Over the years that I have lived with my Gender identity issues, I have read a significant number of books on the subject. Ranging from heavy weight medical texts, all the way through to popular biographies of famous “Female Impersonators” One particular text has stuck in my mind for many years, the name and author of the piece long since forgotten, but the content has stayed with me.
The crux of the paper was that legitimate medical professionals had spent time developing and trialling cures for Transgendered patients. Amongst the electric shock aversion therapy and drug based approaches discussed there was one particular cure that seemed to be showing some promise. The basic concept was to show the patient photographs of themselves presenting as their preferred gender, and then to critically highlight just how far away from that gender they really were. In essence the patient was professionally, and probably brutally, insulted.
In the spirit of openness and honesty that accompanies this blog its worth noting that I am currently reeling from an unpleasant experience. I looked in the mirror, long and hard. I don’t need a highly paid medical professional to tell me how stupid I look. All I need is a light bulb, a mirror and a shed load of baby wipes that will take me from badly painted freak, to disturbed man in a Triumph Tee Shirt.
A couple of layers of nice fabric, and a basket full of cremes and powders can’t fix this problem. I’m going to retask my therapist. I need a cure. That moment in the Monty Python sketch where the guy visiting the argument clinic ends up in the wrong room and cops a verbal flogging springs to mind. “Was it a thirty minute session or the full hour you toffee nosed weasel” I’ll take the full hour please, and make sure it works.
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