Scabs

A reflective essay on being public

I can't quite place it, but there’s a familiar tightness around my chest, so I begin pacing between bedrooms as I chat with a familiar voice on the phone.

She’s writing an article that’ll be in the Telegraph this week, expanding on the NHS’s recent announcement to explore the need for new service for those wishing to detransition. Some may think it foolish, but I do trust her, she’s never twisted my words or been too forceful, so why do I feel breathless?

“Do you think we urgently need a detransition service?"  I can’t help but notice the framing of the question. The ‘do you think’ feels like a subtle way to lead me to a specific answer, about urgency.

"I think the service needs to be set up carefully,” I said confidently, reasserting my position. "It can’t be rushed."

“But, do you not feel, that there’s an urgent need for a service like this?" She was paraphrasing her previous question, but I remained firm in my stance.

"As long as it’s done right, and the right people are in place," I said, underlying my position.

After the call finished, my chest felt even tighter, as if someone held my lungs in a vice, squeezing with every shallow breath that I gasped for.

Why am I panicking? It’s been over two and half years in the public eye. It’s not as though I’m a stranger to journalists, it was only last week I returned from filming a documentary in Amsterdam about detransition and the Dutch clinics.

And the week before that, my Interview with Andrew Gold hit over 1 million on YouTube and half a million on X.

The following day, the article is published in print and online. I’m surprised I made it to the front page of the Telegraph [Archive], but I’m annoyed by the predictably click bait headline, even though I understand this is just how the media works.

At least they said sex. Though, if there’s ever anything I want to reinforce, it’s that, there is no change of sex, though getting into an argument of semantics when clickbait is involved, isn’t worth ripping off the scab.

I feel calmer since yesterday. I can breathe easier at least, but after the call ended I began to bite and pick at my already shortened nails. They had been decimated from traveling and the nerves it brings.

I know that there are far more rooting for me than against. Honestly, I never expected to be received so positively, and I am so grateful for it. From the people here on Substack, YouTube to X, and the odd person who recognises me on the street. I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long, if it wasn’t for you and those kind strangers. I can’t say the same for my nails though.

The largely unsympathetic voices, that are quick to judge, don’t really bother me anymore. They’re nothing more than cluster-B piranhas, who quickly rip to shreds anyone who dare tip their toes in. It’s why detransitioners don’t speak out, we already carry a burden on ourselves, and breaking through that barrier is tough. We don’t need anymore scabs to pick.

Some have us right where they want us, locked in a perpetual state of victimhood, with very few interested in happy endings, learning how we’re looking to heal, better ourselves, our triumphs, not just our tribulations. Only that we remain broken and helpless.

It’s up to us to those who are public to change the perception that we are finished, broken and unfixable. None of us are expendable, not one, not even myself.

We need to be firm, not to fall into a new category of idolised victims. But instead, those who seek to recover, acknowledge what happened, as well as the part we played, but also recognise the parts others played too.

I know that, to some, people like me, are nothing but an ‘I told you so’. To others, we are proof that anyone who speaks out will be reduced to nothing more than a useful idiot to the very people who hate us, even in detransition or a warning sign to be hit over the head of those set in their own decision. Regardless, we will be used as ammunition in the great gender war. Even the trans-positive detransitioners are used and repurposed this way.

For most of us, our message is rather simple and doesn’t require much explanation.

Don’t do it. Do not get 'gender' surgery, and especially be cautious of any ‘reversal’ surgeries. Even if it seems minor, each mark on your body is a commitment, a pound of flesh given to the cause. And for what? A shortcut to self-actualisation?

No, to me, these marks are nothing but the imprints of cruelty. A lifelong reminder of our foolishness, as well as painful mark of how desperate we were at our lowest point.

I refuse to answer these problems with more scalpels. My body has enough reminders on it as is.

And I know the scars on my skin may fade with time, but I also know I’ll never properly recover, especially whilst picking at scabs.

Perhaps it’s time to stop.

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Your ongoing support, feedback, and well wishes keep me going! Thank you!
-Ritchie

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