Detrans when transition.., p.8
DETRANS: When transition is not the solution, page 8
Before entering the gender clinic, I had been diagnosed as having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a heightened anxiety disorder that caused a great deal of mental distress, with violent intrusive thoughts and ruminations that had no end, all assisted by an active imagination. I had long suspected that I might be autistic but was always bounced away when asking any professional.
In 2014, at age twenty-six I, began taking Goserlin, a medication that blocks sex hormone production in the body. Not long after, I also started a course of Estradiol, with the aim of mimicking female secondary sexual characteristics. I was officially enrolled in the UK’s Gender Clinics in January 2015, and I had over two hundred appointments in the short five-year period there. That also included intensive therapy with a gender therapist, who was a strong influence in my continuing on the path of medicalisation. After being asked multiple times and refusing, in 2017 my resistance to the questioning buckled, and I accepted the referral for genital surgery.
With each passing appointment, the slope of affirmation became steeper. Assisted not only by medical professionals, but an online community that was available 24/7; all doubts were managed. It was incredibly hard to resist the pull, especially when you only ever heard positives about the choice to pursue transition. Regret and negative press were treated as disinformation, and even my mother’s own concerns were brushed aside by professionals, and most of all by myself.
During transition, even early on I wanted to desist and confided my thoughts with my gender therapist, rather than my mother. Part of me knew that if I confided in her, her bias would want me not to be trans, so instead I chose the gender clinic, whose bias the other way was no better. I put my absolute faith and trust in them to do the right thing, which is why I was honest with every thought, feeling and mental health issue I had. I figured that if I really was trans then I needed to get it right.
On the 23rd of May 2018, I was wheeled into the operating theatre where surgery that should have lasted two and half hours ended up taking nearly six, as the surgeon battled severe blood loss. My obsessive mind had discounted the realities and hoped for the best but the damage was stupendous.. In any procedure where they pierce a hole through your crotch, remove your testicles, invert the penis, take away the erectile tissue and slam in packing to prevent wound closure, of course there are going to be some complications. I suppose bottom surgery does sound much nicer.
The Frankenstein creation is a vagina in name only. In reality, it’s a representation of delusional thinking. It just looks like my backside has been extended all the way to the front, with the apparent labia looking nothing more than loose skin. The entrance doesn’t look particularly welcoming either, and if I were to show you a picture you wouldn’t know what you’re looking at. It’s a mere caricature of the real thing.
As is common with a surgery like this, the scar lines popped open, never fully healing and to this day they still weep. There was an unexpected new norm, something I didn’t anticipate; mild incontinence and the inability to empty my bladder. And of course, there is the pain, unrelenting and appearing without warning or causality, which can be felt through my body even five years later, as it tries to contemplate the damage being done.
It wasn’t until faced with this reality that I realised my choices were driven by fantastical thinking, much the same way we daydream that if we had transitioned earlier, we wouldn’t be facing the problems we’re having today. But there’s always a bigger fish, always another goal or surgery to have to complete the character story we built up. For some people like me, you realise you can’t possibly pay back the debt of flesh you’ve freely signed up for, you can’t go back, there is no return, no reversal. What’s done is done, and that realisation alone is enough to keep people suspended in their trans identity rather than pull them out. A case of sunk cost.
About three months after surgery, I returned to the gender clinic and announced my regret. My gender therapist explained that my regret was a symptom of my previously diagnosed OCD, and for the most part, I should simply ignore it. I kept returning week in and week out, and confessed I felt the same. Rather than listen, they affirmed that once again this wasn’t regret, but instead a manifestation of the aforementioned OCD. A local mental health team met with my Gender Therapist, and together they confirmed the diagnosis of OCD, but added a new one of Unstable Personality Disorder, once again discounting any possibility that this was regret.
Once again, I bought into the idea but did not dare tell anyone else how I truly felt. I bartered with myself it would get better, but it never did. And the long, difficult road of undoing the tangles I had created for myself began. With excruciating effort, and long, hard-earned lessons I was truly honest with myself, about the motivations and the reasoning. This is something that is still being unpacked, probably for years to come.
I didn’t think going back to my original name was an option, since after all I had taken the ultimate commitment, sacrificing a symbolic part of what it is to be male. What would I be going back to exactly? The truth is, I never went anywhere, so there was nothing to go back to. Anti-climatically, I’m just a guy who’s been wounded by a bad idea, not some flower waiting to bud.
It feels frustrating that after all these years of struggling with acceptance of my sexuality, that I accept it only now, when I can’t do anything about it. I have little or no desire to pursue any relationship, I feel neutered, sexually lobotomised. Looking at others in the world, I know I’m missing out and I have tried, but the last thing I want to do is be reminded of what I have done.
Since 2022, just over a year and a half now, I’ve made my feelings public, with a predictable reception. Though many are kind, those opposing are quick to dismiss, and look for any other theory behind my motivations, other than the pain of grief.
The narrative dictates that someone like me, over the age of twenty-five; is free to venture down this path, and all safeguards are seemingly forgotten. It doesn’t matter how severe your drug use is, or how crippled you are by mental health issues, nor do any of the reasons for seeking transition count either. You are an adult, therefore you are expendable in the name of autonomy. The reality is, though, that just because someone is twenty-five, thirty or even forty, it doesn’t mean that they are immune to the same vulnerabilities faced by those much younger.
The stories of people like me are all uncomfortably familiar. There is a prevailing narrative that being transgender is as innate as the soul, despite untestable and unmeasurable. Laid out flat, you could even say it follows a script, which I’ve come to call ‘The Right Chemical Soup’.
We were obsessed with the Internet, a welcome sanctuary from the chaos in our daily lives, as many of us experienced severe abuse from our peers at school, and sometimes at home. Not all, but many of us have a poor attachment with the same sex parent, but a strong attachment with the other. Add in autism, ADHD, OCD, cluster B personality disorders and you have the core ingredients to make a transitioner. For those like me, who were terrified of becoming gay, transition offered an easy way out of a lifetime of homophobia. My actual words to the psychotherapist were “I feel as if I’m heterosexual woman”, and many others did too. Those who aren’t gay, don’t get the same free pass that I do when we reject our trans identity. They are treated as deviants, and the empathy and understanding kindly given to me freely comes at great expense to those who aren’t gay. I’ve talked with hundreds of detransitioners, parents, and professionals in my time in the public sphere, and whilst the signs frequently pop up, these are after all just patterns, perhaps with a degree of bias.
In the process of healing, I’ve been working hard to accurately write about my experience in full. It’s important to record an accurate account of the past, to make peace with it and move forward. I hope in writing my own story, that others may see the signs themselves. If it ever sees the light of day, I hope you get to read it, and I hope others like me get to tell their story too. The world needs to know that we were here, and once, we were whole.
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Ritchie (Tulip) continues to document1 his challenging experiences post-surgery, sharing so as to help others. At the time of this book’s publication, he had just published the following powerful piece on Substack. With his permission I have included it here.
Swaying side to side, I’ve finally conceded that it’s time to go to bed. In the blur of my tired eyes, a pixelated clock signals it’s about to hit 2:50 a.m. The day’s been quite a long one, I’m exhausted and have been kept awake by both my mind and body. Pains of the past I’d rather not be reminded of but are forced through via a body that has certainly not forgotten. Pain aside, the anguish is enough to keep me awake.
No matter, perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.
Slamming ungracefully onto the double bed, as is routine, both BB and Harley come for a bedtime cuddle, making it difficult not to feel joyous at least at their presence. I’m tired enough that I’ll drift off in seconds. I hope I don’t dream tonight.
Lying on my right side, I can’t hear a thing, not even the buzzing of multiple alarms set on my phone, as I’m completely deaf in that ear. Barely half awake, I’m growing increasingly aware that the back of my head is cold and damp as if I’d just jumped out of a pool. Just slightly, I lift my head to swap out the pillow for a fresher one next to me. The heaviness of the pillow is made apparent when I throw it down the side of my bed, weighted like a sponge absorbing water. The night sweats come and go, whether or not I take hormones.
A furry glove has been gently prodding my half-awake face for the last 20 minutes. He’s growing impatient, it’s way past breakfast time. With a soothing and loud purr, the gentle taps on my face end, as Harley ever so slightly unsheathes his claws, probing my face with tiny needles. Now I’m fully awake.
The discomfort that started at the back of my wet head, from sweating all through the night, is complemented by the sensation that my spine was crushed. I’m in agony. The back pain started about three months after surgery. Perhaps it’s related? Or perhaps not, it doesn’t matter at this point.
As if automated, I begin shedding the pillowcases and duvet covers in preparation for the wash. Harley’s head is bunting my lower back, as he reminds me of my duty to feed him. After doing so, I pluck a fresh towel, throw it over the glass barrier, and turn on the shower. Feeling quite nauseous, it was only the cats that had breakfast, I simply can’t in the morning. The saliva that’s lining my mouth is signalling to me that I will probably throw up. Staring down the toilet bowl, I take deep breaths, doing what I can to prevent myself being sick with a dry throat. It’s as though my body is reacting to being poisoned, and it’s doing what it can to expel the poison.
Stepping into the shower, I begin scrubbing my face. My fingertips scan over patches of facial hair, beneath the lip, nose, and some on the chin and cheek, as if I was reading a braille message encoded on my face. It’s been a few days since I’ve shaved those random areas, which got worse when I took testosterone in 2022. The sheer volume of facial hair removal sessions, electrolysis, and laser, means that it won’t grow back properly, at least not for now. Turning off the shower, I wrap the towel around my body, hiding the breasts and lack of male genitalia as I walk back towards my room. Navigating disorganised drawers, I catch a glimpse of my naked body in the large cupboard mirror. It’s curvy in a way that it shouldn’t be, and not quite in proportion either, like a crushed hourglass. My eyes scan downwards, and as soon as they meet my lower torso, the examination stops. It’s too early in the morning to think about this shit.
In the kitchen, I’ve carved out a little office space, where I’ve worked solidly at home for the last three years. Lockdown was a nightmare, I know, but not for me. I get so much more done working in my own space, away from the noise and bright lights of the office. After an hour of going through my morning work routine, I’m pulled out of focus by a sharp sting, which normally happens after sitting down for an hour or so. It’s my pelvic region. It’s worse than usual, some days are better than others, but today is one of the bad ones.
Normally a warm shower in the morning is enough to relax the urethral passage, making using the toilet a little bit easier, but again, not today. I’ve been sitting on the toilet for about five minutes, and nothing is coming out, though not for the lack of trying. I begin psyching myself up, almost preparing the muscles to open, knowing that the final push will sting a bit.
A dribble begins. Okay, we’re in business. Do the pelvic exercises like the nurse told you and relax your bottom half, whilst slowly breathing outwards. The tiny stream slightly increases in velocity, allowing for a short-lived burst to emerge, before turning itself off like a tap. Inpatient at the sudden stoppage, I forcibly press the muscles trying to squeeze out the final drops, but that too isn’t enough. It still hasn’t stopped though; it’s just coming slowly. Again, as I was taught, I began rocking back and forth, side to side, attempting to empty any lingering urine. I’m confident enough to stand up, whilst holding some toilet tissue on the area, knowing more dribble will occur.
Upon returning to my desk, only thirty minutes pass before the sensation of a full bladder hits me again, and I go back and repeat the routine. By midday, I’ve done this several times, and no matter how careful I am, the dribble never seems to end and my underwear needs changing already.
Finally, the workday is over, but I still haven’t eaten. Instead, I’ve been drinking water and coffee all day, it’s the only thing I can keep down. Far too tired to even think about cooking, I’ll go have a nap and see where it takes me. Like a magnet, I’m pulled towards my bed and collapse in tiredness. I’m probably going to ruin my sleeping pattern if I don’t set an alarm, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere and I’ve got nowhere to be.
The three-hour nap I’ve just stormed through is brought to another sweaty end. This time though, it had nothing to do with night sweats, but the terrors that come with dreaming. Can I call it dreaming? They’re not quite nightmares, though they’re far from pleasant. I don’t think I’ve ever had a nice dream in my life, at least one I can remember anyway. The setting is always the same. In a house that looks like it’s about to be condemned, with water leaking from the ceilings and the wood slats on the windows hanging off broken hinges, I’m searching for cats and finding corpses.
That dream is at the very least distressing, and there are about half a dozen that play on repeat. Some are graphic, some aren’t, and some have very clear symbolism. But others are utterly confusing, such as the dream where I’m just screaming at myself not to go, but the screams are making my throat ache, as no matter how hard I press to create a sound, it’s muted, and the person I’m screaming at is myself during transition.
Around 7:00 p.m., a welcome needle mitten saves me from the chain of dreams. I’m not annoyed at him this time, I’m grateful for the reminder, that the dream was a dream, and nothing more.
More alert now, my hand searches down my body of its own accord. The long-muted sex drive, dampened by years of SSRi’s, hormones and surgery flickers like a star, but it’s still there, it’s just dim. Not being able to do anything without lubricants, I begin thinking about searching out a fresh tube, but by the time I’ve got up, the moment has passed, only to be swapped for a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration. Standing to leave the bed, I suddenly remember my reality. Even the disturbing dreams were better than what I’ve just awoken to.
Fuck this, I need a cig. Should have given up ages ago, but what does it matter now, really? What health, what future? What am I preserving myself for? Listen, I’m not about to roll over and die or give up, I just see the issues stacking up, getting worse, more complicated as I get older. Back inside the house, it’s now approaching 8:00 p.m. Every game I try to play, or any movie or TV show I begin to watch doesn’t last more than a few minutes, before I become bored and frustrated. Another cigarette perhaps? Fuck it, why not? I’m not doing anything else.
Damn it. Why does everything feel so unnecessarily difficult again? I just want to pack this up and forget about it, but I can’t. I’m swaying side to side in the hopes that motion will take me forward, but I’m stuck right here, with these thoughts. What am I waking up for?
My mind’s running away from me again, I don’t feel any satisfaction from the recently inhaled smoke. Perhaps an evening walk will do it? Not far, but enough to maybe tire myself out. Let’s go. It’s dark enough that I can get away with a baggy hoody, no need to bind or anything like that. The chest growth is quite apparent, especially with clothes my size, which is why I opt for two or three sizes bigger.
There’s a great deal of beauty in the world, and I like being part of it. Walking through forests, hearing the crashes of waves on long, empty Northumbrian beaches. But I can’t go far or do as I used to. Exercise generally is out of the question, it angers my scar area into a red rage of inflammation. Wherever I go, I have to think about the limitations, that really no one my age who was healthy, should ever be thinking about. The level of medical care required to sustain my ongoing issues is nothing short of geriatric. All the physical issues aside, they pale in comparison to the angst, betrayal, and grief I hold for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit and wallow in misery all day every day, that’s boring and tiring. Trans-age is valid because I feel a thousand fucking years old.
Daylight hours are becoming noticeably shorter at this time of year. Just a few weeks ago, going out at precisely the same time I would be met with beaming sunshine, but now it’s more or less dark. I’m not straying too far, knowing if I push it more than a couple of miles, I’ll be paying for it for days.
