Anxious Boy (1)

I'm going to write about trying to get help with my panic attacks through the NHS. It's partly a processing thing for me, and partly a record. I also think it can't hurt to have this stuff out there for anyone else in a similar situation. I have no idea how this will turn out, or if I will keep writing about it. Right now it feels like I need to. Like if I don't, it will disappear, or turn into something else in my head. I need to get it down while it's still fresh. Maybe someone else will find it useful. Or maybe not.

First steps

It took me a long time to get around to, both because I'm stupidly busy and because I kept hoping I would somehow magically fix myself without help. I didn't. I went to the doctor at work, and he gave me a prescription for Propanolol and Diazepam, which I filled immediately, before I could change my mind. Sometimes I take them, and sometimes they seem to help with the symptoms, but I haven't stopped having the attacks and that's what I'm aiming for, really. They're seriously hampering my ability to, well, live my life.

So I made an appointment with my GP and I gritted my teeth and I told her the truth - well, most of the truth. She said she would refer me to the mental health team, and that I should hear from them within 10 working days. It was Friday night, and this is the NHS, so when I got a call on Monday afternoon I was amazed and impressed. It was lucky I answered the call at all - the number came up as "Blocked" on my phone and normally I would have ignored it, but I was on my way to get a glass of water at work so answered it. I spoke briefly with a very nice man, who patiently tried to accomodate my unhelpfully packed schedule, and - incredibly - booked me in for a phone assessment at 1:45 on Saturday. I wasn't overjoyed - he had said the call would take 20-30 minutes, and I had a show at 2:30. But I was so glad that I wasn't going to have to wait weeks, like I thought I might, that I took it. Knowing myself pretty well, and anticipating that the call would upset me, I asked my closest friend at work to stand by so I could get a hug or a shoulder or a cup of tea when I was done.

The first call

The man I spoke to, whose name I can't remember, called me on the dot of 1:45, while I was anxiously pacing outside the stage door in the rain. He was kind and patient and cracked a few jokes. He told me what the assessment would consist of, and then he did it - asking me two lists of questions about my recent symptoms and life situation - and then he told me that I would receive a letter with the results, a copy of which would be sent to my GP. Practically, the call was good. But there was one thing that gave me a tinge of anticipatory fear. The nice man wasn't exactly taken aback when I told him I was trans - although he literally said "oh. I actually don't have a box for that" - but he was weird about it in that way that I have learnt to treat with caution. The word "brave" was used on more than one occasion. The word "interesting" also. I'm sure he meant well and was trying to put me at my ease and reassure me that he wasn't bothered, but, well - you know what the 'but' is. I told myself that this guy probably wouldn't be talking to me again. I would slide through his little bit of the system leaving nary a hint of my presence - perhaps a suggestion for a new box? - and our paths wouldn't cross again. His well-intentioned, jarring ignorance wouldn't be my problem. I just had to get to the next stage. The stage that would help.

The letter arrived the following Saturday, listing some incomprehensible numbers and letters - the results of my assessment - and requesting that I call between 9 and 4:30 to set up a more 'in-depth' assessment. I called the number and got an answering service informing me that their business hours were 9-5 Monday-Friday, which the letter had unhelpfully not specified. I googled the mysterious letters and numbers (PHQ9 and GAD7) and found out what they meant.

I called back on Monday morning, and was happy to encounter another friendly, helpful person, and to be told that I could have this assessment over the phone too. Good news for me, with my stupid schedule. She was just as accommodating about my schedule, finally booking me in for 1:30 on the approaching Thursday and telling me that the call would take 30-40 minutes. The number would come up as "Blocked" on my phone, but it would be "Jenny" on the other end. This information would have been helpful in advance of the first call, too.

The second call

Jenny rang promptly at 1:30. I was, yet again, anxiously pacing outside work. Different work. Same pacing. After introducing herself she immediately dropped her voice to a soothing murmur, and I had to interrupt her to ask her to speak up since I was outside. She obliged. We talked for forty minutes. She took me through the same sets of questions that I had been asked on the first call, explaining that this would happen each time I spoke to someone from the service, and that it was a way of gauging my recent mental health. When we had finished she told me what my numbers were and how they compared to my numbers from the previous phone call. Again, this is something I'd have liked to have been told earlier. Perhaps when they sent me a letter with some numbers next to some unexplained acronyms. Perhaps when they 'assessed' me the first time.  But I didn't really mind - I appreciated how fast everything was happening and I understand that they must have to cut some corners to expedite these services.

But I was finding these calls upsetting. I knew I would and the first time I had been able to prepare some support for myself, in the event that I needed it. This time I couldn't do that. I was upset on the phone although I tried not to show it - tried not to feel it. I explained myself as best I could. Tried not to cry. Tried not to worry about my coworkers seeing me. Tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Tried to hear Jenny over the traffic noise. Tried not to panic.

I have to say that it was nothing that Jenny said that I was finding upsetting, and nothing that the first guy had said either. They were both very gentle and professional. It's just that talking about the whole thing, out loud, is seemingly very difficult for me. I guess I don't like to think about it too much, or really admit it at all.

At the end of the call we talked about next steps, and Jenny told me that my treatment would probably consist of a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, which could be taken over the phone. This was good news - I'd been worried about finding the time to attend regular medical appointments. Unfortunately the service was only available 9-5 Monday-Friday, all of which time I'm at work. Jenny asked if I didn't have a lunch break? I have a lunch break, I explained, but I don't have anywhere private to go during it - my building is full to capacity as it is. Could I sit in my car? I don't drive to work. Jenny was sympathetic but there aren't really any other options. Not Jenny's fault, of course, but I was getting more upset and she obviously needed to end the call. Addressing me by my legal name, she asked if I had any questions.

Yes, I said, barely coherent. Can you please not use that name any more? I know it's what you have for me, but can you use Ollie instead? Of course, she said, of course. I'm so sorry, I should have asked - No no, I reassured her, you didn't know, I haven't mentioned it, it's just, my legal name makes me really uncomfortable and I'm finding this quite hard and it somehow makes it worse when I hear that name. I understand, she said. I'll get it into your paperwork.

I don't remember what we said after that. I was desperate. We ended the call, and I hustled back into work, locked myself into a cubicle, sat on the floor and cried until my brain came back. It didn't take long to calm down - I didn't have long, I had to be back at my desk. I calmed myself down, waited for my face to feel normal, returned to work. Took two of the pills. Focused.

When "Blocked" came up on my phone 20 minutes later, I thought I had better answer it. I slipped out into the corridor and answered the call quietly. It was Jenny. Addressing me by my legal name, she told me that she was sorry but she'd forgotten to do the risk assessment. Did I have a couple of minutes? I stumbled over the answer. My throat had tightened and I was on the edge of tears. I told her I did, if it really was a couple of minutes - I was back at work. She asked me if I thought I might harm myself. I choked on no. She asked me what was stopping me from harming myself. I said what? She said, you know, family, friends, a parter - ? I sobbed no, no, no. Nothing's stopping me, I'm just - not. She apologised again for forgetting the risk assessment. She said goodbye. I hung up, went back to my cubicle floor, and succumbed to the panic attack that had been threatening since the first call. Luckily for me, nobody came into the bathroom. Then I went back to work.

Now

I'm not as optimistic as I was. I'm scared, actually. These calls upset me. I'm prepared for that, but I don't know if I'm prepared enough - I can't have the support I need around me 9-5, and that seems to be the only option. If I could have the calls in the evenings/weekends, when I'm usually at the other job or at home, it would be ok. Maybe the actual therapy won't be upsetting? But even if it's not, I don't have a quiet place to take the calls. I don't know how to get around that.

Less tangible is my worry about how these professionals are relating to my trans-ness. Nobody has been hateful or intolerant or transphobic. But my Spidey sense is tingling. Did he call me interesting and brave? Did he just refer to my transness as "that kind of thing"? Did she really just address me by the wrong name twenty minutes after I'd told her that it bothered me?

I laughed when the guy said he didn't have a box for that. But, now that I think about it, NHS, why don't you have a box for that? You asked me my damn sexuality and religion and ethnicity. Why isn't there a box for that?

And why didn't you notice that I was crying on the phone, the first time when I told you what I wanted to be called, and then when you phoned back to check I wasn't going to kill myself? Why didn't you notice?

I'm getting cross. I'm not cross, really. Mainly I'm worried. I need this help but I'm scared to get it: scared that it won't help, or that it will throw up the need for more help, or a different kind of help. Also scared of the dysphoria which I can barely keep at bay under normal circumstances, and which this process seems bound to disturb.

Outed by Facebook

Oh my god, this. A story about how two sets of parents found out their children were gay due to the vagaries of Facebook's labyrinthine privacy settings.

Gendering Sports

Recently I have gone back to judo, a sport that I trained in until I was 17, and have only sporadically revisited since. It's been a long time, and I thought I anticipated the challenges of returning to it. I anticipated that I'd get horribly out of breath, and struggle to remember techniques, not to mention their names. I anticipated that my adult body would take longer to adapt to and recover from training than my adolescent body had. What I didn't anticipate, although I perhaps should have done, was how engaging with sport would highlight my gender.

National Coming Out Day

I wasn't going to write anything about National Coming Out Day, because I've always found myself fairly ambivalent about the whole thing. Then I read this post over at Black Girl Dangerous, which is a really fabulous tumblr filled with radical politics, particularly the kind that's of interest to queer and trans* people of colour. I often find the writing there challenging and inspiring and difficult and brilliant, and this piece is no different.

How facebook shapes my trans identity

I have an event coming up where I will see people that I haven't seen for a long time, few of whom know that I am transgender. I want these people to know who I am, and to call me by my preferred name and pronouns. How do I go about it? "I'm changing my names and pronouns" is how I've done it before, but ever since the first time I did that, I've been aware that it sets up a whole heap of expectations - expectations that I don't want to fill, and wouldn't know how to even if I did.

Here's what I've done in the past. "I'm changing my names and pronouns", a polite request for people to try their hardest to respect it, an acknowledgement that it is hard work, a mention of my new facebook profile and the fact that I'll be inviting them to join it, and a "looking forward to seeing you soon" sign off.

Oh, did I mention? I disclose on facebook. That might seem weird, but really, I never considered any other way. I guess that says something about me! It does make sense, though. Obviously that's not how my close friends or family find out. But when it comes to wanting to be known by my preferred name and pronouns at a certain event or within a particular group of people (a temporary job, a reunion, a night out etc), there honestly is no better way to announce it to the people who are your friends, but not your friend friends. Not the ones who you call up and go for coffee with. The people you know from various corners of your life, but only see in that context. The people who you only wish 'Happy Birthday' to on facebook. Your facebook friends. A semi-formal 'note' to the least well-known ones. A little personality added to the slightly closer ones. And invitations for all to my new profile, where I am slowly growing a community of people who call me by my preferred name or, if they don't call me anything at all, get used to seeing me as that person.

I think that might be the most important part. Due to the way I work and live, I have numerous non-overlapping groups of friends and acquaintances. Some of them I see only once a year. I appreciate that getting used to calling someone by a new name is hard work, and it's proportionally harder for people who have known me for longer. So for someone who hasn't seen me for a year, but has known me for 10, getting used to interacting with Ollie, even digitally, might be quite helpful. Particularly after the occasion has passed and we might not see each other for another 12 months!

It's selfish, too, of course. I don't want to make 50, or even 10 phone calls every time I want to disclose to a new group of people. It's not just that I'm self-conscious, although I would be. I think the phone call, or even worse, the in-person disclosure, puts pressure on people to respond. Everyone has to find something to say in response, and sometimes, the only thing you might be able to come up with is "Oh. .... Good?' I wouldn't criticise that! But the facebook message doesn't put that pressure on someone. It gives them the space to read, take in, consider - in their own time. Most people reply with something casual, often including the words "no problem", and often using my preferred name. It may not sound like much, but it's surprisingly comforting!

Now, on to the problem with this approach. I don't identify as male. What I do identify as is not completely clear. Sometimes it is boy, occasionally boi, often queer, often trans, sometimes nothing at all. I'm not convinced about what pronouns I want to use, or whether I will ever have any surgery. I don't know if I'll legally change my name or my gender. But I don't know how to say that in a short, relatively formal email and, more to the point, I'm not sure I want to. It's stupid of me, because I am setting up those expectations that I mentioned earlier. My message indicates a narrative of trans identity that is at least recognisable by the mainstream: girl becomes boy. Surely if I added a few lines to explain that it's not as black and white as that for me, I could make my point. But I don't want to invite the questions. I already have to deal with plenty of ignorant, nosy, inappropriate enquiries about surgery, whether I'm 'out' to my family, what my partner thinks, etc, often from people who I barely know. I don't want to add gender-uncertainty into the mix.

Sometimes, I like to talk about my gender-identity - what it means to me, how I (want to) present, how I feel about gender roles, whether I would be a 'father' to my children. But I don't want those things to be open to all comers. I want to discuss them gently, respectfully, with my closest friends, and only when I am feeling safe and comfortable. I don't want "so, what does queer mean?" to blindside me when I'm tired or afraid or hating myself, and I can't trust my 'Facebook friends' to know when that might be. For me, it is safer to keep the border clear and defined, not to blur it with my uncertainty and doubt. It's easier to laugh/brush off questions about something I'm not (transsexual) than about something that I am ( ... ?).

Is this messed up? Yes, definitely.

Would it be easier to not disclose at all, and keep being known by a name and pronouns that I don't identify with? No, not at all.

I hope that it isn't always this way.

Surgery

Having recently 'come out' once again in another of my social circles, I had to endure a whole new bunch of people navigating my identity, apologising for getting my name wrong, and asking well-meaning questions. On the whole, it went well, and there were no ill-effects (although at some point I will want to write about the minefield that is 'people getting your name wrong'). In many ways, it was wonderful! Inevitably, however, there were a few sticky moments. The most irritating comment came from someone who I didn't know all that well, having worked with him once a few years before but not seen him since. One night at the pub after rehearsal, he said to me "So, I guess you're sick of people asking you this, but are you going to go all the way towards, you know, actually becoming a man?"

So, I guess I should get used to people asking me about surgery.

To be fair, they do it in a variety of innovative ways - rarely does anybody actually use the word 'surgery'. My favourite one came from someone who had just met me, having heard all about me from a mutual friend. Having told me that I was 'not what she expected' and that I looked 'like a gay girl', she asked, in all sincerity, 'will you stay with C afterwards?'

The levels of offensiveness in those three phrases hit me right in the heart. I actually couldn't speak for a moment or two. We were at a party and there were other people around, so after spluttering briefly I think I evaded the question and we moved on. But that was 6 months ago and it's still bothering me now. It's not that I want particularly to be what someone expects, or that I'm offended that I look like a gay girl. In all honesty I might take that as a compliment - it's nice to be visibly queer, even if it's not quite the right kind of queerness that people see. But that final question was too far. Quite apart from the rudeness of it, it enraged me to have my relationship with C taken so lightly. Even assuming I were to transition surgically, hormonally and socially, why should anyone think that might change my feelings towards my partner of over two years? C was there with me at the party, and we were our normal tactile and loving selves, so it's not like this woman thought I had C hidden away at home, unaware of or unhappy with the situation.

But most of all, it's that little word 'afterwards'. There's no need to wonder what she meant by 'afterwards', right? After you change. After you actually become a boy. After the surgery. At no point had we discussed my having surgery. We were not friends. We had just met. The punch was the casual assumption that a) I was not a boy yet, b) I would be a boy once I had surgery, and c) there was no other way to be a boy. And despite all my knowledge to the contrary, despite my conviction that this is simply not true, and despite the plethora of knowledgeable and compassionate people, internet-based and otherwise, who are right there with me in my conviction, somehow it's these tiny, casual, curious remarks which make the most impression on me. I guess this is what they call a 'microaggression'? It doesn't feel very 'micro' to me. Still, I guess I'd better get used to it!