Like buses

You wait ages for a GIC appointment then two come along in the same week. OK, it should have been one appointment with two different people but illness forced a rearranging and in the end I went to the GIC on the Monday & Friday of last week.

On the way back from the GIC on Monday

On the way back from the GIC on Monday

Mondays appointment was a fairly simple health check and psychological questionnaire to fill in. Other than a higher than comfortable blood pressure (140/72) everything was fine. The nurse said my bp was likely due to stress about going to the clinic – quite likely – but I also decided to start being a bit healthier, cutting down on the salt and alcohol. The last thing I want is to get psychological OK for hormones but then be prevented by my health!

Of course cutting down on alcohol is a lot easier said than done for me. Being in the middle, and cause of, an imploding relationship does not make for a stress free environment. Alcohol helps. Sigh.

A classic implosion example was my appointment on Friday. I’d been to the GIC on Monday dressed as a woman and I intended to do the same on Friday, the difference being that my wife doesn’t work on a Friday and was in the house. As the time approached for me to get ready, she became very stressed and anxious. She didn’t want me to go out of the house in womens clothes or makeup. I had to do this, I’m not up to putting makeup on in a car layby but I did put wig, coat etc in a bag, my plan being to wear a jumper dress rolled up & boy jeans over leggings.

At this point she became very upset and we had a good 2 hours of tears and upset as she ran through the reasons I shouldn’t transition – the effect on our daughter and how she doesn’t want our daughter to be different from the other kids, to be the odd one out; the effect on her “why is it always me, its not fair, its not *my* fault!” and more difficult questions “why do you have to go as a woman at all? They know what you are”. I tried to explain but I don’t think very well – I don’t want to say “I’m doing this because otherwise I’ll likely commit suicide” because thats just way too much to offload onto someone…

Ultimately, running low on time I had to ditch the jumper dress/leggings and settle for a near-to-hand stripey top & jeans. My wife was also upset at my leaving in my chosen boots, necessitating a swap to boy trainers and another carrier bag…

In the end I had to walk out with her still crying or I’d not be in time for my appointment. I then rushed to an appropriate layby, added wig, earrings, boots & coat and raced to the clinic. Only to find it wasn’t at the same place but round the corner via a different car park & entrance! I eventually got there with seconds to spare and launched straight into a psychological assessment of my life story so far!

The actual appointment was again mostly questions about how I came to be there and what my life had been like until now. In fact much the same as the first appointment though thankfully with a much lower incidence of penis related questions, which was good! It took about 45 minutes and seemed to go well.  I mentioned how difficult my situation is and she suggested counseling might help though I think all I actually need is someone to say “yes, you’re gender dysphoric and we’ll help you transition”. Given that my wife doesn’t want to be with me if I transition, I can then find somewhere else to live without worrying that I’ve ruined three peoples lives for *nothing*.

Anyway, I’ve got another appointment with the same person in a month, after which I’m hoping for that formal diagnosis from the clinic and treatment.

Since the appointment, my wife has been breaking into tears each evening but the worst thing is that I’m starting to feel dead to it. I mean I know this enormous pain I’m causing and the huge upset to come, the betrayal of my daughters trust in me …. but I seem to have it locked away because to start to think about it brings on such misery … I must be actively choosing not to think about it? I seem to be becoming a cold, horrible person … and I don’t like it.


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