“I feel like we’re all just winging it,” said one clinician at the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH), according to a recent report that exposed a recording of what advocates of so-called gender-affirming care have been saying when they think no one’s watching. “And [that’s] okay, you’re winging it too. But maybe we can just, like, wing it together.”
The “it” they were “winging” was my body. Their recklessness has left me with lifelong scars, both physical and psychological.
I was only around fifteen years old when I was introduced to transgenderism. A lot of what I heard resonated with me. I hated myself and hated my body. I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and anorexia, so I was no stranger to being uncomfortable in my own body. I had gone into the doctor’s office to get help for my mental state, and after my first appointment, I left with a letter of approval for testosterone.
Just one appointment led me down a pathway of permanent destruction and mutilation. I believed my doctors when they told me that girls could become boys, and that removing my breasts was the “life-saving care” I needed to avoid taking my own life. I genuinely believed the doctors who said transitioning was going to be the cure to my mental and emotional distress.
Hellbound and Down 