It’s been months since I resumed therapy. In past years talk about relationships dominate the 50 minutes of gaping awkwardness. I had shared a sustained suspicion of therapy as practice, but I wasn’t about to insult what she did. I returned from my summer internship with an agenda. Our eyes lock during session. “Why do you come?,” she prods me
“because I have to.”
“Because mid-century, a well-meaning and well-respected physician decided that you get to decide that I want what I want.”
“You don’t see the advantage? You know… not everyone thinks through things as much as you do.”
“I talk to trans people everyday. It’s not something people take lightly. Every time you tell someone, they ask you if you’re fucking sure. They practically beg you not be.”
She was sympathetic. A sympathetic professional whose career is built on the assumption that people can’t solve their own problems. I built my life on the conviction that I was the only one who could change anything that mattered in my own life. We spent months grappling for common ground. I demanded a letter, and eventually refused to return. I graduated and moved half way across the country. A week later I got my letter in the mail.