The Heart Punch
“So did you end up getting the injection?” She pauses before she replies, “yeah”. And there it is.
The heart punch that sends me back into the depths… so far from the hope that I had built up that she might not continue on this path of destruction. I’m not sure how much longer I can ride this wave of emotion.
This is her 3rd Testosterone injection—and the young women I saw blossoming before me is turning into a person I don’t understand or recognise or know.
My story is similar to others I have read. My daughter was a bouncy young girl. She loved reading, singing, Dr Who, and the comfort of sensible clothes. She was always drawn to the plight of others. As a teenager, she got caught up in a group who wanted to be different. All the labels were tried on for size until the Trans label stuck. But at the same time, unfortunately, she developed Type 1 diabetes, then Celiac disease, then Narcolepsy, so we were all working on managing the best we could through the end of school. I delved into research about the effects of medications and how best to support her and our family through these new challenges. In my research I kept track of the Trans phenomenon in the back of my mind, all the while hoping common sense would prevail.
After a few years of settling well into a path of managing life-saving medication, the Trans label reared its ugly head again. This time the therapist(s) sent her to the ‘gender’ clinic. Despite her comorbidities, the ‘doctor(s)’ argued with us that, for the sake of her mental health, and the fact that she was now a legal adult, it was up to her to decide about taking T. (WTF!) Her rationale—‘I’m taking other medications anyway and taking T makes me ‘feel’ more myself and I can look after myself’.
My research of bookmarked articles, papers, podcasts (thank you Stella and Sasha) and documentaries came to the forefront once again, but it hit a wall against young adulthood.
At the moment, we are still communicating with our daughter. She stays with us once a week to spend time with the family. We tell her we love her, but we don’t agree with this path of treatment (destruction) for a ‘feeling’. She says she knows we don’t agree, and that she loves us too. And so there it is.
Will a parent’s love always hurt like hell, every evening, every morning, every day, every week, every month and now especially every 3rd month? I’m hoping, one day, the angels will hear me.