It’s January 2014, and I’m on track to undo myself.
Many are cheering me on from the sidelines. They’ve all agreed with my ruminations. Every one of them. Every therapist, psychiatrist, doctor, surgeon, voice coach, and online cheerleaders. Each rallying to defeat any doubts or hesitancies.
Everyone but family that is.
They grow concerned, some make that known, and others keep an arms-length distance, making sure I don’t fully slip away. I’m not well, and my number one ally, my mother, is patient, yet I can see her heart breaking. She can’t do anything to save her son.
“He doesn’t exist anymore.” I declare sharply. She tries her best not to show pain, but I can tell it hurts for her to hear it. This is a test, a trial of not only my faith but my conviction in the cause.
It’s the start of 2015, and I’ve just had my first psychiatrist assessment at the gender clinic. They ask me if I want surgery, what do I say? I know it sounds weird, but I never once thought about it until asked. I’m unsure, I ask for therapy.
Remnants of old forum posts remain to this day, highlighting my doubts about transition, let alone surgery. Those spaces lack any criticism, it’s a hug box, and going there I knew I’d be put back on course. I have a therapist now, and he told me it was ‘internalised transphobia’, so I do have some assurance at least.
All these people can’t be wrong?
“We’ll wait until you’re ready.” The psychiatrist says, confident that I’ll go through surgery. She seems like she knows. I’m a clean-cut case, an ideal candidate.
I still have questions, and I’m surprised they can’t answer them, so they sent me off for a consultation with a psychiatrist once more. I bring along my mother, whose resistance has increased exponentially. I’m in my late twenties, and I’m no child, but she knows fine well of the problems I have in life, the struggles.
Perhaps I can defeat her doubts along with my own?
Assisted by the psychiatrist, my mother’s concerns are thrown to the dirt, buried by the promise that if she doesn’t yield, my life will be forfeit.
I move in with my glitter friend, another transitioner. They help restart my transition, and I’m back on course. Every few months though, the psychiatrist prompts me about surgery, I put it off as long as I can, I’m not ready and the therapy is much needed. I have a lot to talk about, not just this.
It’s late 2017, and I’ve now had dozens upon dozens of gender therapy sessions. The therapist made me realise, I always had genital dysphoria, and all this time I’ve been masking. I have no plans coming off hormones, and my genitals had significant atrophy anyway. The sexual function had pretty much died out, and orgasms felt unfulfilling, so, maybe they’re right?
I began to believe the procedure was just a matter of when rather than if. It’s inevitable. The false promises of affirmation were equally enticing too. I can be the truest of all trans. Who doesn’t yearn to be their best selves?
Unfortunately, mine turned out to be someone else.
May 2018, it’s so hot. I’m in a high fever from the blood loss from surgery. I can’t remember which day is which. On the fifth day, I’m injected with fresh life. Two units of blood.
“Ut-oh.” The reality is catching up with me. I’m awake now, and this wasn’t just some crazy dream. This was a mistake.
“Oh god, what have I done?” There were no cries of anguish or tears in the hospital, I was stunned. I played my hand, lost, and had only myself to blame. What did I think was going to happen?
It’s 2018 and I’m months into recovery from the surgery I had so much fear and doubt over. With a bowed head, I surrendered and told my therapist it was all one big mistake.
“No.” He commanded.
“You’ve just had major surgery and you have OCD. This is not regret.” I feel more scorned than reassured by his response, and I’m far too weak to argue back, too defeated by the injury to my ego, as well as my body. Who am I to doubt him? I’m not exactly the most stable person in the world now, am I?
Weeks pass. I wake up every day feeling the familiar feeling I didn’t want to feel, but couldn’t stop feeling.
It’s like a heartbreak that never stops, and worse, it’s the result of your own choices. You can’t quite feel the grief you’re entitled to, instead, you become emotionally backed up with disbelief at your own bad decision.
This is regret. This is hell.
Back in my therapist’s office, he’s looking less confident than I remember him to be. He’s very tall but seems shrunken down in his chair as I declare once more, that this is not OCD, but regret.
“No.” He won’t allow it. I’m referred for another assessment. He comes along, and two other psychologists I’ve never met reward my regret with a bonus diagnosis of unstable personality disorder.
Fine, I surrender. Perhaps it is just OCD, perhaps it is just because I am mentally unwell.
It’s January 2020 and I’ve been discharged from the gender clinic.
I feel broken, yet I know they will mark this as another raging success. Sure, I have my part to play in this, my responsibility. Though, whatever my share of the blame is, I know for certain I’m paying for that mistake in dividends. No one else is.
My heart stops as I hear another discussing their plans for surgery. Using what tact I have, I try my best to paint a picture of reality, but it’s not enough, they do it anyway. I hope it goes well friend, no one deserves this.
It’s the back end of 2021 now, and I’m still waiting for my OCD treatment.
Still reeling from regret, and blaming only myself. I still try to dissuade others from surgery when I can, and urge caution, but mostly I stay quiet.
I became a regular at the hospital, having various medical appointments as a consequence of the surgery that caused so much difficulty. There’s no end in sight to these appointments. I’m reaping what I sowed.
“This isn’t me. I’m someone else.” Looking at my reflection in a mirror, I can see myself more clearly than I ever have before. I realise the person looking back is someone else.
I didn’t become me, I became a stranger, and for what? I feel foolish. These clothes feel tight and my voice is strained from the exercises. I’m so tired of all of this, tired of lying to myself. Pretending to others that this is okay. It’s far from it.
I could have lied. I could have pretended for a few more years at least, but I don’t know how long I would have lasted.
It’s early 2022, and I’m faced with a choice.
If I want to keep everyone happy, I need to say the lines and chants of the crowd, but I don’t believe them anymore. And none of them are being honest about what can go wrong with surgery. Where I should feel pleasure, I feel pain, and I’ve lost far more than just my dignity and sexual function.
This isn’t healthcare, this is savagery. I wouldn’t do this to an animal, let alone a criminal. And it certainly isn’t the life I had in mind. What do I do? Stay silent and allow harm to go on, or speak out? Either road leads straight to hell, but I fear I’m already there.
It’s the summer of 2022, and a post of mine has gone viral.
“I understand it didn’t work for you, but it worked for me.” My one remaining trans friend says. When did I say it was wrong for everyone? Am I not entitled to my one-star review? Can I have my regret without conditions?
I feel like I’m in an auditing session in Scientology. They’re tracking every word and post, trying to trip me up for saying the wrong things in the wrong way. It’s too late anyway, I’m following the wrong people by now. And quite frankly, I’m tired of walking on eggshells.
Some talk to me as If I’m all-knowing, an angel with answers, others just see me as some sort of devil, a demon with malevolent goals.
“Traitor. Liar. Heretic.” Condemnation comes my way daily. The accusations aren’t consistent though. Some say I still have dysphoria, that I’m grifting, whilst others say I never had it and lied the whole time. Regardless, the attacks are intense, and I’m worn down but not worn out.
Though, I’m done with this dance. At least I have a small group of supporters. They keep me going, yet many more treat me with righteous suspicion. Who can blame them?
It’s January 2023, and my last friend from the trans community has cut off contact. Something flipped. They said I have blood on my hands, but this isn’t like them to be so hyperbolic. What changed? I suppose I’ve become a bit obsessive with this. I’ve done a lot of interviews, and articles, been in the news, and appeared in at least four documentaries now. It’s bad that I’m losing count.
What a choice.
Either speak out, warn others, and become the pariah of pariahs. Or choose silence, and never acknowledge any harm, and continue to parrot the rallying calls, and allow it to continue.
What a choice…
Thank you for reading!
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PS: Book Update
A quick update regarding my planned book.
For the last two years, I have been using what little spare time I have to write my story in long form. I’m taking care with this, it needs to be done right. I’m hopeful I’ll be ready by autumn 2024.
I just wanted you to know that it’s still being worked on.
Thanks for being patient!
Ritchie xo
The ’savagery' of surgery should never have been on the table, for you or anyone. The fact that it was, is shameful. I appreciate your guts, your honesty and your strength. Looking forward to your book
Looking forward to reading your story in long form! Your voice is important. Thank you for sharing yourself and your experiences with us.