Is that because he wished he was having periods?” Her response was reassuringly rational. “He would practically sprint to the shop to buy me ibuprofen or tampons. “He was so sympathetic when I was on my period,” I yelped. She worked from a light-flooded conservatory, which seemed sensible given the dark and endless trauma she mined from people’s lives. M y new therapist was a large woman with a kind face whose accent I couldn’t decipher. The second 7am hit, I got in the shower just so I could cry in peace. I sat in silence, numb, watching the rain blur the brake lights in front of me while she continued to sob – for me, for him, and I guess for the future brother-in-law she’d just lost.įor a week in January, she held my hand every night while I stared at the ceiling, watching her alarm clock announce the time in a glaring sequence of oblongs: 12.10am. Her tears soaked my shoulder, and mine hers. “He thinks he might be trans.” We stood on the dark street, cobbles glossed with rain, and wept. “He … He … thinks he might be … ans.” I couldn’t get it out of my mouth. She knew something was wrong, of course, but she had no idea of the magnitude. I tried to articulate why I’d asked her to collect me and why I had a suitcase. Their purpose was to establish where we go from here, but in the private theatre of my mind, the curtains closed at every turn. Except that our relationship is more important than my gender.” “But I don’t know how far it will go yet,” he said. “Because I can’t be … I don’t want to be with a woman.” It was surprising to me how obvious this fact was, because everything else was suddenly underwater. I was already sure, cold and emphatic: this was done. trans.” The word flooded my body with a surreal disbelief. “I don’t know – like, non-binary, or … ” Oh my God, what was he about to say? “. “Well, what do you identify with?” I pleaded, panicking. I knew this person better than anyone in the world, but could in no way reconcile him with the words coming out of his mouth. “I just … don’t identify with being male,” he said. “I have gender identity issues,” he blurted, eyes fixed on the floor. “What were you trying to tell me?” I asked hopefully, all too aware of how different things can look when alcohol is no longer shaping your every thought. He walked through the door and sat down, his face masked with fear.
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