I hate my therapist. He’s a guy, he’s never gone through second puberty. He thinks I should wear skirts and dresses and tights and makeup and all that crap just to “accept the female me” well fuck that. It wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t also convinced my crazy mom. Bye bye gym shorts, hello sports bras.
Oh great, text from my mom. “Don’t forget your special time.” No, she’s not talking about my period. That she calls my “mensies” (I call it the spanish inquisition). No, she’s talking about this thing my therapist said. Twice a day I should take five minutes “exploring myself” each day to get used to my different physiology. He means masturbate, or else he thinks I should just sit there grabbing my groin.
Well find, if it’s for my mental health, WHATEVER. Ugh, I really hate this. When I reach down there I expect to, yearn to even, still feel my dick and balls. Maybe I’d wake up and this had all been some awful dream. But no, all I find is that flat crotch, that absence. I guess it’s not nothing, it’s an indent. It’s what I pee with, and bleed out of. But it’s not a dick and balls. And the fact that to feel it I have to pull up a SKIRT and feel it through PANTIES and PANTYHOSE makes it even worse. Yep, I’m feeling it. Still a vagina. I get it, I’m a girl now. There’s no going back, there’s nothing I can do. Driving the point into the ground every second of my life isn’t making anything any easier.