIMAL.
I am so fucking sick of retelling my story. Four times in the past day now, and none of them get it. They don’t understand the transgender element at all. They think it’s crossdressing, they don’t understand how it could “come on suddenly.” They just don’t get it.
Finally got to see the “weekend” psych eval doc — not even “my” doctor — and told the story. Again. To tears. And just as I thought she was getting it, just a bit … her phone rang and she dismissed me. THE?! FUCK?!
These people don’t get it. They don’t understand. I miss Cecelia and Nancy.
At one point, the weekend doc asked me, “Do you still want to kill yourself?” And I replied, without even thinking, “A part of myself.” She didn’t at all get what I meant. I could see it in her eyes. And then her phone rang, and then she didn’t care anymore.
Everything they say online is true. Find someone with experience. Find someone who knows. A therapist, a psychaitrist, a gatekeeper who does not understand trans is next to worthless when the chips are down.
Why am I depressed? Why did I try to kill myself? Because I am losing my identity!
HUSBAND DAD MALE MR. [LAST NAME] I AM LOSING EVERYTHING I AM, and I do not yet have anything to replace it with, and the parts of me that are left WILL NOT DIE IN A FIRE ALREADY. That is why I am depressed.
These people do not get that. Apparently some drugs and happy thoughts are all I need to be better. But there are no happy thoughts. Aargh!
These aren’t the most coherent entries in my journal, but then again, they weren’t the most coherent emotions at the time. Sometimes, being trans is like going insane.