Paving that seems to stretch forever through the urban main road sprawl that seemed well kept but lifeless other than the commuter boxes keeping the air carbon dry. The kind of housing that you could have used as a filming location for any British suburban sitcom of the nineteen eighties. Wiry branches of juvenile green summer awaking bliss givers passed overhead as I wandered aimlessly killing time.
Black wrought iron wide gates open on the other side of the road enticing me in. The fence with a single, cable tied, plastic poster for The Moscow State Circus was the only thing vaguely commercial. A triangle bordered by traffic. An escape but not idyllic. It was, at least, my escape for half an hour. A typical park with the typical path lined with equally spaced ageing trees.
There was a thought of ‘was it all worth it’. Not the gender thing, that’s here to stay and there isn’t a lot I can’t do about that, but the process. That process of having to come all the way to London for an appointment for someone to reflect back at me – whatever I say I am – all to satisfy a process just in case I need some kind of surgical intervention or medication. That’s not to say what they do is not valuable but I sit here on a bench alone, a breeze with an edge to cut goosebumps, totally shattered and not feeling particularly well on top of a long journey and not quite sure what I’m going to get out of this that couldn’t be done over the phone or through a Skype call.
Another jet has flown over. Four engines howling in a drone reminding me how close to Heathrow and how far away from home I was. Not envy felt for the exotic location those people might be travelling to. At this moment in time all I can think about is home and a hot chocolate. Comfort where I live. The park might be a rest stop that I need but it’s still cold.
I look at the traffic slowly trickling down the main road edging inches here and there. My normal curious self would be taking in the hustle and bustle of busy people all in a rush to go somewhere slowly while I sit amongst the early spring leaf trees. Yet all I can think about is the traffic I’m going to have to join for the trip home.
If I’m not ready now for full time outward gender identity then I ask why am I doing this now. Going through all this? Why don’t I stay home and once I’m ready go private for whatever I need. I think looking back all I wanted to do was push myself forwards to make sure I didn’t stall and get on that stupidly long waiting list that got even longer through maladministration.
A police van fills the void of little else that the rumble of traffic with sirens bouncing off the London stock brick buildings. Nothing changes though. The traffic still moves slowly without choice. I have choice. I suppose that’s what keeps me looking forward and thinking about me as the years pass.
It’s nearly time to go. My fingers are frozen as is my state of mind. I should be on the sofa with that chocolate and a few hours later alcohol to numb my fears. On a hard park bench, an orange band keeping my hair tied as it lay down the front of my shoulder and over the front of my black denim jacket. One or two runners lap the park passing by on the grass. I look up and the branches cut through the white sky of April.
There is a man and a woman. They must have seven or eight dogs. All small and yappy running around the centre of the park. I seem to be attracting a group of pigeons pecking around the grass while some strange bird up in the trees is making similar yappy noises as the dogs in a sub tropic impression. Ten minutes to go and suddenly the park seems interesting. Either that or I’m finding ways to normalise my day. I like interesting days. I like excitement but I suddenly want normality. A sea of contradiction. A trip to a gender clinician over one hundred and fifty miles away just doesn’t feel like normality. Today it feels prescribed.
The waiting room was quiet. A young couple chatting in what seemed to be that nervous jokey chat that people do in new situations to make themselves feel at home or appear outwardly confident. I recognised one of them from walking down the high street, a bright silver jacket that was unmistakable. I caught the eye of someone else sat at the far end opposite me who seemed to acknowledge my recognition of that nervousness.
My session was hard without seeming challenging on the surface. While I was straight and upfront about some of the things I wanted next my decisions were challenged by the clinician. Not so much in a negative way but digging deeper than in my first session. Presenting new modern concepts like non-binary and fluidity when it came to gender. I found it had an effect on me. It started my introspection. Questioning my own authenticity and allowing me to give answers that were not quite the full story because I was no longer sure if I felt confident enough to give them. I left the room after our time was up with one half of me feeling a little lost and lower. I felt I hadn’t been quite forthright enough.
I sat back in the waiting room to fill in that questionnaire before I would leave for the long trip home that was even longer in the easter traffic. I glanced up before starting to circle the feedback. The room was nearly empty apart from someone at the far end who caught my eye and smiled. Someone who wore a small section of green hair in a way that most people couldn’t. It was as if they were saying, ‘don’t worry, it’s all part of the course’ with just a look.
The golden evening sunlit gateways of the Severn Bridges were revealed as the top of the motorway gave way to the horizon that was painted with the Welsh hills in the greys of the distance, an entry to Celtic culture and the place where I grew up.
I randomly stabbed at the car radio as I got lost in the menu system which started Oasis equally randomly. Somehow comforting. I don’t know why. I only have two of their albums and one of those is a best of. May be it’s because it takes me back to uni days where I was so self assured with an outlook on life that anything could and can happen.
Gender fluidity is strong at the GIC, looking at people in the waiting room and making assumptions or the explanations that come from the clinician on how modern times have changed. A day later I’m suddenly more comfortable with myself and who I am; my identity expression. The onset of confusion and self doubt had lifted and left behind a foundation of clearer thoughts and a little more confidence. I wore my hair how I wanted that day in a way that was just a little more revealing of my identity than the last time I changed my hair to be more me. It continued to the weekend. Here and there little things I stopped worrying about and new attitudes to my expression. The challenged talking therapy had a positive effect even though it wasn’t directly what we had talked about. I move forward once again.
Until next time.