Detrans when transition.., p.10
DETRANS: When transition is not the solution, page 10
A few months after I stopped the testosterone, I experienced the first of what would be three transient ischemic attacks, which are often referred to as ‘mini-strokes’. My doctors had given me no guidance while I was trying to come off testosterone and the ER doctors were at a loss as to why someone at twenty-seven would be having these medical complications. I changed my diet and began to exercise more, although I was still underweight. This helped and I recovered some from the events, although my memory is still not what it used to be, and I am at a higher risk of a full stroke now. A year later, I began to have extreme pelvic pain. When I saw my ob/gyn, my pap exam came back abnormal. At first, they suggested it might be HPV, because that is fairly common. Upon further examination, though, they suggested I might have endometriosis. I had never had a history of this kind of pelvic pain and my menstruation had always been normal. I sought a specialist who told me that, if I had endometriosis, the only way to cure it would be to take the drug Lupron. I had never heard of this drug before, but it is well-known now as a drug used for infertility, used to treat prostate cancer in men and used for precocious puberty in children. It is also given to children who are going through transition. I was pressured to take the drug in that first visit with the ob/gyn who told me, if I didn’t take it then, I would have to wait another three months or more to get it and I’d be in pain up until then. Not wanting to be in pain anymore, I took the drug before I could adequately research it.
After taking the three-month dose of Lupron, I began to lose my hair in clumps. I was in so much pain I couldn’t walk. I ached all over and had frequent falls from dizzy spells. My memory suffered from this, too, and there are life events from that time I still can’t recall except for the journal entries I made. After such a horrendous experience with the drug, I looked into it only to find a litany of lawsuits against the company that makes it. So many others had had problems from it, I decided not to take it anymore. I found a new specialist who then told me that she would need to do an exploratory surgery to identify if I did have endometriosis and where it was. She did this and located the diseased tissue and extracted it. The recovery took some time, but I began to feel better for a while. Unfortunately, a year later, the endometriosis came back, this time attacking my uterus and my bladder. I made the difficult decision to get a hysterectomy because my uterus was so far diseased. Since my second surgery in 2019, I have had no recurrence of endometriosis and I am grateful for every pain-free day.
After my hysterectomy, I was still having some complications, though. I was never warned about the vaginal atrophy that testosterone can cause, nor was I warned that having a hysterectomy can worsen atrophy. I had several tears and, due to my pelvic muscles being degenerated from testosterone use, I had two vaginal prolapses. I am now on supplemental estrogen because the combination of testosterone use and my hysterectomy caused my ovaries to fail, leaving me with a detrimental amount of estrogen. As I get older, I am afraid of how my health will turn. Having had so many health complications already, I am worried what other problems will arise early or out of nowhere. When I began to transition, I had no thoughts concerning a future. I was not in a state of mind to think about what my life would be like in five or ten years. My therapist seemed convinced that I would surely kill myself if I didn’t transition, and this was something I began to believe as well. While I should have been told more explicitly of the risks of transition, I don’t think I was mentally in a state of mind to evaluate those risks and understand the weight they would have on my life in the years to come.
Finding friends who are supportive of my decision to detransition has been extremely difficult. Most of my friends refuse to discuss transgender issues. When I began to detransition, the few friends who stuck around stopped inviting me to gatherings. It became clear to me that, even when I stayed silent, my presence was a reminder to them that transition is not a healthy choice. When I began to detransition in 2017, I decided to begin talking about my experiences on social media. I didn’t realize how much vitriol I would encounter. I tried to be honest, but express that my experience was only mine and I didn’t realise at the time how common my experiences were. I wanted to maintain a good relationship with the transgender community, but my interactions with them were tainted with aggression. I felt like more people should know about the health risks involved, but it felt like no one in that community wanted to hear it. Transgender people would comment or message me, telling me to kill myself, calling me a liar and a fascist. The reactions were overwhelmingly negative, at first. Eventually, though, I met other detransitioned women online and we began to hold each other up.
Since I detransitioned, there has been a surge of detransitioned women speaking out about their own stories. This has been both encouraging and devastating at the same time. It hurts me deeply to know any other woman has been through any of the same things as I have. But, as our presence in online spaces has increased, the reception has changed. Now, we have organizations like LGB Alliance, who offer a peer-support group that I have found very helpful. Peer-to-peer discussion and support is very important for us to find understanding in others. It gives us the opportunity to talk about what drove us to transition in the first place and how we can address the real, core issues. While there are some groups that are trying to bring together resources like therapy and endocrinology, the need is greater than what is available. Shortly after I detransitioned, I sought help from a therapist. When I tried to discuss how transition hurt me physically and psychologically, I was told that I shouldn’t count myself as not transgender anymore, that I should call myself ‘non-binary’ and that I should still identify myself as something other than a woman.
This encouragement of defining myself as an ‘other’ is actually very harmful because I felt encouraged to still hate being in my body. What detransitioners need is to address the reasons why we want to be separated from our bodies. For most of us, there is more than just one reason why we see transition as an escape. Transition and identifying out of our bodies does not address why we feel anxiety about our bodies. Comprehensive therapy to talk about the trauma that not only urged us to transition, but also the trauma of transition, is so necessary to true healing. Transition leaves us with broken bodies, scars, missing body parts. When we come back to ourselves, we are not what we once were. Not only does this affect our bodies, but it affects our minds as well. We lose our support systems, we lose our clarity, and we are thrust into the world as a person who wears a mark that we are often pressured to explain. Learning to forgive ourselves is so hard. Six years later, and I still have moments where I fall into depression, blaming myself for what I did. But I know, now, how I came to hate being in my body.
It is hard for me to know what to say as advice for others who are seeking transition, or for those who are detransitioning. I am not a therapist or a doctor, I am just someone who has spent the last six years recovering from medical malpractice and negligence. I do not see transition as any form of healthy treatment. Now, I see it as prescribed self-harm. When I transitioned, I did so because I wanted to die, and I saw it as a form of killing the part of myself that was a woman. But my understanding of what a woman is or can be was convoluted. A woman is nothing more or less than an adult human female. The liberty I found in breaking away from defining myself by stereotypes has been so freeing. Once I began to get to know women who are strong, proud of being lesbian, and independent of social stereotypes, I started to become strong in myself. Finding the strength in ourselves can be a great challenge, though.
I wish there was one thing I could say that would resonate with others to discourage them from taking the route that I did. Instead of seeing transition as a treatment, I think it is important to see it as a method of self-harm. When someone transitions, they are trying to kill a part of themselves. There is a hope that in doing this, they will be free from the pain they have experienced. But we cannot separate ourselves from our bodies. My body has brought me through this life and endured pain and joy. Instead of punishing my body for the way it has been treated by others and for the impossible expectations I cannot meet, I have learned to show my body compassion. Seeing my body as more than a vessel I’ve been forced into but seeing it as a part of who I am has given me a sense of pride in myself. As I’ve grown in my confidence, I’ve been able to develop more healthy relationships with others. For those who are walking the same path I once did, I want them to feel that they deserve to see a future for themselves. The choice is not transition or death, as has been claimed by so many. Through therapy, physical fitness, and breaking the habit of forcing ourselves into labels, we can accomplish a sense of self-love that will combat those feelings of hate for ourselves that drive us toward suicidal ideation.
It is my hope that, by sharing what I’ve been through with others, I can provide some insight into the true causes of ‘gender dysphoria’ and how we come to believe we are transgender. I am sure that there are those who feel opposing feelings to what I have said here. But the fact is that transition is not a reversible choice, and we need to be more critical of the reason why people are so eager to alter their bodies in order to address mental health issues. Some of that emotional pain is brought about by environments that enforce strict gender roles and homophobia. The belief that everyone else feels comfortable with their bodies and their social gender roles is untrue. We all experience some discomfort with how we are treated based on our sex. Combating PTSD, depression, and acknowledging mental health differences is crucial to really treating the core issues. Many people who transition still struggle with their mental health after transitioning. Some have new or more urgent mental health problems after transitioning. It is not a viable treatment, and we deserve better care.
Today, I am engaged to an amazing woman. She keeps me strong and reminds me of why I am proud to be a woman. I have friends who have also been through transition and detransition, who help support me when I am feeling the weight of guilt, and anger with those who were meant to treat me. When I began my transition, I never thought I would have the happy and fulfilling life that I have now. What’s more, my therapists and doctors gave me no hope for a joyous future. But we all deserve to hope for a life that is full. We all deserve love, not only from others, but from ourselves as well. Transgender identity is a combination of real, physical effects and ideological confusion. To heal the body, we need to heal the mind. For me, two books that helped me break free of the mental stronghold that transgender identity had on me were, Take Back Your Life, by Janja Lalich and Freedom of Mind, by Steven Hassan. These books helped me learn to trust myself again and to allow myself forgiveness and compassion. I hope that anyone considering this path, or anyone who has already undergone some form of transition, can find peace and true, compassionate care.
13. A DETRAN'S LIFESTORY:
SINEAD (UK)
My childhood was an orchestra of enchanting smells and captivating sounds that wove through the tapestry of my earliest memories. The scent of my parents' coffee when I woke up for school, the aroma of my grandmother's garden, the joyful cacophony of the neighbourhood kids echoing around the park, and the smell of rain on the damp pavement. These sensory symphonies from my youth continue to resonate with me, evoking a sense of nostalgia and reminding me of the simple wonders that filled those early years. As a child, I was blissfully ignorant about the evils of the world - as every child should be.
In those youthful days, I embodied the epitome of an ordinary young lass. Scaling trees, playing with Barbies, running around the park with my friends, and immersing myself in video games and fictional world-building. Friendship knew no gender boundaries, and I embraced both the boys and the girls alike in my social circle. My parents, with enlightened hearts, never imposed rigid gender stereotypes upon me or my sister. In fact, the concept of gender itself remained a mere mirage throughout my formative years, its elusive presence never casting its shadow upon our lives. The girls among us who preferred the company and style of ‘boys' things’ were lovingly deemed ‘tomboys’, rather than being tethered to the notion of being ‘trans boys’. In fact, none of us would hear the word ‘trans’ until we reached our twenties. And what a devastating impact hearing that word would have on my life.
Becoming a teenage girl was a whirlwind of emotions and discoveries. My innocence collided with my burgeoning independence, and the typical bratty teen years occurred, much to the dismay of my parents. As my female peers began to wear makeup and perfume, style their hair, and paint their nails, I felt left behind. I didn't want to do any of those things. I still wanted to climb trees, build dens, and play video games. I'd roll my eyes when girlfriends started talking about boys in non-platonic ways, and I became incensed with jealousy when they'd choose to spend more time with their boyfriends rather than with me. Though my body was developing into that of a young woman, I still very much had the mentality of a stubborn child who didn't want to grow up.
This became a particular problem when men, too, noticed my physical development. It was made horrifyingly clear to me, around the ages of thirteen or fourteen, that I was no longer a child to be shooed away by disinterested adults. Instead, I was an object to be sexualised, commented upon, and touched without my consent. Men, some of whom had known me since I was very young, began to treat me differently. Even today, looking back, it makes me squirm with discomfort. Sexual harassment and assault became a reoccurring theme in my life from the age of fourteen onwards. It made me hate being a girl, and it made me yearn to be ‘one of the lads’.
I left my mother's house and moved into my first flat at the beginning of 2012, having just turned 21. I was a college student and also working at my local convenience store. I fell into a routine of going to class, going to work, studying, and then relaxing with a beer as I watched YouTube videos before bed. Rinse and repeat. Then the beer turned into two beers, then four, then eight. Sometimes more, every night. I began to miss classes due to my hangovers, so I then decided to partake in the old ‘Hair of the Dog’. That was when drinking in the morning became a part of my daily routine.
Alcohol has had a profound impact on my life, revealing both its enticing allure and its destructive power. At times, it offered an escape, a temporary reprieve from the never-ending intrusive thoughts that plagued me. It whispered promises of confidence, relaxation, and belonging – much like transition would later do in its place.
As I plunged headfirst into alcoholism, I spent less time studying and more time mindlessly scrolling through social media. I stopped accepting invitations to see friends or family and became something of a hermit, spending almost all my time online. I felt depressed, as if something was missing from my life, but I just didn't know what. It was around this time that I stumbled across transition videos on YouTube. FTM (or female-to-male) videos, produced by trans men who explained that transitioning had saved their lives. And their lives and experiences sounded astonishingly similar to mine. Their depression, struggle with body hatred, envy of the opposite sex, and overwhelming feeling that they had been "Born in the wrong body" - it all resonated with me. And so, it began.
I realised that I was a trans man, trapped in the wrong body, and if I didn't fix my body through transition, I would probably end up killing myself. I don't think I truly believed that at first, but after becoming obsessed with the topic, leaving my job, dropping out of college, and completely isolating myself from everyone in my life to spend all day, every day, consuming transition content, well... I eventually found myself believing that I needed to transition in order to live. After all, that's why they called it "life-saving care", right? I was destined to kill myself if I was not affirmed, or so I was told. In October of 2012, I attempted to take my own life. I recall my mother cradling my half-conscious body in her arms as my friends, who had found me when doing a welfare check, called an ambulance. I didn't tell any of them at the time why I had done what I did. I simply confessed that I was depressed and struggling with alcohol. I returned home, and nothing else was addressed.
The months went by and my obsession with ‘Saving myself’ by transitioning grew ever stronger. I ended my relationship with my girlfriend of eight months in September of 2013 and immediately cut my hair short and started binding my chest. I bought men’s clothes and began dressing in them, as well as using men’s deodorant. This, I suppose, was the beginning of my social transition or ‘Living as a man,’ as some call it. I confided in a handful of close friends that I was trans and intended to eventually fully transition, but it would be several more months before I would tell my family.
In early 2014, I moved into student accommodation with a friend. My first action was to legally change my name to Mr. Sean Watson through a deed poll. I contacted Glasgow's Sandyford’s gender clinic and was placed on their waiting list, where I would remain for the next year. During that year, without receiving any counselling or therapy, my mental health plummeted once again. After a vicious argument with my flatmate, I moved back in with my mother. I stopped attending university and chose to lock myself in my room, drinking and fantasising about what my life would have been like if I had been born male. The injustice of having been born female filled me with rage, and I began to self-harm as a way to ‘punish’ myself for being a woman. In November, I experienced such a severe mental breakdown that my mother had me hospitalized at Gartnavel Royal Hospital. The staff were unsympathetic and seemed to be under the impression that I was merely just looking for attention. So, I left before the week's end and went to stay in homeless accommodation. As far as I could see, my life was over.
Until the following year.
The day finally came - I received a call from the Sandyford’s gender clinic at the beginning of 2015, inviting me to attend my first appointment with them. I was immediately affirmed as a trans man, which I loved. They agreed that I was clearly trans and that cross-sex hormones would benefit me. The sexual assaults, the suicide attempt, the breakdowns, the psychiatric stay – all of it was waved aside in favour of blindly affirming my trans identity. That summer, mere months after first attending Sandyford, I was handed my prescription for Sustanon 250. I received a handful of needles and syringes and was instructed to inject half a vial every three weeks. Which I did religiously.
