Death of an Imaginary Therapist

It started with a neon-bright, alien-themed Hawaiian shirt, impulsively ordered for a family trip right before the start of the pandemic. It was gaudy and flimsy and covered in vacationing extraterrestrials lounging in flamingo floats, so of course I had to have it. As resentful as I am about capitalism’s greedy, ad-targeting claws, I admit that I fell prey to them this time.

When the package finally arrived, I could barely stop myself from leaving work early to retrieve it from my front steps. I held out until the end of the day, however, before rushing home, releasing the Chihuahuas into the backyard to potty, ripping into the bag the shirt had been delivered in, and donning my, ahem, “gay apparel.”

I admired my reflection in the hall mirror. Winter-whitened skin, screen-strained eyes, and the tackiest shirt in all the land, and yet I felt so perfectly me and good in a way that I hadn’t for quite some time. I couldn’t control the parts of me that were causing increasing discomfort - my chest, my hips, my voice - but I could put on a bright, goofy shirt. Something that communicated some part of me that I hadn’t been communicating before, even if the communication was mostly to myself.

Of course, I say it started with the shirt, but really, this has been a conversation I’ve held with myself for most of my life. That conversation has been at times aggressive and self-eviscerating, at other times whispered, muzzled. I could say it really started with buying a binder for a drag show in college, or being mistaken for a boy in a Target as a preteen, or even insisting that “I’m not Abi, I’m HENRY!!” as a child. If this all sounds familiar, it’s probably because I wrote about these incidents in 2017, when I first published a piece on my genderqueer identity. Even that could be called a start, even though I’d been talking about wibbly-wobbly gender stuff for years before that essay.

But the shirt was something different. It was a step toward a new outward presentation, something I hadn’t allowed for myself outside of select scenarios. Everything about it was unapologetic. It was confidently ridiculous. It was masculine, but in a very unserious way. It was playful, bold, and silly, and it was me.

Oh dear, I thought as I surfed a wave of euphoria. This may require action. How inconvenient.

Months passed. Strange, lonely, stressful months, and I was one of the lucky folks who didn’t get sick, didn’t experience the pain and horror of a family member or close friend dying from a disease that we should have, as a society, been able to contain and mitigate. Even so, by November, I had scheduled my first voluntary therapy appointment.

I have severe depression and anxiety. I’ve talked quite a bit on this site about my experiences with those illnesses, and my fluctuating willingness to even admit I struggle with my mental health. The American healthcare system and the general societal stigma regarding mental illnesses have hindered my willingness to seek professional help, and even when I did, negative experiences with medication and dismissive doctors scared me off for a long time. Instead, I relied on an “imaginary therapist” - a nameless, faceless figment to whom I could rehearse what I would say to a real therapist. That was helpful for venting purposes, and sometimes helped me work through irrational thoughts in order to see my situation more clearly, but talking to myself could only take me so far.

I meditated. I changed my diet. I exercised, I cleaned (although it’s never been my strong suit), I forced myself to sit outside in the sun on the days I just wanted to hide in a puddle of blankets. I researched and practiced my mindfulness. I kept a gratitude journal. For a while, those things helped, too.

But day by day, and funky Hawaiian shirt by funky Hawaiian shirt, I realized there was an underlying issue that I wasn’t equipped to handle alone. After some false starts and scheduling issues, I finally met with a therapist, and, in addition to working on my standard array of struggles, I started talking about coming all the way out of the closet.

I am now four months on a low dosage of testosterone and am going by my middle name, Gordon (Go for short!). I no longer feel like I have to be “good” or “valuable” enough to ask for people to refer to me correctly. I no longer fret over ignorant people who insist I have no right to my pronouns. History and grammar are in fact on my side, after all.

And I’m aware that I’m not alone. The isolating (and traumatizing) environment of the pandemic has brought many people face to face with themselves as individuals, and that kind of introspection tends to result in discoveries and growth. With growth comes pain, but my pain has been MASSIVELY offset by new heights of joy and self-confidence.

With that in mind, clad in a shirt as loud and weird as I myself am, I have held an imaginary funeral for my imaginary therapist. This essay stands in as a eulogy for them. Without their presence, and the encouragement of my actual, non-fictitious friends, I may not have had the strength to seek a real therapist. And had I not done that, I may have delayed my coming out even further. I regret how long it’s taken me as it is. However, I’m relieved to finally be here, and I have renewed energy for the long trail that still stretches ahead of me.

Between the time I started writing this entry and now, I’ve learned that my actual, real, would-not-be-accepted-into-Foster’s-Home-for-Imaginary-Friends therapist put in her two weeks, and I’ve seen her for the last time without even knowing it. I gotta say… That threw off my groove a little. That said, I’m grateful for the months of work I’ve done with her, and because of that positive experience, I’m more willing to seek out assistance again. The system is imperfect, not every therapist is a good match, and obstacles like insurance and stigma still block the way sometimes, but I believe in the value of forging ahead regardless.

Farewell, imaginary therapist. Hello, new tools and refreshed hope.

And hello to the bigger, happier version of myself whom I’ve gotten to know quite a bit this past year. So many loved ones have welcomed this version of me into their lives, and I’m so grateful. I’m still evolving and still struggling from time to time, but I feel lighter as I go.

As Kurt Vonnegut would say: “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

Hugs and Butterfly Kisses, Your Friend,

Go

Wibbly-Wobbly Gender-Bender

I wrote this piece in May and let it fester in my drafts for months. I was worried about posting it, and whether it would induce eye-rolls, discomfort, or even hate. But if people don't talk about these things, they never get the chance to be normalized and discussed rationally and considerately. I believe rigid standards of gender are harmful to many people, transgender and cisgender, women and men (and those outside the binary!). 

So with that in mind, here's me being me.

Back when my small hometown had a Target, I experienced my first instance of being misgendered while opening the door for my mother and the school superintendent. Once she and my mother were inside the store, the superintendent turned to her and said, "You have a very polite son! He's quite the gentleman." 

I don't remember how my mother responded, but I assume she was gracious, and that she didn't point out the error. I was too busy riding a wave of adrenaline to notice. Something about being called a gentleman was delicious. I wanted to exist in that moment forever, glowing in mistaken masculinity on the dirty white tiles of Target.

My life up until then had been treading on the gender binary line. I wore dresses and flourished my pinkie when playing tea party, but I also sought out the butchiest remote control car when my grandparents offered me a "you're getting a baby brother" gift, and had gone through a period of time in which I insisted my name was Henry (and also that I was a male cat). In fifth grade, my mom not only let me chop my hair off, she encouraged it, ever supportive of my self-image. It helped that feminine pixie cuts were making a big comeback at the time, of course, but my mother had also permitted me to dress myself for school pictures, which resulted in me flaunting a brown collared sweater covered in Rockwell B-1 Lancers in my first grade portrait.

Fun fact: I asked my mom for the picture of me having a tea party in my Chicago Bulls jersey, and was presented with two such photos, neither of which being the photo I remembered, which means there are multiple documented instances of me playing tea as my hero, Michael Jordan. Much love to my late grandmother, who also let mini Michael Jordan do her nails.

Around the time of the Great Target Gentleman Incident, I landed the titular role in our community theater's production of Peter Pan, which kicked my gender dysphoria into hyperdrive. As part of the preparation for the performance, the director had us go around the theatre in character, as if we were on an adventure, and I was in charge of the exploration. I was given permission to behave differently, in unfeminine ways. I was unapologetically loud and stood with my legs apart, taking up as much space as I wanted, as I deserved. I teased and directed my Lost Boys, and stood high on a platform to tell them stories, which I acted out without a hint of self-consciousness. Everyone was swept up by the game, and I had never felt so at ease in my own body. 

But I knew that it had to end. That I'd go back to baby-doll tees that emphasized my breasts. That my hair would have to return from impish madness to the carefully girlish spikes more befitting my gender. That I would lose the magic of Pan. 

It hit me all at once, and after rehearsal one night, while my mom was meeting with some of the production staff (she had a big hand in the costumes and beyond), I sulked alone on stage. The director - then Wabash film student Reynaldo Pacheco, now rubbing elbows on the silver screen with the likes of Sandra Bullock and Ewan McGregor - approached me. He asked what the matter was, but I didn't know how to tell him. 

"Nerves?" he suggested.

I shook my head. For the first time in my life, it wasn't anxiety. At least, not the kind he was thinking of.

"Is it boy trouble?"

My heart shattered. I was angry and embarrassed, and now I was crying on stage, a scared little girl. I didn't have the words for what was wrong. At that point, I knew I didn't like boys, but thought I was just behind everyone else, immature. I think I made some kind of "ew" face at Rey, pushing away the idea like a much younger child might. I felt wounded. I'd grown attached to Rey, who had been so full of support and guidance both on and off the stage. It seemed like he didn't even know me. Maybe nobody knew me.

It meant that this little refuge wasn't really a refuge after all. It was a swiftly evaporating oasis in the desert. My time there was running out. 

Eventually I did return to the feminine world, but the feeling lingered. My heart pounded when the judges at marching band competitions assumed that I was a boy, as most tenor drum players were. I imagined and wrote stories from a masculine perspective. My Halloween and convention costumes were mostly male. In college, I finally acknowledged my homosexuality and discovered the wondrous existence of drag kings. The lines of gender began to fade.

By now in this meandering entry, my mother is probably hyperventilating. Don't worry, Mama. I frequently rock dresses and mascara, and I'm a weirdly big fan of high heels (tall and spiky, of course). However, I don't think I fall into the strictly ladylike camp.  My relationship with my gender is a little... wiggly. 

I think a lot of folks who experience homosexual attraction can relate to that. In some ways, our sexuality aligns us with the "opposite" gender, culturally speaking. The gender constructs that shape our worldview are heavily influenced by sexuality, and so it's no surprise that so much intersection exists in the queer community. We describe masculine lesbians as "butch," and you don't have to be a man in drag to be called a "queen." As for the bisexual folks? In a world so colored by the gender binary, their sexuality lands them in especially choppy and chaotic waters.

This year, I've been thinking a lot about gender's place in society and in my own life. I don't like how much of human behavior is dictated by its rules, and the strict cut-off in gender presentation frustrates me to no end. Like so many things, gender exists on a scale, and I wonder how different I would be if I had grown up as a boy. Would I be more confident, like I used to be on the stage? Would I have encountered better opportunities? Would I actually have cash in my savings account today?

Even if I had been assigned male at birth, I get the feeling I would still be somewhere in between. I love the frill and flourish of the femme, but also the confidence and swagger of masculinity. As a boy, I would still have done drag, but this time, in an over-the-top, traffic-stopping, sequin-laden evening gown instead of a gruff leather jacket and work boots.

So, there it is. I'm genderqueer. And honestly, I think we all are, to some degree. It's nearly impossible to fit perfectly into the gender roles that society places on us. Not just for women and queer folk, but for all of us. I'm one of the fortunate ones, though. I'm comfortable with my she/her/hers pronouns, and while I'm often frustrated with my body, I also don't mind playing dress-up with it (to quote The Producers, "If you got it, flaunt it, baby, flaunt it!"). Truly, I lucked out, and am happy with my (occasionally mercurial) identity. 

I challenge you to consider your gender today and what it means to you, whether you're at the far end of the spectrum, consider yourself genderless, or are somewhere in between. Do you like where you fit in? Can you imagine yourself somewhere else on the scale? This is a topic worthy of exploration, so don't hold back in your self-analysis!

As always, I would love to hear from you about your experience, and I'm always down to chat. 

Happy holidays, everyone. Be kind, be safe, and be yourself, whatever that may be.

Bless you, Snapchat. (Also, add me! abi_douglas)

Sorry Not Sorry

Way back when, I went on this class trip to a spaceflight simulator. I was assigned to Mission Control and was on a team with two other kids overseeing life support. We sat at these clunky computers with an unwieldy rollerball mouse and clicked through a giant manual of everything that can go wrong regarding life support, which is apparently a lot. 

My poorly-received art project about the collapse of childhood dreams.

The way the simulation worked was that a random series of errors would occur, and those of us in "Houston" would have to find a solution in our manuals and notify the astronauts. At some point, the astronauts said they were experiencing static electricity, and it was our time to shine. My little crew and I dug through this giant manual, looking for anything related to static electricity. This was a minor inconvenience, right? There had to be an easy fix.

But we weren't having much luck. Every comparable situation in the manual didn't quite line up in one way or another, and our time was ticking down.

"We need an answer, Life Support," said the director.

We gaped at each other. There wasn't a solution. We had to pick the closest match, something to mitigate the situation while a better answer could be found. My teammates were afraid to pick. 

So I was the one who sent the communication to the astronauts to diffuse the electricity into special bars in the cabin of the spacecraft that had been placed there for that purpose.

I picked wrong. The astronauts did as they'd been told, but the problem persisted, and the director stopped the simulation.

"What happened, Life Support?"

Again, my teammates didn't want to come under fire. We were pretty sure we were being graded on this, and we were the only unit to screw up so badly that the mission had to be effectively aborted. 

I knew I had to be the one to do it. My reasoning was selfish. I thought I could demonstrate that I was calmly and confidently taking responsibility for a mistake, and that I would get good marks for being so noble and honest and for taking the hit while my friends cowered.

I stood, and all of Mission Control stared at me. I explained that there was no perfect match for the situation, so we'd chosen the next best thing. I apologized for the error and asked what we should have done instead.

The director was not impressed. Though he didn't tell me what the right answer was, he made it clear that we'd chosen incorrectly. "Don't say you're sorry. Had this been a real mission, you would have killed them."

I had been so ready for a pat on the back for owning up to a mistake in front of so many people. And I was so sure we had done the right thing. We'd problem-solved and come up with something to treat the symptoms of an issue while we searched for a solution. 

I'd been wrong. I'd ruined the mission. I'd hypothetically killed a group of people because I couldn't read a manual properly. My "humility" hadn't mattered. Everyone on the trip saw me as the one who murdered the mission, even my Life Support teammates, who got to sit safely on the sidelines. 

And I wasn't supposed to say "sorry"? That seemed like the perfect time to apologize! 

Then again, I've always had a problem with apologies. 

Has this ever happened to you? You casually apologize for something minor, and the next thing you know, everyone's up in arms and acting like you just kicked a puppy? And then, obviously, you have to apologize again, and they get even more frustrated with you, and you seriously contemplate jumping out the window to avoid all this new and unexpected shame?

That's where I live. I'm constantly at that auto-defenestration shame threshold. 

I, like many women, am a chronic apologizer. It's a sucky-but-true fact that women learn at an early age that they must apologize for everything. For their bodies, for their needs, for taking up space, for speaking, for not being good at things, for being too good at things, etc. Pair that with persistent self-hatred, a desperate need to be considered "good enough," and the baseline anxiety level of a chihuahua stuck in an electric fence, and you get me.

I apologize for a number of reasons. Here are some common ones:

• I'm sorry I screwed up such-and-such-work-related-task, especially since that particular task could have been handled by a 1998 original-release Furby.
• I'm sorry I pooped in the bathroom before you were going to take a shower.
• I'm sorry such-and-such-bad-thing happened to you (in addition to the pooping before you showered thing).
• I'm sorry for staring blankly at you while you explained something simple that I subsequently failed to comprehend because I was A) inexplicably tired, B) thinking about a stupid story, or C) just straight-up wasn't paying attention for no freaking reason.
• I'm sorry that I can't remember if I've met such-and-such-person that you're asking me about, especially since when I see them I won't be able to recognize them anyway because I'm just face-blind enough to be a social nuisance, and they're going to think I'm rude if we have met because they'll think I'm a forgetful and rude person, which is not true, because I'm actually forgetful, rude, and have a slightly dysfunctional fusiform gyrus.

These are all situations in which I have inconvenienced another human being, which is my very-special talent in life. And yet, I hate inconveniencing people. I don't even like it when someone at a store offers to help. I don't care if I will die in the next 5 minutes if I don't find the stationary aisle at Staples, I will not ask an employee for help. My last words will be a breathy apology to whoever finds my prone body by the clearance printers. Yes, I recognize dealing with a corpse is more inconvenient than having to show someone where to find note cards, but at least I won't be alive to be ashamed of myself.

Because it all comes down to shame. I'm ashamed of almost everything about myself. I'm deeply aware of my many, many shortcomings, which is a problem because I very badly want to be the best at everything ever. So I sometimes apologize for not understanding something quickly enough, or for asking questions, or for not knowing an important name, or forgetting to do something, no matter how minor. 

After all, I killed a bunch of imaginary astronauts over something I thought was minor at the time.

Apologizing is how I convey to people my self-awareness and my conscientiousness. Like, "Hello, I'm aware that I've failed to measure up in some way, and I feel bad that my failure has inconvenienced you, and I'm going to do better." 

I've been told not to apologize so frequently, else people think I'm insecure or incompetent. Which I'm not. Or, not entirely. But I'm often in situations in which I don't have the right answer, or I'm stepping on someone's toes, or I'm otherwise blundering around, and I feel like I must express an apology, or come off as rude and unaware of my mistakes.

Here's the thing. I don't understand why apologizing gets equated with a lack of confidence. Can't confident people make mistakes? And shouldn't they say "sorry" when they do? Because that's what nice human beings do when they mess up? That's what you do when you're a smart person who happened to do something wrong? Like misunderstanding a fake Life Support manual?

It's true that I sometimes apologize when I shouldn't. Or worse, I apologize when I don't really mean it. However, I'm sticking to my Life Support guns. I think there are times when an apology is important, and it shouldn't convey self-doubt. It communicates that you're human and capable of error and that you're aware of it. You have to be aware of your shortcomings in order to make progress.

But you shouldn't expect accolades, either.

Anyway, this entire entry has been an experiment in bitterness after being called out for apologizing too much. I'm not sorry for my sorries. Not all of them. I think they're important. If people think they betray a lack of confidence, then I'll have to demonstrate confidence in other ways. 

Though perhaps I will think harder about what I mean when I say, "I'm sorry."