I’ve been absent for too long. I wanted to write, and yet I didn’t. I buried myself in my many DIY projects in and around the house. Always a good way to not have to think too much.
Life can be so bluddy complicated. Who the facking fack am I? Really? (Can you tell I’m annoyed with myself already?)
So I changed therapists. It was a tough decision to make. The senior psychologist at the gender clinic seemed a like good choice. I felt we’d get along well. But then I was also still waiting to hear back from the psychological practice…
In the end I chose for the psychological practice. Even though the psychiatrist there was mistaken and could not just give me my diagnosis right away. Laws and shit. I was not surprised, so not angry or upset either.
I did not, however, get the psychologist I thought I’d get. My new therapist is a young woman (a psychologist, and not the psychiatrist who did the intake) and I’m happy to say I feel very comfortable talking to her.
We met twice now. Two double appointments. This is bound to go way faster than the long and winding road I was made to walk – at a snail’s pace – at the gender clinic. Two double appointments a month, instead of one single appoinment once a month. The math is easy enough.
And here I am. Wanting to crawl into a dark hole and hide. I’m flipping scared – but too proud to admit it to anyone. Except that now the whole world wide web knows. But it’s just words typed on a screen and that’s different. Somehow.
What the heck? What’s there to be scared of anyway? Isn’t this what I want? What I’ve always wanted? To be a man? Then why do I want to run?
But I know what this is all about.
Change frightens me. Sometimes more than other times, and definitely more now than most other times. (But boy, was I secretly relieved when my holiday to Paris was cancelled. I was shitting my boxers just thinking how awkward it would be navigating the streets of Paris in my wheelchair.)
I felt just as scared way back when I was in mental hospital. I wanted to get well. As in “normal”, like other people. And yet I didn’t. I knew crazy, and we got on like a house on fire. Unless crazy was mad at me and made me do some pretty insane things, but hey, that’s what lunacy is all about.
The thing is, I knew what it was like to be crazy. And even though it sucked like hell, it felt safe. I knew what to expect from my life at the loony bin.
What business had I getting well? I’d be expected to think and act like any other normal, responsible adult. It scared the living daylights out of me.
We all know what happened. I got well. Eventually. A pretty much “normal”, responsible adult. And it’s way better than madness ever was. I’m living my own life, making my own choices and doing the things I like, whereas back in those crazy days, I did none of these things. I never got the chance.
So here it is. I’m scared of the unknown. Even though deep down I know – I just know – my life will be better when I visibly get to be the person I’ve always been on the inside.
Pity it doesn’t take away the fear. I guess I’ll just have to eat my way right through it.