At the doctor’s office, what not to say

I was in a panic, so I went to my doctor and explained everything. Just a day earlier, I had a potential HIV exposure. My doctor listened. She prescribed a medication called PEP, which stands for post exposure prophylaxis.

PEP is medication taken after a potential HIV exposure to prevent infection. I took it as directed. Of course, I don’t know if I could have been infected or not, but either way, the drug worked because I tested negative months and years later and as recently as last month. I’m grateful. However, there was one troubling thing about my visit to the doctor that day — a comment from a healthcare professional that set me back years.

The doctor told me to talk to a social worker in the same practice. The social worker was kind and polite. I answered all of her questions. I don’t remember a thing she said years later, though, except for one thing.

I told her, almost in passing, that when I had sex with men, I presented as female. The social worker said she understood. Then, she said, “Well, that’s OK, but you have a family and it’s not like you’re looking to transition, right?” I was so embarrassed. Immediately, I said, “No, no, of course not…”

Actually, I was looking to transition. I remember taking the elevator to the floor where the social worker was located before our visit. There was a sign for an office specifically dedicated to helping trans patients. I saw a few trans patients in the lobby. I felt jealousy.

I wished I could be there, too, that I could have made different choices in life. I remember thinking, God, wouldn’t it be great to live like that? And I suppose that is precisely why I told the social worker what I told her that day. I wanted to see if I could crack that door open just a little and maybe take a small step towards living a more authentic life.

Nothing should have stopped me from starting my trans journey that day. I should have told the social worker, “Well, actually, I think I might be trans.” Instead, I allowed this one comment to shut the door I wanted so badly to crack open. I could have pushed back. Instead, I recoiled. Even worse, I told myself, of course, she was right. Of course, I can’t be trans. Of course, I’m not trans.

But I was. And I am.

Rather than stepping towards the light just a little, I retreated into darkness. This part of me still needed to come out, but instead it happened in dark hotel rooms and online chats — risky, anonymous hookups that made me feel validated in the moment, but that also left me feeling great sadness and shame.

I remember meeting one guy in a hotel room. He was a skillful and attentive lover. But then as soon as he got what he wanted from me, he pushed my head into the pillow. He told me not to look up. He said not to move until I heard the door close. He got dressed. When the door closed, I did not get up. I cried.

Eventually, my life unraveled. There was a suicide attempt. Let me tell you dear reader, there is nothing like finding yourself in the back of a cop car and handcuffed to a psych ward hospital bed to clarify things. After this, I got help. I talked to another therapist. I talked to my doctor. I went on hormones. Life improved. Instead of dark hotel rooms, I found a job and presented as trans for the first time. I started exercising again. I look and feel so, so much better.

I think so much about that social worker’s comment all these years later. I wish I could go back in time and tell her with confidence she was wrong about me, that I was, and am, indeed, trans. It may have taken me years, but I suppose that’s just what I’ve done.

The point is, if you are like I was that day, listen to yourself. If you start to trust and love yourself, the doors will open, eventually.