Baby Bird

Like a little bird. How I see myself these days. In a way, I hope it won’t last because of the vulnerability factor. At the same time, it’s a reminder I have lots of growing ahead. Mental health issues sometimes plague transgender people but, as in any demographic, there are those who have the benefit of not having nightmares each night. Many who, by chance or science, don’t take a cocktail of pills to keep themselves on track.

What my life has been, the particular hell I’ve weathered, makes me who I am. It doesn’t behoove me to drool over what might have been. As difficult as it is, I am trying to live in the present moment. Therapy is at the forefront of each thought, dredging up stuff I’d love to keep buried yet don’t dare, because it’ll bite me in the ass a different day when I’m not watching.

My gender therapist confronted me the Thursday before I signed into the hospital. She said, “Sam, you’ve got to make a choice! You can’t be both man and woman!” And, “I’m certainly glad you’re not having surgery any time soon!” This, in response to my confusion over my not wanting to give up some female traits and possibly adopt some not-so-hot male ones. Then the session was up. In the end, I felt injured. Frightened. Disgusted.

At age twenty-four, I was seduced by my female therapist. We carried on a secret, sleazy, sexual affair that lasted two years. This followed my discharge from the unit where the initial seduction had taken place. The experience was mind blowing and devastating. My trust in therapists became stronger over the years and I’d met and worked with some fantastic women. L was to be my last. My adventure toward transformation as trans male had begun. And I sought a little back up.

That relationship with L came to an abrupt halt last week and before I knew it, a new therapist was in the picture. It’s protocol the social worker on the unit hook you up with someone prior to discharge.  Not really sure I need or even want a therapist, I’ve entered into a relationship with T. I could tell from our first visit together she takes no shit. She gave homework, was sure I was willing to work hard and listen. Before I left, she said, “I know you were interviewing me. Did I get the job?” I’m relieved the answer was ‘yes.’

I’d like to say I could hold my own in the wide, weird, world of my transition. At this juncture, my allergy to T and my fear of top surgery, I’m convinced God is challenging me. Here you are, Sam. You will be asked to transform emotionally and spiritually without promise of any physical change. I had hoped to join my over-forty “crowd”; the guys I meet on FB who seem to me to have achieved ninety per cent of their medical transition. They seem really happy.

God, I believe, loves the baby bird. The sparrow. If he can love me as much as he loves the sparrow, that makes me happy. He loves me, not as well as the baby bird, but far more. As the bird’s mother would not deliberately drop her young, God didn’t bring me this far to drop me on my head. So, I’ll keep plugging and have faith in my blessings I will continue to learn and ultimately fly.