Today, white-coated professionals tell parents of children with gender dysphoria: affirm your child’s trans identity right away or prepare for suicide. Are those really the only two options? For a movement that decries the binary, its commitment to this false dichotomy is relentless.
I was sixteen the first time I heard my mother curse.
She was worn and weary—stretched beyond her maternal limits. From delirious dreams, I sat up, mumbling that I felt sick. From her own crumpled position in a bedside chair, Mom scrambled for the emesis bowl too late, triggering her exasperated expletive. Who could blame her, after our late-night trip to the ER and the projectile vomiting that began as soon as I walked through the hospital’s sliding doors?
I felt so bad about the mess I was making. I apologized profusely in between heaves, reaching out and cupping my hands to try to catch it, as if that would somehow help. Soon a thin tube was up my nose and down my throat, liquid charcoal slowly descending, making its way to my stomach to absorb the numerous prescriptions I consumed in my first major suicide attempt. Most of what had been in our downstairs bathroom medicine chest was now in me.
After sexual abuse at age ten, my subsequent years had been filled with suicidal ideation. I hated myself, and I hated my female body, scorning it as the source of my vulnerability and betrayal. As I developed, I sought an androgynous appearance, which for me was both a style and a shield. I could tie a man’s necktie as deftly and neatly as my father, I wore one so often.