by Jeff Garvin
“What’s going on over there?” Doctor Ann asks. “Are you replaying the confrontation from last night?”
I stare at her. “How did you know?”
Doctor Ann nods toward the wall of diplomas behind her desk. “I have very expensive degrees,” she says.
I laugh, then run a hand through my hair. “I didn’t mean to yell at them. It was like . . . someone else was using my mouth to do the yelling.”
She nods.
“My face was doing the tingling thing, and I couldn’t breathe.”
“Has that been happening a lot?”
“I guess. I mean, it’s been worse since I started school.”
“Are you taking your meds?”
I scrub at the carpet with one foot. “Yeah. Dad’s doling them out.”
Doctor Ann steeples her hands and touches her two index fingers to her lips. “Why don’t you tell me something good that happened this week?”
“Something good?”
“Yes.”
I think for a minute, and then I just start to babble. I share about meeting Solo and our subsequent fight. I describe my fluctuation episode in the hall, my panic attack the next day, and finally conquering the Gauntlet. I tell her about ditching the fund-raiser to study with Bec, and how I thought there was sexual tension, but it was probably all in my head. I tell her about going to the Reagan Years with Solo and making up. When I finally glance at the clock above the door, I’ve been talking for almost thirty minutes straight, so I stop. Doctor Ann watches me, waiting to see if I’ll continue. I don’t.
“Have you thought any more about starting that journal blog I suggested?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I almost forgot.” And I fill her in on everything—from my first post to the anonymous “your a fag” commenter, to getting five hundred followers in a week.
“Wow,” she says, and then actually laughs out loud.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Doctor Ann recovers, shakes her head. “No. Psychiatrists aren’t permitted to laugh at our patients.” She smiles. “I’m glad you started the blog. I think other teenagers will benefit from your insight.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding; I guess I wanted her validation—not just for the blog, but for the way I’ve been thinking and feeling.
Doctor Ann glances at her watch, and I sit up straighter. We’re just getting started; I’m not ready to go yet.
“We haven’t talked about my dysphoria,” I say.
“Would you like to talk about your dysphoria?”
“Not really.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Just okay?”
Doctor Ann frowns. “I get the impression you want something from me. Do you want to tell me what it is?”
I open my mouth, then close it. Then I say, “I don’t know. I feel like you listen, but you don’t do anything to fix what’s wrong with me.”
“Well, okay,” she says, “but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
“It’s really fucking annoying when you do that,” I snap.
Doctor Ann exhales heavily, then nods.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Riley, I don’t know what you want me to do for you.”
I lean forward. “I want you to fix my anxiety. Make me feel like it’s okay to be who I am. Help me figure out how to . . . how to tell my parents in a way that will make them okay with it.”
Doctor Ann folds her arms. “That’s a lot.”
I throw up my hands.
“All right,” she says. “Let’s start with the anxiety.”
“Okay.”
“So, first, I want you to know that everybody experiences some level of anxiety. It’s a normal human response to stress. It’s like your body’s smoke alarm. If there’s a fire, you want to know so you can put it out or call 9-1-1, right?”
I shrug. “I guess. But it feels like my alarm is going off all the time.”
Doctor Ann nods. “Some people’s systems are more sensitive than others’. For you, maybe all it takes is burning a piece of toast, and your alarm thinks the house is on fire.”
I nod.
“But there’s no doubt you’re experiencing a lot of stress. You just changed schools. Your dad is running for office. That’s enough to give anybody a little anxiety. But when you add the bullying at school, and the gender dysphoria you’re experiencing, it can be overwhelming. And if we take your sensitivity into consideration, it’s not surprising that you’re having more frequent, intense episodes.”
I sit back. I hadn’t thought of it like that. And she’s right—it is overwhelming.
“So how do I cope with it?” I say.
“You are coping. You’re taking meds. You’re going out with friends. Standing up for yourself. Writing about it. Screaming at your parents.”
“And that’s normal?”
“For a teenager in your situation? I’d say so. It’s better than”—she pauses, as if catching herself before saying the wrong thing—“doing something extreme.”
I fold my arms. “You mean like washing down a dozen Xanax with a bottle of whiskey?”
Doctor Ann’s mouth drops open slightly, but then she recovers. “Yes,” she says. “It’s much better than that.” She looks like she’s waiting for me to say something more about it. When I don’t, she leans forward in her chair and speaks again, more softly this time. “As for wondering if it’s okay to be who you are—that’s not a symptom of mental illness. That’s a symptom of being a person.”
“What about my parents?”
“Are you ready to tell them?”
“No. But I’m kind of afraid I will. Like, in a moment of anger.”
“Do you know what you want to say?”
“No. Hell no.”
“All right. Well, let’s make an agreement. You won’t tell them until we have a chance to talk about it first. How about that?”
“Okay,” I say. And instantly, I feel a weight lifted. I put my face in my hands, and my shoulders start to shake. I hear Doctor Ann pull a tissue out of the box on her side table, and I take it from her, blow my nose, and look up.
“I feel like you should give me some deep advice or something.”
“About what?”
“Like, I don’t know, about life. Or how I’m supposed to deal with all this.”
Doctor Ann scrunches up her face in concentration. She’s quiet for so long that I wonder if she’s forgotten I’m there. Then, finally, she speaks.
“Find a cause.”
“Find a cause? What does that mean?”
“Take a stand for someone other than yourself.”
“You mean, like, demonstrate for animal rights or something?” I squirm on the leather chair.
Doctor Ann raises an eyebrow. “If that appeals to you.”
“How will that help?”
“Maybe it will get you out of your head. Get you to stop thinking about you so much. Get you engaged with other people.”
Stop thinking about me so much? What’s that supposed to mean? I want to say it out loud, to snap at her; but instead, I just sort of deflate in the chair. She’s probably right—she usually is—but the last thing I want to do right now is engage with other people.
“Find a cause. That’s your deep advice?”
She shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”
CHAPTER 14
NEW POST: REBEL REBEL (WITHOUT A CAUSE)
OCTOBER 7, 10:22 PM
Forgive me, Bloglr, for I have sinned. It has been two whole days since my last post.
Thank you for your kind messages and comments. Also, thank you to all my new followers. I know that most of you probably found me through QueerAlliance, so thanks to them for featuring me on their site. I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I’ll try to live up to the honor.
NOW PLAYING: “Rebel
Rebel” by David Bowie
But now, dear readers, I need your help. The next phase of my therapy includes an assignment: I MUST FIND A CAUSE. Something that will get me out of my own head. Stop me from thinking about me so much. So here are my ideas, in no particular order:
Animal rights (vegan activism, protests, and stuff)
Community Service (the helping-old-people kind, not the picking-up-trash-in-an-orange-vest kind)
Antibullying club (if they have one at my school)
Aaaand that’s all I have. Seriously, I need your help on this. Badly. Please send me ideas.
#genderfluid #animalrights #vegan #anxiety #recovery
I click Post, then start sorting through my inbox. Mostly, I’ve received nice messages from new followers, thanking me for sharing, or inviting me to check out their blogs. There are a few negative anons, but none of them are quite as rude as “your a fag,” and I delete them quickly. The good messages outnumber the bad by at least five to one. After about half an hour, I come to a particularly interesting, but utterly inappropriate, question, and I decide to issue another smackdown à la my apostrophe post.
Anonymous: Okay, so sometimes u feel like a boy, and sometimes u feel like a girl. How do u have sex?
Alix: Well, I haven’t actually had sex yet, so technically I’m not qualified to answer. And, while I understand you’re curious, you need to know that “How do you have sex?” is a cataclysmically impolite question. Like, would you ask your cismale1 friend how he has sex:
You: Yo, Bif, you have a penis. How do you have sex?
Bif: What, you want me to describe it?
You: Yes, please.
Bif: Why?
You: I have a nearly sociopathic disregard for both your privacy and your feelings.
Bif: Wow, that’s . . . really honest. I am strangely compelled to grant your request.
You: Please provide graphic anatomical detail. Visual aids would help. Perhaps a series of animated gifs.
Bif: Sounds like a lot of work. How about I just use a vulgar euphemism instead?
You: Sold.
Bif: Okay. The airplane lands in the hangar, and then it takes off again. And then it lands again. And then it takes off again. . . .
You: This is a terrible metaphor. It sounds like you’re describing feeding a baby.
Bif: I did say it would be a vulgar euphemism.
You: Wow. I am filled with regret for having pursued this uncouth line of inquiry.
Bif: I forgive you. Here, I have made for you an elaborate stop-motion film using Play-Doh and the camera on my phone. This should explain everything.
You: This is very informative. I hope you are nominated for an Oscar.
1 Footnote: For those of you joining us from outside the LGBTQ bubble: “cis” (pronounced like the “sis” in “sister”) is sort of like the opposite of “trans.” More specifically, it means you identify as the gender you were assigned at birth. To put it crudely, cismale = you have a penis and you feel like a boy. Cisfemale = you have a vagina and you feel like a girl. Okay, that’s a gross oversimplification, but it’s the best I can do on short notice. Feel free to Google it. /Public Service Announcement
I sort through a few more messages, and then, just as I’m clicking Post on my final answer of the night, the envelope icon turns red again.
Anonymous: Hi Alix. I hope you answer this. I’m writing from my phone at the train station right now. I don’t know where else to go. I don’t even know how to start so I’ll just say it. I came out to my parents about 2 hours ago that I’m a trans girl. After I told them, my mom sort of shrank back and put a hand over her mouth and didn’t say anything. My dad started yelling at me. He said I’m not his son. I told him I wish I could be his daughter instead. And then he hit me. And I left. And now I keep staring at the train tracks and thinking I should just throw myself down there. Please reply.
I let out a long, slow breath. This one is not a joke; it’s serious. And I don’t feel qualified to respond to something this intense—maybe even life-or-death—but at the same time . . . she reached out to me, and she’s desperate. I check the time stamp. The message was sent less than three minutes ago; if I’m going to reply, I should do it now. But what do I even say? Hands shaking, I start typing.
Alix: First off, please don’t kill yourself. I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in . . . but don’t, please. Go here, if you want to: translifeline.org. They’re way better at this than I am—I’m just a kid on the internet.
I consider just clicking Post; but it doesn’t seem like enough. I take a deep breath. What would I want to hear? After staring at the screen for a minute, I put my fingers back on the keys and continue.
I am so sorry your parents reacted that way. And I know this might not make it hurt less, but I have to say thank you for being so brave. You have so much guts to be so honest like that. To say that to your dad. You’re probably the bravest person I’ve ever heard of. If I were with you at the train station right now, I would hug you until you couldn’t breathe, and then we would go to the little store and buy root beer and Red Vines, and bite off the ends and use them as straws to drink the root beer while we waited for the train. And then we’d get on and go somewhere very, very far away, like Pennsylvania or Prague. And we would find people like us and live in an apartment and make art and sell it and have a garden on the roof and just be happy.
But I know we can’t do that. So I’ll just keep writing until I come up with something real that might help.
You have to know that there is NOTHING wrong with you. Your parents’ reactions have zero to do with you, and everything to do with them. For you, coming out is about finally understanding who you are, and then admitting it to the people who are most important to you. But for your parents, maybe they see it as this big, shocking change. And they aren’t equipped to handle it. To them, it’s like you suddenly made this huge choice they don’t understand.
I know what you’re thinking: it’s not a choice! It’s how you were born. It’s who you are. You’re not making some arbitrary decision to make your life and theirs more difficult—you’re just finally accepting who you already are.
But the thing is, you did make a choice: you chose to COME OUT.
You know what’s messed up? People tolerate secrecy. I see it in my life. It’s like, it’s okay to have gay feelings or trans feelings or gender fluid feelings—as long as you keep them inside. As long as you don’t “act” on them. Whatever that means. People don’t condemn you for being trans. They condemn you for embracing it.
So. See it from your parents’ point of view for a second: They’re sitting there on the couch, and you come downstairs, and in less than five minutes you turn their world completely upside down. And they didn’t have a chance to prepare, so all their bad and ugly feelings rise to the surface. All the worst parts of them just flood out and fill the room and drown your heart.
And the thing is, they probably already wish they could take it all back.
So, anonymous, please don’t throw yourself onto that track. Because this is the worst part, right here, right now. If you can just get past this part, it gets better.
If you’re reading this, and you still have battery and signal, go to QueerAlliance.org. I just checked, and they have contact info for shelters and safe houses in almost every major city. There’s a hotline you can call. They can help.
We’re with you.
I click Post and sit back in my chair. I’m worried that I’ve said the wrong things, or that I’m too late, and that the anonymous sender has already done something drastic. I wish I had said more. I wish I had been cleverer, more compassionate.
Suddenly tired and out of things to say, I reach for the keyboard to log off. Just then, the envelope icon blinks red again. I click it; there’s only one message. It reads:
Anonymous: go back where u came from dyke
r school doesn’t need another faggot
CHAPTER 15
I SIT COMPLE
TELY STILL AND stare at the screen.
It’s like someone slapped me in the face. My pulse doubles. I read the message again.
I don’t know what to do.
I look up stupidly at the closed door to my room, as though my father might walk in and tell me what to do.
Do I delete the message? Do I report it to someone?
I sit for a moment, waiting for the shock to turn into anger; but instead, a cold fear spreads through me, like ice water in my veins. I sit there, staring at the screen, and then I remember that low, mocking voice:
What she’s trying to ask is, are you a dyke or are you a faggot?
Almost the exact words Jim Vickers used two days ago.
I stand and cross to my window to make sure it’s locked; it is. I sit back down at the computer.
Could Vickers have found my blog? Has he somehow connected Alix from Bloglr with Solo’s friend from school?
Does he know who I am?
My heart palpitates once, twice. If Vickers knew, he could tell everyone. He could post it online, send out a mass email. Everyone would know about me. I couldn’t go back to school, not after that. And then—someone could connect the dots to my father. My congressman father. His campaign . . . it would be over. His career would be ruined.
Oh God.
I run back to my computer, my heart pounding in my throat. I click Settings and scroll down to “delete user account.” I click the link. A box pops up:
Are you sure you want to delete your account?
My finger hovers over the trackpad. All I have to do is click OK, and Vickers won’t be able to expose me. He can tell people about me, sure, but it will be his word against mine.
But if I do it, I’ll be giving up the only thing that seems to relieve my anxiety. And on top of that, I’ll lose my new friends, all 624 of them. I already hide from my parents, from my classmates—even from Bec and Solo. This blog is the truest part of me. If I delete it, if I erase any record of who I am, what will be left?
I close my eyes, take three slow breaths, and click Cancel. I go back to the inbox screen and open the message one more time.
go back where u came from dyke
r school doesn’t need another faggot
