- December 1st, 2015, Pittsburgh -

The room is white. So white. Why is everything so white? Where am I? I know I must feel at least SOMETHING. But first things first. First I have to figure out where I am, and how to get out of here.

My head is pounding, which is good, I guess, because it means I'm alive. But what comes next?

I flutter my eyes open. My eyelids are heavy, but I know I must keep myself awake.  My attempt to lift my head fails miserably after a sharp pain stings my groin area. Ironically enough, I feel a desperate need to pee, but I can't seem to move the lower part of my body. I try to wiggle my toes, but they feel numb. Okay, now I'm really freaking out.
And why is everything so white and feeling so foggy around me?

"Are you okay?" A velvety rich voice penetrates through the heavy blanket that surrounds me.

As I'm eventually able to bring myself to lift my head just enough so I could fix my gaze on the person that is speaking to me, I finally realize where I am. I try to crack a smile, but all I can do is blink my eyes at him. Every part of my body that's not numb is aching like crazy, and I feel dizzy as fuck when I try to lie flat on my back again. But a huge sense of relief fills me as I come to realize what has happened to me, and why I ended up here. I close my eyes again, breathing through the pain this simple, mundane task brings, but then the pain subsides at once when a strong, warm hand ever so slightly caresses my face. I smile through the tears and drift into a much-needed sleep.

_ _ _ _ _ _ 


-Late November 2005, a Clinic in Downtown Pittsburgh -

"So...tell me, how do you feel? How do you REALLY feel?" the Therapist of the Month asked me softly as she leaned backward in her black, leather chair, her blue eyes boring into mine. 

Having already been in the company of more therapists than I could count, I had definitely heard that question asked over and over again. Normally it caused more or less a big yawn from me and a shrug. But there was something different about this woman that struck a chord with me. I peered back at her and blinked, silently cursing myself as I felt the wetness on my eyelashes. Damn sissy. I muttered, "Fucking allergies," even though I was sure she didn't buy that excuse for one second. 

I mumbled an awkward, polite, "thank you" when she handed me a box of Kleenex as I averted my gaze, embarrassed by my display of emotion.

The therapist removed her reading glasses and placed them on the desk in front of her. She didn't seem to be fazed by my reaction, but I wasn't really surprised; I imagine she had pretty much seen everything by now. 

"In our first session last week, you mentioned that you found comfort in drawing," she quietly reminded me, her voice soft and soothing; I found it quite calming. "You said you might bring a few of your favorites to show me, remember?" 

"I believe my exact words were that I'd bring some drawings to show you IF I chose to return," I replied a little more brusquely than I had intended. 

"Does that mean that you were feeling unsure about your decision?" She asked.

I shook my head firmly. "No way. I'm definitely sure about it!" My voice became more passionate as I told her, "I can't wait for it to happen. It's all I've ever wanted. It's just that I'm so fucking sick of therapists and clinics..." I stopped in mid-sentence, my voice trailing off. "I don't mean any offense," I reassured her quickly. "It's nothing personal," I apologized to her, my country-club manners keeping me in check.

"It's okay; none taken," she assured me with a half-smile. 

I grabbed my backpack to pull out my sketch book. I perched it on my knee, uncertain what I should do next. "I... I'm not really sure if I should show you these," I told her after a slight pause. "It's very personal to me." 

"It's okay; you can feel safe here, Justin. You would like to be called Justin from now on, wouldn't you?" her voice was reassuring and warm, and I found it very comforting. I nodded silently and allowed myself a small smile. Up until now only my closest friend, Daphne, has called me by my chosen name and not my birth name.

"You're in a gender reassignment clinic. Justin, which means you clearly have made up your mind. It's the first step towards transition. You're a brave person, but you're NOT going to go through this all alone. That's what's I'm here for. You can trust me." Her words touched me like a soft, warm blanket, and felt like a breath of fresh, spring air (without the allergies), or like the lightest touch of a feather swirling in the air.

"Dr. Peterson..." I started, but then I stopped and swallowed hard as I felt the tears stinging the back of my throat.

"It's Lindsay, please," she answered softly, handing me the box of Kleenex yet again.

I nodded. "I can't tell you what this means to me, Lindsay," I was eventually able to choke out. "And I do trust you." She was probably the only therapist I could ever really say that about; all the others had just come across as patronizing and detached. 

"I'm glad you feel that way, Justin," she replied with a smile. "But please remember you've got a long and winding road ahead of you. You will have to trust YOURSELF first and foremost. Self-belief is one of the most important things for anyone who's about to embark on this kind of journey," she advised me. "Now, how about those drawings?" I wasn't sure if she was just trying to help me avoid self-doubt or not by steering the subject to something else, so for a few moments I just sat there, still clutching my portfolio in my hands as I rested it on my knees, contemplating if I should open myself up to her in this way. To me, showing others my work was both very intimate and extremely personal. But I HAD told her that I trusted her, and I had to start proving that. 

"Here." I opened the leather portfolio and handed her one of my drawings. It was a large pencil-and-black-ink drawing of an androgynous-looking person who was trapped inside a bird's cage, half-naked, face gazing downwards. I have drawn it around 1 a.m. about four weeks earlier, when I was in a particularly distressed frame of mind. It's been awhile since that cold, November night, but I can distinctively remember it. 

"Justin?" Lindsay's voice brought me back to the present. "Want to show me more?" she asked.

"I'm not sure..." I faltered as I considered it. Finally, I nodded my head as I handed her a few more. I knew that what I was going to share with Lindsay would hurt like crazy, but I decided to go for it anyway. If I was going to be open and honest with myself as part of my transition, I needed to be ready to face those dark, gloomy places that still inhabited my soul first. "I only wish that..." I paused and looked at her as I watched her study my work before peering over at me. 

"What? You can tell me," she urged me softly.

"I just wish that I could tell my parents about it," I whispered back.

"You can, Justin. You just have to build up the strength to do that. I'm glad you want to discuss it with them. I think it would be a very important step for you."

My heart pounded at the thought. My parents had always thought of me as somewhat of a tomboy growing up. But this would be totally different. I really had no idea HOW they would react to my confession. "I don't know..." I bit my lip as I gave that possibility some thought.

Lindsay nodded in understanding. "I know it might not be easy. But you will find that each step will get a little easier as you go. And if you are to live as the person who were meant to be, then it's important that your parents learn to accept that. This is never an easy thing for a client to do," she assured me. "But afterward, all of them have told me that they felt much better, having it out in the open." She paused as she gazed over at me thoughtfully. "Will you at least try, Justin? Support of your family isn't absolutely crucial. But it can be a big comfort through the process - and beyond." 

I let out a tense breath and nodded. I knew she was right; they had to be told. And it wasn't like they wouldn't find out afterward, anyway. It was best, then, to discuss it with them now, rather than waiting until my change had taken place. It would at least give them some time to adjust to the idea of having a son rather than a daughter. "Okay," I finally told her. "I'll talk to them." 

Lindsay smiled at me, pleased. "I really think that's the right thing to do. It doesn't have to be tonight. Maybe give it a little thought as to the time and place, and what exactly you want to say to them. But I will be anxious to find out their reaction. And you know I'm only a phone call away if you need me." 

I nodded, grateful. "Thanks," I told her softly. 

"I'm afraid our time today is up," she regretfully informed me as she glanced over at her clock above the door. "Please make your next appointment on your way out. And I will be waiting to hear what happens."

I nodded once more, unable to avoid being curious. "After I talk to my parents, then what? What's going to be my next step in the process?" 

"We'll start you on testosterone," she told me, my eyes widening. 

Was it finally going to happen? "So you mean...I can finally begin the actual, physical process?" My heart pounded at the thought. 

She smiled at me. "Yes. I think you have proven that you are psychologically stable and ready to handle the transition, so I'm going to refer you to Dr. Ben Bruckner. He's the best in the business. We'll continue to monitor your psychological progress during these counseling sessions, but I see no reason why you can't begin seeing him concurrently. Just keep my phone number handy if you need it," she told me, reaching over her desk to retrieve one of her business cards and hand it to me. "My assistant can give you Dr. Bruckner's contact information on your way out. Good luck with your parents," she told me. 

"Thanks," I murmured, wondering how much I would need it as I took the card and turned to head out the door. 

TBC...