Tis official. I’m not bonkers. Or whatever the politically correct terms is for whatever it is I’m not. Though I had, briefly, my doubts about the lady doing my assessment..
We-ell. She was lovely. And almost the first thing she said, since it bobbed up in conversation, was that I “pass quite well”.
And if you read this blog often, you’ll know how difficult it is for me to come to terms with that. Passing…doesn’t matter one jot.
But it makes me feel about ten feet tall when it happens.
So I play with it. I tell myself and everyone else that I don’t care one way or another. I work hard at not caring. I don’t expect to pass. And in the end I am bowled over when it happens.
Which, she observed, was probably quite a good strategy!
On to today, though: either she was being lovely, putting me at my ease. Or she’s madder than I am. Which appears to be not at all. Good.
I wasn’t too freaked by the session, which is in sharp contrast to some of the psych assessments I’ve undergone. The very first was the worst: pretty much had me crawling up the wall in terror at the thought that some bunch of experts would decide I wasn’t gender dysphoric and I’d have to go under the counter to obtain treatment.
But I got through that with little difficulty: also sailed thru my assessment with the gender specialist – and similar assessments that happened at various points through the last year and a half – and now its getting to be a bit banale.
Except, of course, that if this assessment had been negative, then it would have been sharp application of brakes and reverse gear and no grs and mega-re-evaluation of me and my life and everything else, all of which just doesn’t bear thinking about.
I needn’t have worried. But I think one always does.
Even exams one expects to pass easily, because of the dire consequence of not. Too, there is always the memory of my Finals, when my best paper turned into my worst, simply by virtue of the fact that I was SO confident in the subject (animal behaviour, in case you’re wondering) that I headed off at a tangent that might have qualified as massively insightful in other circumstances, but which quite failed to answer the questions as set.
That single moment of over-confidence probably cost me a First: drat!
But its done. An hour and a half covering much the same ground as before. Not really attempting to replicate diagnosis, as I understood it, so much as making sure I was aware of what I was undertaking, had thought through the consequences, had plans in place and similar rational stuff.
We covered (again) how I’d never really presented with symptoms during my earlier life. Or rather, I had always had a fascination for the female shape: always came back to a certain most un-bloke-y wistfulness for female embodiment – but never really realised that there was anything that I could do about it.
And next week, I should have the penultimate green light in hand: the second specialist opinion saying I’m OK for surgery. I was hoping for a diploma, Wizard of Oz style, stating that I am perfectly sane, but apparently these are not handed out. Perhaps I shall prevail on Megan to produce a badge to that effect.
The one last possible impediment (apart from a catastrophic change of mind) seems to be a last minute diagnosis of mrsa, which I will be swabbed for in about two weeks time.