I sigh as the loud, impersonal buzzer wakes me from a dreamless sleep. After staring at the blank ceiling for a few moments, I sigh again before getting out of bed, pulling on my slippers and my dressing gown before padding down the corridor to the sterile white bathroom, relieving myself before heading toward the dining room for breakfast. This has been my routine for almost four weeks now, and every day I walk down these halls it reminds me or why I’m in this place- it reminds me of my failure.

For the first few days since I was sectioned, my whole body- my whole soul, even- felt numb as the weight of what I did- or rather, what I nearly did- bore down on me. I’d nearly ended everything, and for what? Because I didn’t like there being cameras at my birthday party? I felt pathetic, worthless, and certainly not deserving of being called a ‘man’. However, as the early days progressed, I realised one important truth- that however trivial my feelings seem in hindsight, at the time, they were very real, and I should never, ever feel ashamed for feeling overwhelmed.

Thanks to the counsellors in the hospital, as well as calls and face-to-face meetings with Dr Phillips, I slowly began to realise that my problems extended way beyond just TV cameras. Over the last four weeks, virtually every aspect of my life has been dissected and analysed in the minutest detail. From my aversion to fame, to my stress over uni, to my relationship (or lack thereof) with Chloe, even to my playing on Paul’s cricket team. And, of course, my transition was discussed as well. The one instant ‘win’ I had during my first week in here was their insistence of addressing me as 'Ian' or, better yet, ‘Mr. Freeman’ every time we met. I may have been unsure of myself when I came in here, but my doctors certainly won’t- backed up by years of files supplied by Dr Phillips and my other counsellors.

The biggest topic of conversation, though, has been my childhood- especially my parents. I’d heard the phrase ‘stage mom’ before, obviously. Sometimes, my mother would even proudly describe herself that way. But a phrase I’ve become familiar with over the last month is ‘tiger mom’, a sort-of 'higher class' of stage mom. These are parents who raise their children in a culture of fear of failure, who base their very lives on how successful their offspring are. Usually, the term applies to academic success, but my dyslexia would’ve put a crimp in that anyway, so all throughout my childhood I was pushed to excel at performing arts, whether I liked it or not. And as my counsellors have reiterated over and over again, it wasn’t my fault if I didn’t excel- and certainly wasn’t my fault that I didn’t want to either. They were also quick to tell me that my resentment of my mother was valid, that my sheer hatred for Craig and his mother was justified and that my phobia of appearing in front of cameras- ANY cameras- was also understandable.

And yet, I still feel like a failure. I had a lifestyle that 99% of the population would envy, countless friends and a decent income from an amazing job while still studying at university and achieving good (albeit not spectacular) grades. And yet, even this didn’t feel like enough to me. It took my counsellors to point out what was blindingly obvious- it wasn’t the case that what I had was not enough for me, but that it was too much for me. My counsellors detailed to me how my lifestyle would cause burn out in virtually anyone, let alone someone with my baggage from childhood- not to mention the stress associated with simply being transgender. Still, though, I was unconvinced, and still am. How can I call myself a ‘man’ if I keep having to ask for help over the simplest things? My counsellors might have no reservations addressing me as 'Mr. Freeman', but every time they do, a tiny part of me keeps reminding myself that all I am is a fraud.

The one advantage of being in here, though, is that I can forget all the worries, all the stresses I have outside these walls. For the time being, at least, everything else has ceased to exist. My ‘modelling career’? Gone. My ‘musical career’? Also gone. My uni course? Gone. Family? Gone. Friends? Gone. Chloe? Definitely gone, and I had a few long chats with my counsellor about her that usually ended up with them telling me to forget about her as soon as possible- advice I intend to follow to the letter. The only ‘things’ of mine that aren’t gone are my friends and family. They were gone- well, for the last few weeks, anyway- but today, I’ll be seeing many of the faces I left behind when I came in here at the start of the year. My counsellors say it’ll be good to see some familiar faces as they ready me to be released, but the prospect is making me anxious- by which I mean both being released and seeing those familiar faces. The thought of sleeping in my own bed again is appealing, sure, but I know that everything I left behind will come creeping back to me sooner or later. And as for my friends and family… How do I make them understand why I nearly did what I nearly did?

“Name and date of birth, please,” the nurse says as I approach her station.

“Ian Freeman, thirtieth of December 1999,” I say, trying to smile as I’m handed a small cup containing two plain-looking pills- the anti-depressants I’m required to take while I’m in here (my testosterone treatments are administered weekly by injection from a nurse). After swallowing the pills- and showing the nurse my tongue to confirm it- I grab myself a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee before sitting down at my usual spot, though my anxiety about today has rendered my appetite non-existent.

Don’t get me wrong, I do miss my friends and family, and I of course still love them dearly. However, all this does is make my actions all the more inexcusable and make feel guiltier and guiltier. Not that I didn’t get enough guilt while I was growing up, of course, but my counsellors have gone out of their way to remind me that any guilt I felt while growing up was undeserved and purely a result of bad parenting. My ‘parents’ had nothing to do with my actions on New Year’s Eve, though- that’s all on me. It’s something I’ll never be able to undo, and something I’ll never be able to adequately apologise for- even if there is still a significant part of me that still believes that everyone would be better off without me…

After breakfast, I briefly return to my room to brush my teeth and comb my hair, pausing as I see my reflection in the mirror. For obvious reasons, we’re not allowed razors while in here. Any grooming that involves blades, such as haircuts or shaving, can only be done under strict supervision of or by one of the nurses, and that’s something I simply can’t be bothered with, meaning my whole face is covered in a light layer of fine, but very noticeable stubble. Stubble that would be perfectly natural on the face of any other 20-year-old man, and yet I can’t help but feel like it’s completely out of place on mine. When I first began to grow facial hair, I was more excited than I’d ever been before- it was confirmation to me that I was becoming the man I was always destined to be. Now it just feels like another part of the ‘disguise’- a reminder that no matter how hard I try, I’ll always be just pretending to be male…

After exchanging my dressing gown for a warm sweatshirt, I sit on my bed and wait for the inevitable knock on the door from one of the nurses to take me to my first ‘obligation’ of the day. Sure enough, the knock comes a few minutes later, and moments after that, I find myself sat in the sterile surroundings of one of the hospital’s examination rooms- though, as always, it won’t be my body that gets examined.

“Good morning, Ian,” Dr Morgan- the counsellor who I've dealt with the most while I've been in here- says in his gentle Scottish accent. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“Not bad, thanks,” I reply. “Maybe a little nervous about today.”

“I can tell by your body language,” Dr Morgan says softly. “But you have nothing to worry about today, really. We’re not going to make you talk to anyone you don’t want to talk to. Remember that the goal is to not keep you in here one second longer than you need, and not because there are other people who need your spot, but because it’s best for you to get back to normality as soon as possible- but only if you’re able to.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before,” I mumble.

“And I will continue to say it,” Dr Morgan says. “To remind you that we ARE here to help, and you are NOT alone in all this.”

“…Thanks,” I whisper.

“What is it exactly about today that you’re nervous about?” Dr Morgan asks.

“…Everything, maybe?” I reply in a quiet, timid voice. “I dunno. I’m worried that I’ll say the wrong thing, I’m worried that THEY’LL say the wrong thing, and I- I’ll, you know, slide back…”

“Only you can decide if that will happen,” Dr Morgan says softly. “But I will say that if we were worried that that might happen, we wouldn’t have taken you off suicide watch when we did. I AM happy with the progress you’ve been making so far, Ian.”

“Yep, you’ve said that before as well,” I say.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Dr Morgan says. “Ian… you know this isn’t going to be quick progress. If there was a pill I could give you that could simply wash away your stress, believe me, I’d give it.” Another thing you’ve said multiple times, I silently think to myself. “But the important thing to know is that we ARE making progress. And today- aye, today’s going to be the biggest step of all. But I’ll be here for you if you need me, and so will Dr Phillips tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“But the best way we can tell if you’re feeling better is if you tell us,” Dr Morgan says- yet another repetition. “And you’ve said you’re nervous about saying the wrong thing. But that won’t happen if you speak from your heart and tell the truth. We’re going to speak to everyone you talk to for a few minutes before and after you speak to them, to let them know that this meeting is about you, not them.”

“You’d need more than a few minutes to explain that to my mother,” I snort.

“Well, that’s why she’s not coming today,” Dr Morgan says.

“Yes, I know,” I sigh. “I shouldn’t feel indebted to her, or that I have any kind of family obligation to her at all… Kinda difficult when she lives with the only family I DO want to spend time with.”

“One step at a time,” Dr Morgan says softly. “Your feelings are what’s most important here, not hers.”

“I know,” I sigh. “Easier said than done when you’ve had sixteen years of being told you’re not trying hard enough.”

“All the more reason why you should focus on yourself above all else now that you can,” Dr Morgan retorts. “Especially when your very identity was also dismissed during that time.”

“Yeah…” I grimace. “And- well, on that topic…”

“Are you- are you still struggling with dysphoria?” Dr Morgan asks softly.

“It’s like it’s been worse than ever since I came in here,” I sigh. “And I know, I know, firstly, it’s all the more reason to get me out as soon as possible, and yes, I will talk about it with Dr Phillips tomorrow.”

“But the whole point of these daily sessions is for us to discuss these things now,” Dr Morgan says. “I might not be as much of an expert as Dr Phillips when it comes to gender dysphoria, but if it’s causing you pain then, well, you need to talk about it. WE need to talk about it.”

“…I guess,” I sigh. “I just- ugh. It’s hard to put into words. For the last 3 and a half years, I’ve been, like, running away from being a girl and toward being a man. And now, it- ugh. It’s like- it’s like that didn’t work. Because I’m in here, it- it’s like I didn’t run fast enough. That being a girl has caught up to me, like it always would. Every time I look at myself in the mirror, I- I don’t even know what I see.” I bite my lip as tears slowly start to trickle down my cheeks- yet more evidence of my ‘failure’.

“It’s okay,” Dr Morgan says gently as he hands me a box of tissues. “Take your time.”

“But- but it’s not okay though, is it?” I snort. “All this time I’ve been saying I’m a man, I’ve been telling people I’m a man… And I don’t even know anymore. If I was a real man, I-“ I pause and bite my lip as my cheeks redden with embarrassment.

“Go on,” Dr Morgan says.

“If I was a real man, I- I wouldn’t need to be in here,” I say, moaning softly as tears continue to flow from my eyes. “I wouldn’t be fucking well crying about it, either…” I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, expecting the usual rebuttals and platitudes from my counsellor, but to my surprise, he simply remains silent as I slowly compose myself. Eventually, though, he does speak- but I am unprepared for what he says.

“Growing up, did you have any male role models in your life other than Craig?” Dr Morgan asks, knowing better than to credit that man with the title of my father.

“Umm, no,” I reply. “Both of my grandfathers died when I was five, I don’t have any uncles… Why are you asking?”

“What you said implies there’s a ‘standard of behaviour’ for men, or at least one that you feel men should adhere to,” Dr Morgan explains. “But everything you’ve told me about Craig implies that he was, well, spineless, unable or unwilling to stand up for himself. Would you describe his typical behaviour as ‘manly’, based on what you consider a man should be?” I pause as I consider the answer to the counsellor’s question- in hindsight, Craig is possibly the least manly person I know. Utterly submissive to his witch of a mother, only ever stood up for himself when arguing with his wife, almost completely uncaring about me- but would a man care about someone he perceives as his daughter? I mean, Stuart certainly does, he dotes over Olivia. And that’s not exclusively a trans man thing, both Jonathan and Mikey have young daughters who they’d do anything for. Hell, Mikey even let his daughter decorate his beard with glitter over Christmas- something Craig would certainly never have done…

“I- I don’t know,” I mumble. “I guess not…”

“I’d also like to talk a bit about the first friend you made before you came out,” Dr Morgan says. “I think you said his name was Oliver?”

“Ugh, him,” I snort, earning a smirk from my counsellor. “Some friend he turned out to be. Thought he was interested in ‘Ian’ as a friend, turned out he only ‘cared’ about ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ as- well, yep.”

“But you had no interest in him that way?” Dr Morgan asks.

“None at all,” I reply. “Or any other boys, really.”

“So you would describe yourself as completely straight?” Dr Morgan asks.

“I suppose so,” I shrug. “I mean, I HAVE had sex with a pre-op transgender girl, but, like, I’d be a hypocrite if I thought that made me gay, right?”

“A gay man, you mean?” Dr Morgan asks.

“Well, yes-“ I say, before biting my lip as I realise what the counsellor just did. “And yes, I suppose that from a purely sexual standpoint, I do think of myself as 100% male.”

“The pre-op girl you said you’ve had relations with, is that Laura?” Dr Morgan asks, smiling as I nod. “You’ve mentioned her before, are the two of you close? I only ask as she’s not on the list of people visiting you today.”

“She’s a friend,” I reply with a shrug. “I like her, she’s pretty, she’s fun to be around… I guess we do have an ‘obvious connection’ too, heh.”

“Of course,” Dr Morgan says. “What- or rather, how would you describe her sexual orientation, if you know it, of course?”

“She- heh, yep. She’s 100% straight as well,” I reply. “My sex life is one of few things I DON’T have a problem with, heh. Even if I am still missing Chloe a lot…”

“Well, we’ve spoken about her a lot too,” Dr Morgan reminds me. “I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be mentioned, heh.”

“I certainly don’t have anything more to say on the matter,” I snort, frowning as my counsellor gets an uncharacteristically anxious look on his face. “…What?”

“I’m only mentioning this so that you’re aware,” Dr Morgan says softly. “But when we contacted your grandmother about who we should invite today, Chloe’s was one of the names she suggested.” Instantly, I can feel my tension levels start to rise again.

“Why- why would-“ I stammer.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dr Morgan says reassuringly. “We explained that you seeing her would not be good for your mental health, so she wasn’t invited along today. I’m only mentioning it in case you wanted to see her, but I think I can gather from your reaction that you don’t, so we’ll leave it at that.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. “So who- who is coming along today, is there, like, a final list or something?”

“There is,” Dr Morgan replies. “I was going to come around to the list, but as you’ve brought it up, you’ll be seeing your grandmother first, then your friend Stuart and finally your friend Lee. I have contacted your university, but they aren’t able to send anyone down today, but they have said they’ll arrange an appointment for you when you’re out of here. I’ve also spoken to your employer at the agency, your manager was going to come along but had to pull out last week for some reason or other. They did say that Stuart can speak for them regarding anything work-related, and he insisted on coming along.”

“Okay,” I say with a nod. Grandma, Stuart and Lee are probably the three people I speak to the most, whether that's inside or outside of here, so they’re obviously trying to ease me back into the ‘real world’ gently. Though the simple fact remains that these meetings are mere hours away, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say to these people…

We spend the next hour discussing the upcoming meetings, with my counsellor offering help and advice on what to say, what not to say and what to expect to hear. However, in my anxiety, virtually all of the information goes in one ear and comes straight out of the other. After the meeting I return to my room to wait, but within seconds, my eyes are drawn back to my mirror.

As I was a ‘risk to myself’ when I first arrived, I only received the mirror recently, but every time I pass it, I can’t help but be transfixed by what I see. Not in a vain way, you understand, but because every time I looked, I saw something different. This morning, I saw an average guy with scruffy hair and stubble. Yesterday, I saw a child. A weak, dependent child unable to cope with the stresses of the real world. Right now though, thanks to the meeting with Dr Morgan, I’m seeing the reflection of a man that no fewer than three straight women have had sex with. Well, three otherwise straight women, at least…

Before I see my grandmother, though, I have to eat lunch first, so I make my way back to the plain walls of the cafeteria. And as always, I take my plate of chips to a corner of the room, not interacting with the other patients as I watch the world go by. While I make a point of being polite to the other people in here, I’ve not gone out of my way to make any friends. I initially assumed I’d only be in here for a few days, but even as days turned into weeks, I kept to myself and stayed out of everyone else’s way, even though my counsellor encouraged me to be more outgoing- and, of course, the saying 'you can never have too many friends' continues to ring in my ears as always.

After lunch, I return to my room to get ready for the afternoon ahead. I try to make my hair look at the very least presentable, but even this simple action makes my anxiety rise. However, another emotion is gripping me the most as I prepare to meet my grandmother- an overwhelming feeling of shame.

It's hardly a new feeling for me, of course. Growing up, I was made- forced, even- to feel ashamed every time I said the wrong thing at dinner, or didn’t try hard enough at ballet, or gymnastics, or cheerleading, or every time I didn’t get the lead role in a play, or every time I had so much as a hair out of place or a tiny tear in my tights every time I went to school. Hell, every year on my birthday, I was made to feel ashamed for being born ‘two days early’. Every time I was anything less than the perfect daughter, I had that feeling all but literally drilled into my brain over and over again. And what could be less than the ‘perfect daughter’ than an ‘imperfect son’? Even Grandma, without whom I wouldn’t be who I am today- or, in all likelihood, even alive- has on occasion seen the need to give me a telling off, and when she does, her resemblance to my mother is eerie. And what I did at the New Year will make her more ashamed of me than every other bad thing I’ve done put together. God knows it makes me feel more ashamed than I’ve ever been before in my life…

A short while later, I follow my nurse down to Dr Morgan’s office, which has been set aside for my use this afternoon. Unsurprisingly, Dr Morgan is already waiting inside for me, and can instantly tell how anxious I am just by looking at me.

“It’s going to be okay,” the counsellor reassures me. “I’ll be here if you need me, and if there’s anything private that you don’t want me to hear, just say so and I’ll leave the room. But you are in a safe space, you’re not going to be in any danger, your grandmother isn’t coming here to confront you. Try to remember that.”

“Th- thanks,” I whisper. “I will. Well- I’ll try, heh.”

“And don’t be afraid to be selfish,” Dr Morgan advises. “I know that may sound weird, but this meeting is for you and no one else. If you’re too stressed out, we’ll call a halt to it.”

“I- I’ll be okay,” I say, though both Dr Morgan and I know that I’m not being truthful.

“Anything you need, just say it and I’ll make it happen,” Dr Morgan whispers, giving my shoulder a friendly pat as a knock comes from the door. I clench my hands tightly on my lap and don’t look up as Dr Morgan answers the door, speaking in a low voice so I don’t hear before standing aside and allowing my grandmother into the room.

Even though we only saw each other a month ago at Christmas, Grandma looks a lot different- older, wearier even- and it’s pretty clear I’m the one to blame. Before I can say anything, I feel the tears stream down my cheeks, and I feel about an inch tall as Grandma comes and gives me a tight, loving hug while Dr Morgan guides me back to my seat.

“I- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” I blub as I try desperately to compose myself.

“No, you have nothing to apologise for!” Grandma says firmly. “If anything, I’M the one who should apologise. When I first saw those marks on your wrist, all those years ago… I should’ve known better than to think that simply becoming a boy would make you feel better just like that. What an old fool I’ve been…”

“Oh- no, please, PLEASE don’t say that…” I moan, remembering Dr Morgan’s advice- if I need to be selfish, I should be. “I- I mean, it- it makes me feel worse when you blame yourself like that.”

“Well it shouldn’t,” Grandma says. “After everything that your mother and your so-called ‘father’ put you through… It’s no wonder you- well, it’s no wonder what nearly happened nearly happened.”

“I could’ve been stronger, though,” I moan. “I SHOULD have been stronger.”

“You can’t be infinitely strong,” Grandma says. “And what might be easy for other people could be impossible for you. Ian, you should not feel guilty about needing help. Just as you should never feel guilty if you ever need to say ‘no’ to anyone. Even me.” I try to smile, especially as Dr Morgan nods in agreement with Grandma, but simply looking at her face is a reminder of just how badly I’ve failed.

“Easier said than done,” I sigh.

“Well, so are most things,” Grandma advises. “I’ve spoken to Reverend Stubbs, by the way. He would’ve come today if he’d been invited, as would your friends Robert and Neil. They both miss you a lot, Ian.”

“Yeah, I- I miss them,” I sigh. “I think Rob’s brother’s even talking about studying in London in September.”

“He’ll be lucky to have two responsible young men to look after him, then,” Grandma says proudly. “In you and Lee, I mean.”

“Well- I guess,” I shrug. “I don’t exactly feel ‘responsible’ right now, heh.”

“No, I think you would’ve made an excellent big brother,” Grandma says. “Though in a way, I’m glad you don’t have any younger siblings, not if it meant that Craig and Angela had to raise them as well…”

“I wouldn’t wish THAT on anyone,” I snort.

“Nor would I,” Grandma says bluntly. “If I had known then what I know now, I would’ve taken you in years earlier- though as I’m sure you’ve heard a lot, there’s no sense dwelling on what might have been.”

“Well- I guess not,” I say.

“Though I do wish your grandfather could’ve got to know his grandson,” Grandma says wistfully. “I know you two would’ve got along brilliantly. In fact, I actually brought something of his that I want to give you- when you get out of here, anyway. It’s something that will go well with that collection of tattoos you’re putting all over your body.”

“Two tattoos is hardly a ‘collection’,” I chuckle. “Though- though I have been thinking about getting a few more- when I get out of here, anyway.”

“Well, that can be a nice treat for you when you do leave here,” Grandma says with a genuine smile. “I’ll even pay for it, that can be a late birthday present, if you like.”

“W- wow, thanks,” I say, confused- Grandma’s never approved of me getting any tattoos, so for her to offer to pay for one shows she must’ve been REALLY worried about me.

“Though I will understand if you choose to stay in London for the time being,” Grandma says in a quieter voice. “Your mother, she- she actually came to London with me today.”

“She- she’s here!?” I say as my heart starts to race.

“No, not here in the hospital,” Grandma says, obviously trying to calm me down. “She wanted to come here with me, but your doctors and I explained to her that it would be best if she stayed away for the time being. She wasn’t happy about that, but that’s nothing that you need to worry about, Ian.”

“Well- okay, I guess,” I say, taking several deep breaths to try to stop my hands from shaking. “Guess I won’t be able to avoid her indefinitely, though…”

“Well, like your grandmother says, there’s no need to worry about that for now,” Dr Morgan interjects in a soft voice.

“I might if I ever get out of here,” I moan.

“You WILL get out of here, and soon,” Grandma insists, though I’m far from convinced- and the look on Dr Morgan’s face as he makes his notes doesn’t fill me with confidence either.

The rest of the ‘meeting’ lasts another 40 minutes, with me and Grandma discussing the recent goings-on in Cardiff, my university course and my life in London- and pointedly avoiding any talk of what happened on New Year’s Eve. However, she also doesn’t mention my grandfather's 'gift' again throughout the visit, no doubt hoping that it’d somehow act as motivation for me to get better sooner. She also doesn’t mention the fact that I’m unshaven- something she’d normally be all over me about. Eventually, though, she leaves, but not before sharing another long hug with me. And I will confess to shedding a couple of tears as she walks back through the office door.

“Okay,” Dr Morgan says softly. “Do you need a couple of minutes to yourself, Ian?”

“No- no, I’ll be fine,” I sigh as I relax back into my chair. “I’m not getting out of here any time soon though, am I?”

"Well, as you know, you're currently detained under section 2," Dr Morgan replies matter-of-factly. “And we can only keep you under section 2 for a maximum of 28 days before we have to decide to either let you out, or detain you under section 3. But you’ll only be detained under section 3 if I determine that you still pose a significant risk your safety or the safety of others. I cannot yet say for certain if that’s the case, but we’re not going to keep you away from your normal life unless we feel it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Even with my mother, the woman who modelled for the flag of Wales still out there?” I snort.

“I will admit, it came as a surprise to me that your grandmother brought her along,” Dr Morgan says. “But if they’d both shown up at my door, I’d have turned both of them away. Sometimes we recommend that people confront those who are responsible for the trauma they’ve endured in the past, sometimes we don’t. And you’re very much in the latter category. I’d even go so far as to recommend a restraining order, but only if you feel it’s necessary.”

“That- that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” I ask.

“You nearly had a panic attack just from learning she was in the same city as you,” Dr Morgan says gently. “And she’s lied to you in the past in order to get to talk to you. These are not the actions of someone thinking clearly, or who has your best interests at heart.

“Well, umm, I- I’ll think about it,” I say as I ponder the counsellor’s offer- taking out a restraining order against my own mother is an extreme step. Then again, as has been drilled into me over the last few weeks, she was an extreme mother…

“On the whole, though,” Dr Morgan says, “I think that went quite well. It’s clear that your grandmother’s a good person at heart and has your best interests in mind.”

“Yep, unlike my other grandmother, heh,” I chuckle.

“Well, forgive me for being blunt,” Dr Morgan says, “but she’s dead now, so there’s no need to worry about her.”

“Heh,” I chuckle. “That’s definitely true, especially with Craig doing a self-imposed restraining order as well. Being banned from having any contact with him is a bit like being banned from being stabbed.”

“Can believe that,” Dr Morgan chuckles. “And like I said, both of them: out of mind. You’d lose nothing by pretending that neither of them ever existed.”

“Works for me,” I say. “Pity that won’t work with my mother, though…”

“One step at a time,” Dr Morgan says softly. “Your friend should be here in about 20 minutes. If there’s anything you need right now, toilet, drink, just say it.”

“I- I should be good, thanks,” I reply. “I’m actually really looking forward to seeing Stuart, heh.”

“I’m sure he feels the same,” Dr Morgan says with a warm smile.

Sure enough, just over twenty minutes later, a knock comes from the office door, and just as before, Dr Morgan stands up and talks quietly with my visitor before letting them in. This time, though, I’m not nearly as nervous as I was before meeting with Grandma. I don’t know whether it’s because I know Stuart isn’t as ‘fragile’ as Grandma, or because I know that at heart, he is a truly selfless person. Of course, it could be because out of everyone I know, he has the most first-hand experience of what my life is like.

“Mate,” Stuart says quietly but with a wide grin as he enters the room, reaching out for a ‘bro handshake’ that I’m only too happy to give, before reaching for a (somewhat awkward) hug that I’m also happy to give.

“Hi Stu,” I say with an equally wide grin as we sit back down, leading to an awkward silence as my mentor gazes at the floor.

“I- I’m sorry,” Stuart says with a sad sigh. “I should’ve known better than to allow the cameras at your birthday party, and-“

“It- honestly, you don’t need to apologise,” I say, biting my lip as the mere mention of my party makes my tension levels rise. However, my many discussions with my counsellors have helped me realise one fact- a fact I quickly share with my mentor as I gesture toward Dr Morgan. “He’ll tell you that it wasn’t, like, just one thing that caused- well, ‘it’. It was, like, a whole lifetime of shit from my so-called parents among other things.”

“He’s right,” Dr Morgan says quietly.

“Yeah, but still, though,” Stuart sighs. “I’ve known you for, like, years and it never even occurred to me that-“

“Honestly,” I say firmly. “Forget it. Seriously. If I was mad at you for this, you simply wouldn’t be here today.”

“Well- thanks,” Stuart says with a sad smile.

“And if it wasn’t for all the help you’ve given me, I probably wouldn’t be here today, heh,” I snort.

“Oh- bullshit,” Stuart snorts. “You’d totally be here AND be a man as well, seriously.”

“Well- that’s a nice thought,” I sigh.

“And a true one,” Stuart insists. “Really, mate. You were already out and transitioning long before I met you, remember. All I’ve done is guide you from time to time. Sometimes in the right direction, other times not, heh.”

“Usually in the right direction,” I retort. “Almost always, in fact.”

“Thanks,” Stuart whispers. “Do you- do you know when you’re getting out of here yet?”

“When I’m ready, I guess,” I shrug. “Or maybe IF I’m ever ready, heh.”

“Well, however much support you’re getting in here, you know you’ll get just as much support from your friends out there, if not more,” Stuart says reassuringly, even as his kind words threaten to bring tears to my eyes. “Oh, and speaking of, I’ve been ordered to take a selfie with you today- if that’s okay with your doctor, anyway?”

“That’s up to Ian,” Dr Morgan says, looking at me as if to remind me of his earlier advice- that it’s okay to say ‘no’.

“Umm, wh- why do you need the photo?” I ask as Stuart gets his phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Proof,” Stuart says, before smiling tiredly. “What you- well, I- I mean, it’s not been shared, like, widely, or publicly, only a few people know, well, where you are and why you’re here. We’ve been- and by we, I mean, like, the Fellowship, Heavenly Talent management etc., we- we’ve been very strict about keeping your privacy, well, private. VERY strict. And no one’s been stricter about that than my wife. She kinda… well, let’s just say I was in a LOT of trouble when she found about- well, you.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks burning as tears start to trickle down my cheeks.

“Oh- really, this is 100%- 1000% even- on me,” Stuart reassures me. “And while she’s said that she trusts that I will visit today, she does want, well, photographic proof that you’re alright. So, well- yeah.” I dry my eyes as best as I can and smile as Stuart holds his phone up for a photo of the two of us together. “She’s also said our spare room is available any time you need it.”

“Oh- that really isn’t necessary,” I say. “I’ll be fine in my own bed in my own flat, in fact, I’d prefer that- no offence, like…”

“Honestly, none taken, I get it 100%,” Stuart says as he texts our photo to Jamie before putting his phone away.

“Though I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the flat,” I moan. “I doubt Joshua’s going to want to keep me on his books after this, and I do NOT want charity.”

“I know you don’t,” Stuart says. “That’s why I’m not offering it. But I will say that both Joshua AND Jonathan won’t just leave you hung out to dry. They’ll work something out, but they’ll always put your- well, umm, your health first.”

“My ‘mental’ health, you mean?” I ask, sighing as my friend nods.

“Don’t you still have a chunk of your student loan left, too?” Stuart asks, grimacing as I groan and frown again.

“The loan, yes,” I reply. “Dunno about being a ‘student’, though, I’ve already missed a month of my second semester, and I’m hardly going to be in a mindset to catch up even whe- even IF I get out of here.”

“Which I’ve already told you I’ll help you talk to your uni tutors about,” Dr Morgan reminds me.

“…It does sound like you’re being given all the help you need to land on your feet,” Stuart says gently.

“Yeah, but it’s still a hell of a long way to fall,” I sigh. “But- but thanks, I am feeling a bit better just, like, talking to you. Even if I have ruined your band, heh.”

“I can always fill in on bass when it’s needed,” Stuart shrugs. “Now that Dan’s son is a bit older, he’s been gradually, like, returning to the band. Though it is taking him a while to learn the tab for ‘My Own Worst Enemy’. Not that THAT video’s going to earn any more money than ‘There She Goes’, anyway- ooh, speaking of which, yes, your royalties have been set aside for you when- WHEN you get out of here. It’s only pocket change at the moment, but it is better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” I say, before I find myself suddenly smiling. At first, the thought of being in the band filled me with nothing but stress- it was, after all, just another way for mum to get what she wanted, a rich and famous son to act as her private ‘pension plan’. However, the more time I spent with the band, the more I gradually grew to enjoy it. It wasn’t a bunch of fame-chasing wannabes, the likes of which I spent years associating with- or rather, being forced to associate with at school. These guys were a bunch of friends who enjoyed making music together, and that’s what they unreservedly accepted me as- a friend, and as a guy. No pressure to conform to a particular standard of looks or behaviour, no pressure to perform to a particular level- not even any pressure to play my instrument well, even though I eventually learned to play the bass guitar very well, helped no doubt by the fact that my teacher (Stuart’s friend Mikey) is both left-handed like me and extremely laid-back to the point of barely caring whether I learn or not, just as long as I had fun playing. And the more I think about it, the more I realise that I genuinely did.

“Actually,” I continue, biting my lip nervously. “I- I wouldn’t mind, you know, still playing for the band whenever you need me- if, you know, you’re all still okay with that…” I feel my cheeks start to flush as my counsellor starts hastily making notes on his pad, while my mentor pauses to ponder my request.

“Don’t- don’t say that because you think you’ll be disappointing me if you don’t,” Stuart says quietly. “Because you won’t- won’t be disappointing me, that is. Even if you never touch a guitar again, I’ll still want to be your friend, and your mentor, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I whisper as I struggle to keep control of my emotions. “And I do appreciate it, and that’s not why I’m asking about the band. I genuinely had a lot of fun playing with you guys- erm, so to speak, anyway.” I smirk as Stuart rolls his eyes and lets out a snort of laughter.

“Well, obviously we’d love to have you back, if that’s what you REALLY want,” Stuart says. “I think I can safely speak for the whole band there, heh.”

“Heh,” I chuckle, before biting my lip as I ponder the one question I am dreading asking my mentor. “When you- when you first started, you know, transitioning, did you ever… umm, did you- did you ever, like, think- sort of, I mean…”

“I- I think I know where you’re going,” Stuart says softly. “I’m assuming the rest of the question was going to be ‘did I ever feel like I didn’t belong as a man’?” Stuart smiles as I bite my lip and nod.

“…Something along those lines,” I sigh. “I mean, the longer I stay here, it’s, like, the more help I need, I feel just- I feel just, you know, pathetic…”

“You’re not,” Stuart says quietly but firmly. “And don’t ever think that you are for needing help. We all do from time to time, even me.” I look away as Stuart grimaces and closes his eyes- clearly what I've said has brought back an unpleasant memory for him.

“Th- thanks,” I whisper.

“And you’re no less of a man for asking for help,” Stuart says. “I mean, yes, we both want to be- well, there’s this stereotype of the rugged, independent man who bottles everything up and doesn’t take help from anyone. But that’s a load of crap. Nobody ever had their right to be male revoked because they cried, not even guys like us, and that’s just one example.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle. “I’m not really a big fan of crying, though.”

“Odd to hear that from an Arsenal fan, but okay,” Stuart says, making me roll my eyes even as I’m forced to admit that it was a funny joke- it even brought a chuckle out of Dr Morgan. “Seriously though, when- WHEN you get out of here, I- I kinda have, like, a sort-of ‘test’, something that helped me when I was younger, when my dysphoria was bad after I started transitioning.”

“Well- okay, as long as it doesn’t involve inserting anything,” I say, earning another laugh from my counsellor and an eye roll from my mentor.

“Funny man,” Stuart snorts. “But seriously, I think- I think it’ll help. But make sure you get all the help you need from here first, if only in a practical sense- once you’re discharged, organising outpatient help can be a nightmare.”

“Well- I guess,” I sigh. “But there’s nothing like your own bed.”

“No there isn’t,” Stuart says. “As long as you’re comfortable in it.” I smile and nod as I relax back into my chair, while the discussion moves onto topics such as our families (particularly Stuart’s daughter’s third birthday next month), music, sport and other trivial nonsense for another 45 minutes before Stuart takes his leave. However, even considering how short it was, the talk has put a smile on my face that remains even after my mentor leaves- something that my counsellor picks up on.

“I thought that went well,” Dr Morgan says with a smile. “You actually seemed more relaxed with Stuart than you did with your grandmother.”

“Well- I guess,” I say, pondering whether or not the counsellor is correct before quickly concluding that he was, and what that says about me. Am I really more relaxed around my rich and famous friends than I am around my own family? Or is the fact that grandma brought my mother with her, and all the stress that brings, to blame for my anxiety? Or is Stuart simply that good a friend that I immediately feel at ease around him, even- no, especially when he’s teasing me? After all, he knows better than anyone else what I’m going through. Well, some of what I’m going through, anyway. Fortunately, grandma and Stuart aren’t the only people in my life that I (and, I suppose, my counsellor too) can gauge my reaction to- or at least, that’s what I thought.

“Okay, well that’s just about us done for this afternoon,” Dr Morgan says, confusing me as he finishes writing down his notes. Is Lee unwell or something? “I need to get this all typed up, and we will have another session after your dinner, but I am happy with the progress you’ve made, Ian. I don’t want to get your hopes up, as I do need to ensure you have a safe environment to be discharged into, but I am very, very happy with the progress you've made.”

“Well- thanks,” I say, my head spinning from the sudden change of plans. “Did- did Lee say what was wrong with him? ‘Cause, like, if I’m going to be living with him, presumably you’d need to speak to him, right?”

“Aye, and I will before you’re discharged,” Dr Morgan says. “Normally we would discharge to a family member, but in your case that’s obviously not an option, and your own bed is the best option, like you said to Stuart.

“Well- okay, I guess,” I say.

“You go and grab something to eat, we’ll talk after,” Dr Morgan says with a reassuring smile as a nurse escorts me back to my room.

As I wait for dinner, I lazily flick through the meagre reading material I have (I’m not allowed to have a phone or a tablet with me) as I ponder whether or not I feel I’m ready to be released. The talk I had with Stuart is the most relaxed I’ve felt since- well, since I came to this place, and I was really looking forward to seeing Lee again. However, this sudden ‘illness’ of his makes me wonder if the same can be said of him- and naturally, this causes my anxiety levels to rise again. Of course, he could really be ill and not wanting to make me sick- the newspapers are full of stories about a ‘megavirus’ or something that’s spreading through China- but his sudden shooting through without leaving a specific message just isn’t like him. And it’s not like I can call him or even message him myself to put my mind at ease…

After a quick dinner, I return to my counsellor’s office for our final meeting of the day, but Lee's absence is still distracting me- something my counsellor is bound to notice.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” Dr Morgan asks, smiling as I nod.

“It was okay, thanks,” I reply with a shrug. “Had the- had the shepherd’s pie, it’s always, like, been one of my favourites. And yes, yes, I know, Welsh guy eating sheep meat, whatever.”

“For what it’s worth, I like Irn Bru,” Dr Morgan says, making me smile, though as always, he quickly senses that I'm hiding something. “But you still have a lot on your mind following today, don’t you?”

“Well- yeah,” I sigh.

“It’s okay, that was to be expected,” Dr Morgan says gently. “You’ve had a lot of- for want of a better word- stimulation today, naturally it will be a little overwhelming. The important thing is that you’re coping with it well, better than I expected, in fact.”

“Yeah…” I grimace. “It- it actually isn’t the people I spoke to today that I’m worried about, it’s the person I DIDN’T speak to.”

“Your flatmate?” Dr Morgan asks, to which I reply with a nod. “I called him just before you came in just now, he’s going to try to drop in tomorrow if he’s feeling up to it, if that’s okay with you?”

“Ye- umm, sure,” I reply, even though this makes me more anxious- if he shot through today, there’s nothing to say that he won’t simply do so again tomorrow. And even if he does show up, I get the strong feeling I’ll have an argument on my hands- and the last thing my mental health needs is a fight with my best friend.

“He’s also given me the name of one of your friends, I think he said her name was Ellie,” Dr Morgan says as he looks at his notes. “Would it be okay if I invited her around for a talk as well?”

“Umm, I guess,” I say, before my mind connects the dots and I slump back into my chair. “This means I’m not getting out of here anytime soon, doesn’t it? If you’re asking more of my friends to come and visit me?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr Morgan says. “The talk with Lee will be the big thing. I don’t want to put any- ANY pressure on you, but if I’m satisfied that you’ll be safe living with him, it will go a long way toward informing my decision about whether or not to discharge you.”

“Okay,” I say, though despite my counsellor’s assurances, I’m feeling more pressured than ever…

As always, I head to bed just before 10pm, but despite my ‘excitement’ today, I still struggle to get to sleep. I know that nothing will ever be the same again, no matter how hard I try- and I know that my actions are the reason why. I could tell from the way grandma was that she was deeply affected by what I did, and every time I see her from now on, it'll always be hanging over our heads. Stuart tried to put on a brave face, but I know that despite my reassurances, he’ll always blame himself for what happened that evening. And as for Lee… I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow. If he comes- not that I’d blame him if he didn’t.

The following morning, as always, the buzzer wakes me from my dreamless sleep and I follow what has quickly become my usual morning routine before returning to my room and waiting for my first appointment of the day. After what seems like an eternity, I'm escorted down the corridor to the room where I spent most of yesterday- and where I'll likely spend a good portion of today as well.

“Good morning,” Doctor Morgan says as I enter the room and slump down in my usual way into my usual seat. “Sleep well?”

“Not bad,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m a bit anxious about today, though.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr Morgan says. “But yesterday did go well, Ian. Yes, there was some tension, but that’s understandable too.”

“I guess,” I sigh. “It- it just dawned on me last night, though, that nothing can ever be the same again, like, I can’t go back and undo what I did, or pretend that it never happened, like.”

“Well- no, that’s true, you can’t,” Dr Morgan concedes.

“And- and I am worried that that’s what Lee’s scared of,” I sigh. “Like, I- I don’t think he’s ill, not really, anyway.”

“Do you- do you not trust Lee?” Dr Morgan asks.

“Well- yes, but-“ I reply, before sighing. “I’m hardly one to talk about people overreacting to problems, or running away from them…”

“Different people react in different ways to different kinds of stress,” Dr Morgan advises. “You shouldn’t take his non-appearance yesterday as a sign that he wants to end your friendship, though. How long have you known Lee?”

“Umm, just over three years,” I reply. “He was one of, like, ‘Ian’s’ first friends, him and two other guys I told you about, Neil and Rob. But-“ I sigh as I pause, my counsellor looking at me expectantly.

“Take your time,” Dr Morgan says gently.

“I- I always did feel, like, an ‘intruder’ in that group,” I say. “Like, they all knew each other from secondary school, and I only joined the group when I was 16. They’re all, like, fully Welsh and I’m only half-Welsh. And I- well, heh. The ‘obvious’ thing, like.”

“I know from your notes that your regular counsellor has talked to you about imposter syndrome,” Dr Morgan says. “She’s also said it’s common, too common for men and women in your situation. But I’ve always thought that, well, to use a metaphor- and no offence intended- if something looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, only a total idiot would say ‘that’s obviously a cat’.”

“Umm… okay?” I say, unsure where my counsellor is going with this line of conversation.

“My point,” Dr Morgan continues, “is that you’ve come into my office obviously presenting as male- you have a flat chest, you have stubble, and you’re wearing male-cut clothing. Your accent is unmistakably South Wales. Anybody with any sense would look at you and listen to you speak and immediately assume ‘Welshman’.”

“Well- I guess,” I sigh. “And then when they learned, well, ‘the truth’?”

“What ‘truth’?” Dr Morgan retorts. “Don’t forget that I was in the room yesterday when you talked to Stuart. I’m aware of both of your, well, ‘histories’ and even I didn’t see anything other than two guys talking and catching up. I’m not just saying this to reassure you, and I’m certainly not trying to trivialise your feelings of being an impostor either. I can only tell you what I’ve seen and heard with my eyes and ears.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not just ‘the obvious’ that makes me feel like an outsider,” I sigh. “I mean, I know that Lee has absolutely zero problem with trans people, I mean, he used to date a trans girl for months.”

“Okay,” Dr Morgan says, pausing to allow me to continue.

“It’s just- ugh,” I sigh. “My friends, they- they’re nerds. Unashamedly nerdy, like, playing games like Warhammer, watching Star Trek, doing computer programming… I mean, at first, I- I loved the idea of that as it’d make my mum mad. Like, REALLY mad. When I first moved to Cardiff, I lied to her and told her I got work as an extra on Doctor Who, and even though that was everything she ever wanted, she was wary as it was what she considered a ‘nerd show’.”

“And- and do you like shows like Star Trek and Doctor Who?” Dr Morgan asks.

“Well- I guess,” I reply with a shrug. “I mean, I really want to see this new Picard show that’s just come out as the trailers looked amazing, and the same goes for the Mandalorian too- well, whenever Disney launch their service over here, anyway. But- but I like watching shows like Strictly, and the Angels, too, and not just ‘cause I’m friends with them, but- heh. If I hadn’t been force-fed the Kardashians’ show since I was a gi- since I was a kid, I’d probably like that show too. And I- I really, REALLY loved The Greatest Showman too when I went to see it with Chloe.”

“And do you see anything wrong with this?” Dr Morgan asks.

“Well- it’s not- it’s not what men do, is it?” I ask in a small, feeble voice as Dr Morgan sits back in his chair.

“…This may sound ironic coming from me,” my counsellor says. “But have you ever heard of the ‘no true Scotsman’ logical fallacy?”

“Umm, not really,” I reply. “I doubt it’ll be in any graphic design textbooks, heh.”

“Well, it is in plenty of psychology textbooks,” Dr Morgan says. “Basically, the way it works is this: think back to the 2015 referendum, not the Brexit one, but the Scottish independence one. I can guarantee this exact conversation will have been held in pubs all across Scotland. One guy says to the other: ‘no Scotsman would ever vote to keep being governed by London.’ Another guy says to him: ‘well what about Scots who live near the border, who work in England and who’d be really inconvenienced by a hard border?’ To which the first guy retorts: ‘well no TRUE Scotsman would ever vote to keep being governed by London.’ Do you get what I mean?”

“A little, I guess,” I reply. “I suppose it might be a little like the mega Welsh nationalists who criticise people who can’t speak the language- Welsh, I mean. Or Donald Trump supporters who say that Democrats are enemies of America or something like that.”

“Well- maybe not quite as extreme as either of those examples,” Dr Morgan says. “But the point of the fallacy is that it’s used to denigrate someone by insinuating that if someone behaves or even thinks a certain way, they don’t deserve to be part of a particular group. And it’s never more damaging than when we apply the fallacy to ourselves.”

“…Like me asking if things like watching The Greatest Showman is what men do?” I mumble, trying not to blush with shame as my counsellor nods. “Yes, okay, I get it… still doesn’t mean I’m, like, 100% certain, if you know what I mean?”

“I do,” Dr Morgan says. “And for the record, I liked that film too, so- yeah.”

“I think Lee did too,” I muse. “Even if he didn’t, like, say it out loud.”

“I thought you said you went to see the film with your ex?” Dr Morgan asks, making me fidget- I did say that, after all…

“Yeah, that was, like, in the cinema,” I reply. “I watched it with Lee when we got it on DVD.”

“Okay,” Dr Morgan says. “Ian, my next question isn’t meant as an accusation, nor do I intend to cause any offence by it whatsoever, but do you- do you have any romantic feelings for Lee?” My eyes widen with shock as I’m asked this question- it’s not something I’ve ever seriously considered before.

Even from long before I became ‘Ian’ full-time, I’ve known that I am not attracted to boys. When I was hanging out with my mandated ‘clique’ at school, they’d often talk about their boyfriends (and often the plural applied to only one of the girls) or other boys they liked, and I’d always remain quiet. The same also applied when I started hanging out with Abbey-Gayle and her clique, and even after my 'relationship' with Ollie, I barely joined in the chat- though the fact that I usually hung out with Ollie’s sister certainly gave me an excuse to stay quiet there. And then, I moved to Cardiff, left ‘Kayleigh-Ann’ in the past where she belongs and started being injected with testosterone, a hormone that’s known to increase a person’s libido.

It’s not like I’d been particularly attracted to girls when I was ‘Kayleigh-Ann’- after all, I wanted nothing to do with femininity- but gradually, my mindset started to change. I found myself feeling more and more attracted to women, noticing cute girls on the street, or in my classes, and then I met Chloe- and I truly did love her. Before that, however, I met Lee, Rob and Neil- and the more I think about it, the more I realise that while I’m not attracted to them sexually, there is a simple truth- especially when it comes to Lee.

“Romantically, no,” I reply. “But I- I will admit, I- I do love him. Like- like as a brother, sort of thing. I don’t have any siblings- neither does he, actually- so it’s, like, the closest I’ll ever get to that sort of thing, if that makes any sense?”

“It does,” Dr Morgan assures me. “And if I may make a suggestion, you shouldn’t be afraid to share those feelings either.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “Bottling up my feelings is the road to disaster, etc. I- I dunno how I’m going to actually be able to say the ‘three little words’ to Lee’s face, though. It- heh. It’s not what MOST men do.”

“Maybe more men should start,” Dr Morgan retorts, making me smile as he continues scribbling down his notes.

45 minutes later, our session ends with me struggling to take on board yet more advice that I’ve been given before I return to my room. I continue to think about Dr Morgan’s advice as I eat my lunch in silence. I’ve spent the last few years doing everything within my power to become a man that I’d not stopped to consider just what type of man I wanted to be…

That question stays on my mind as I once again return to my room following lunch, and as hard as I try, I can’t even begin to think of an answer to it. I’ve been so many things in the last 12 months that it’s hard to know where to even start. Am I a sporty type of man? A musician? A male model type of man? Am I a nerd? A typical student? A fighter? An introvert? An extrovert? A ladies’ man, even?

These questions plague my mind as I make my way back to Dr Morgan’s office for my next ‘meeting’, this time with four of my closest friends. The question about being a 'ladies' man' particularly distracts me when I enter the room, as I’m immediately greeted by a tight hug from the girl for whom I’ve had a lot of conflicted feelings over the last few months- and not just 'emotional feelings' either.

“Hey,” Laura whispers as she releases me from her embrace, clearly struggling to control her emotions.

“Hey,” I reply.

“How- how are you doing?” Laura asks as I exchange hugs with Ellie, Jade and Ashley.

“I’m… I’m not bad, thanks,” I reply, taking a deep breath as I sit down. “You?” I bite my lip as tears start to form in my friend’s eyes, before she groans and leans into Ashley for a comforting hug. “Umm, I- I’m sorry…?”

“It- it’s not your fault, Ian,” Laura says with a sigh as she composes herself. “It- it’s mine, it’s all mine, and I talked to Stuart yesterday and he said it shouldn’t be, but- ugh. Ian, I- I’m the one who, like, arranged the party- I mean, everything, like, at the party… I- I thought I’d be making it special for you, and-“

“It- just- just forget it, okay?” I say, trying to reassure my distraught friend.

“No, but I thought I was doing something nice for you and-“ Laura blubs.

“Se- seriously, please forget it, okay?” I gently interrupt. “I’m trying to for my own sake, so- yeah.”

“Ugh- yep, sorry,” Laura moans, resting her head on her knees before smiling sadly at me. “But- ugh, yep. I just needed- needed to say I was sorry, that’s all.”

“You’re forgiven,” I say bluntly, before smiling sadly. “And I hope that wasn’t ALL you came here for, heh!”

“…I do kinda want to catch up as well,” Laura chuckles quietly.

“We ALL do,” Ellie says softly. “After I told Laura that I was coming to see you today and she asked if she could come along, well, I could hardly say no, could I?”

“That goes for me too,” Jade says, half grinning and half grimacing as her older sister gives her a playful cuddle.

“And me,” Ashley says with a grin. “Hey, we’re all members of the same fellowship, right? When one of us is in need, we drop everything to help. I learned that last summer, heh.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, even as I start to feel slightly uncomfortable.

Sat in front of me are four attractive young women in their late teens. They all have long blonde hair and soft, pale skin. Their faces are impeccably made up, their nails are manicured to perfection and they’re clad in fashionable jackets, short black skirts and translucent black tights. Meanwhile, I’m the only one of us to have passed their twentieth birthday, I’ve got short, scruffy blond hair, a layer of stubble on my face and I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. And yet, I can’t help feeling like a damsel in distress who needs to be rescued by ‘her’ knights in shining armour- or shiny nylons in this case. I’m not going to say this to any of the girls, of course- despite how good looking they all are, they all have the same ‘problem’ as me. Or rather, the reverse ‘problem’. Of the six people in the room right now, I’m the only one who doesn’t have a penis. I’m the only one who’s ever menstruated. I'm the only one with naturally wide hips and narrow shoulders. Laura and Ashley are both noticeably taller than me, even in bare feet. Naturally, this discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed by my friends.

“You okay?” Ellie asks, frowning as I sigh.

“…Yes and no- well, not really,” I groan as I lean back into my chair.

“Do- do you want us to go?” Jade asks, clearly hoping for my answer to be 'no'.

“No, it- it’s more me than any of you,” I reply, before sighing again. “Do you- do you ever have those times, when- ugh. If I can’t ask the four of you, who can I ask, heh?”

“Ask us what?” Ashley asks.

“Do you- do you ever have those moments,” I say, taking a deep breath as I carefully consider my next words. “When you- when you just think ‘what am I even doing’? Like, when you think ‘is this really who I am’?” I try not to cry as I feel my cheeks flush and I hear my counsellor furiously scribbling away in the corner of the room.

“I… don’t think there’s a single transgender person alive who HASN’T thought that,” Laura replies softly, our three friends all nodding in agreement.

“I- I still get those thoughts a lot,” Ashley confesses.

“Sometimes daily,” Jade whispers. “Sometimes, like, they’ll just come out of nowhere, I’ll just be doing my homework and suddenly, it’s like WHAM! Impostor Syndrome.”

“I’ve been transitioning for over six years and I still feel like that sometimes,” Laura says. “I mean, I can wear the skirts and the make-up, I can even grow the boobs, but- yeah. I try to put it to the back of my mind, but that doubt will never truly go away. Maybe not even after SRS.”

“Same here,” Ashley sighs. “Though I guess for you it’s less ‘wearing the skirts and makeup and growing boobs’ and more ‘getting rid of it all’.”

“I guess,” I shrug. “Though- heh, this is REALLY going to sound like a namedrop, but- but I’ve actually had almost as much help from Jamie as from Stuart, you know? I mean, Stuart might be my mentor, but Jamie’s offered me just as much advice. Like, to advise that- well, for you girls, I mean, for me it would kinda go without saying, but- but to think of SRS as having something added rather than something being taken away. I kinda felt that way after my top surgery as well.”

“That is cool,” Ellie says with a smile.

“But like you said, Laura,” I sigh, “I can walk around with my shirt off and not have to worry about a thing, but it’d still be at the back of my mind.” I smile and feel myself starting to relax as the four girls all nod at me.

“Well…” Jade says hesitantly. “You would kinda have to worry about frostbite and pneumonia. Like, ‘cause it’s January, heh.”

“Not that BOYS ever admit to feeling the cold,” Ellie teases, and while I force myself to chuckle, it brings my earlier discussion with Dr Morgan back to the forefront of my mind. “…Ian?”

“It- it’s nothing,” I sigh. “It’s just- you talking about what boys do and don’t do, it- it just brought up a few memories, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Umm, okay… sorry…” Ellie mumbles as I fidget even more.

“No, it- it’s okay,” I reassure my friend. “Don’t worry about it, really. It’s just- heh. Been thinking a LOT lately about, like, when men should and shouldn’t do, that sort of thing. ‘Real’ men, like.”

“Don’t think in terms of ‘real’ men and shit like that,” Ashley says softly. “The four of us, for example, aren’t girls in terms of being ‘real’ or not, we’re just girls, end of. And you’re a guy, end of. What we do is what girls do. And what you do is what guys do. End. Of.” I pause as I consider my friend’s advice, quickly realising that she, like Dr Morgan earlier today, is absolutely correct.

“We transition for ourselves,” Ellie says confidently. “Not for our families, our friends or even our boyfriends- or girlfriends. For us, to be who we really are on the inside.”

“Thanks,” I whisper with a wide, genuine smile, before turning back to Ashley. “And when you get so wise, anyway? I thought you were the youngest of the five of us?”

“I- I did a LOT of learning in my last year of school,” Ashley replies with a nervous chuckle. “And hardly any of it was in, like, an actual classroom. Plus, I have five younger siblings, I kinda need to be the sensible one at home, heh.”

“I still can’t believe your sister’s thirteen,” Laura says to our fellow ‘Fellowship’ member. “I mean, so’s mine, but- yeah.”

“Well, your sister isn’t doing some of her GCSEs in summer, two years early,” Ashley retorts, triggering a shared giggle between the two of them.

“So, is your sister, like, really smart then?” Jade asks.

“Yep,” Ashley replies with a nod. “She’s also one of the first people I came out to, I think she was about ten at the time. Took it completely in her stride. Which, frankly, I think is more of a sign of intelligence than any GCSE, no matter how old you were when you took it.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Ellie says.

“Me either,” I say. “And thanks, I- I really did need to hear that.”

“Anytime, ‘bro’!” Ashley says with a cheeky grin.

The girls stick around for another half hour before heading off, each of them giving me a tight, friendly hug as they leave- with Laura’s hug being the tightest of all of them.

“I’ll see you out there, okay?” The blonde girl says with a sad grin, giving me a gentle kiss on my cheek before she goes. Needless to say, I have a smile on my face as I sit back down in my chair opposite Dr Morgan.

“I thought that went very well,” Dr Morgan says, flashing a smile that I mirror.

“Yeah, they’re a great bunch of girls,” I say.

“And you seem very comfortable around them,” Dr Morgan says. “I was observing you throughout the meeting, and at first I thought it was because all five of you were transgender, but as time went on I could see that you were genuinely comfortable being around four girls… but it was clear that, for want of a better way of putting it, you- you didn’t ‘fit in’.”

“Umm… okay?” I say.

“Your body language, attitude and demeanour is that of a man,” Dr Morgan says. “Even when surrounded by women. And I’m not just saying this because of what we discussed this morning, or what you discussed just now with your friends.”

“Right,” I say. “Umm… thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Dr Morgan says with a nod, before continuing. “And I am satisfied that you do have a strong support network out there who will help you when you get out of here. I particularly liked what your friend said- ‘when one of us needs help, we all drop everything to help’ or words to that effect.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Kinda frustrating that I’m not in much of a position to, like, return the favour, heh.”

“There’s nothing wrong or shameful in needing help,” Dr Morgan reminds me. “Or unmanly, as I’ve reminded you many times.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I say with a sigh, before feeling my anxiety levels rise once again. “So… just Lee left to go, then?”

“And your regular counsellor,” Dr Morgan reminds me. “Who’ll see you immediately after you talk to Lee. What’s important to remember is to remain positive. You’ve had three good sessions with your friends and family. There’s no reason to believe that this one won’t be the same.” No reason other than Lee’s sudden ‘illness’ yesterday, I bitterly think to myself.

I spend the next 15 minutes talking with Dr Morgan about my meeting with my four friends and waiting for Lee’s arrival- though when I say ‘waiting for Lee’s arrival’, a much larger part of me means ‘waiting for Dr Morgan to tell me he’s shot through again’…

However, right on schedule, a knock comes from the office door and I start to fidget in my chair as I await what should be a long-awaited reunion between two close friends, but will inevitably become yet another confrontation. A confrontation with the absolute last person I want to fall out with right now. I rise to my feet as Dr Morgan lets Lee into the room and I offer a bro handshake that my flatmate eagerly reciprocates, though judging by the look on his face, he might- somehow- be even more anxious than I am about this meeting. Lee’s usually the one I can rely on for (occasionally) witty comments to lighten the situation whenever I’m feeling down, so for him to be stressed out is a sure sign that something is VERY wrong. Almost immediately, I start playing out the worst-case scenarios in my mind- that he doesn't want to be here, that he's going to tell me never to talk to him again- all of which fill me with anxiety, which threatens to eradicate the happiness I felt at seeing my friend again...

“Mate,” Lee whispers in a hoarse voice as we both sit down.

“Mate,” I reply, biting my lip as an awkward silence falls over the two of us. “So, umm… how- how’s the flat?”

“Quiet,” Lee replies with a tired snort of laughter. “Which I suppose helps in a way, as it’s midyear exams, but- yeah. It’s, you know, eerie coming back to an empty flat like that, but- like, yeah…”

“S- sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks flushing with shame.

“It’s not your fault,” Lee shrugs. “It- ugh.” I frown as Lee sighs and lowers his head, but much to my surprise, when he looks up again, tears are flowing from his eyes.

“…Lee?” I whisper, trying desperately not to cry myself.

“My- ugh,” Lee grunts, taking several shaky breaths to compose himself. “My- my counsellor says I should talk to you about this, confront you, even, but- ugh.”

“You- YOUR counsellor?” I ask. “Why- why are you seeing a counsellor?”

“…Because I walked in on my best friend about to take his own life,” Lee replies, tears flowing as freely from his eyes as they are from mine.

I’ve often heard it said that people who take their own life are acting ‘selfishly’, but I’ve never seen it that way. It’s my life, why shouldn’t I do with it what I want? But at the same time, I’m reminded of a story I saw on TV once, that every suicide is like an explosion, and the closer you are to the centre of the explosion, the more devastating the consequences. And other than family, there was no one I was closer to than Lee- so it stands to reason that there was no one more 'damaged' than him by what I did. And yet, I can't help but focus on one thing in particular that Lee said.

“…There are way, WAY better best friends out there,” I say, trying my hardest not to shed yet more tears.

“They’re not MY best friend, though,” Lee retorts, and as hard as I think, I have no response to this. “Seriously, mate, I- I don’t know why you’d think otherwise. I mean, it’s not like I’m living with you because I had no other choice in London, I really looked forward to moving to London with you for uni, and, well, I am still enjoying it. Even if all the girls you bring home do keep making my VR headset perfumey.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome for that,” I retort, smirking as I suppressed my natural instinct to apologise, recognising Lee's joke for what it was- and happy that he feels comfortable joking around me once again.

“Not that there’s been many girls in the flat since- well, ‘since’,” Lee says, before grimacing. “Ugh, by which I mean- well, you know what I mean, I- I hope?” I bite my lip as Lee pauses- before his hesitation I genuinely hadn’t even considered that he might mean me, and while it does unintentionally touch a raw nerve, I find myself able to simply shrug it off like it was nothing.

“Yeah, you’re okay,” I say with a shrug. “I’m guessing Sheldon’s not brought any girls back to the flat, then?”

“Who, Dan?” Lee asks with a snort. “Nope. Hasn’t brought HIMSELF around since the start of the month, either, and good riddance to him.”

“Umm, what?” I ask, confused- Dan was the only friend Lee had made in his time at university, so for him to be so flippant about him is concerning.

“Yep,” Lee says with a confident smirk. “He- well, what I mean is, he- he kinda noticed you weren’t around when he started coming by, and- like, I didn’t go into details why, but- but I said you were unwell, and- well, let’s just say that what he said would’ve been blunt and rude even by the ‘real’ Sheldon’s standards, so- yep. Made it clear that if he set foot in the flat again, he’d be in for a world of pain.”

“But- but who are you hanging out with at uni, then?” I ask.

“The other guys on the course have got used to me by now,” Lee shrugs. “Averaging a first in my work definitely helps. And there are, like, societies I can hang out with too, like, after uni. I’ve been doing that a lot, actually.” And no prizes for guessing why, I think to myself.

“Sorry,” I mumble, blushing even more as Lee rolls his eyes.

“Oh- seriously, stop apologising,” my flatmate snorts. “We’ve both got, well, ‘needs’. You needed to be in here for a bit and I needed to, well, keep myself distracted.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling myself relaxing again. “Speaking of, have you got yourself another girlfriend yet?”

“Not sure whether or not to thank you for saying ‘another’,” Lee snorts as I smirk again. “And to answer your question: no. Well, not yet, anyway. I did run into your friend Laura and her friends on the way out of here, though. She was talking about her acting course, I tried joining in the conversation.”

“…’Tried’?” I ask.

“Well- yeah,” Lee says, awkwardly scratching his head. “They didn’t seem impressed when I asked- them- if- they- had- heard- of- the- acting- technique- where- you- pretend- there’s- a- hyphen- after- every- word.”

“What- what technique’s that?” I ask.

“Shatnering,” Lee replies, rolling his eyes at my confused frown. “They didn’t get it either. Might have struck out a bit there.”

“Oh, William Shatner,” I say. “Yeah, Laura’s not exactly what you’d call a Trekkie. Ooh, speaking of which, have you seen Picard yet? No spoilers though, please.”

“Not yet,” Lee replies, bringing another confused frown to my face.

“It’s been out since, like, Friday,” I say.

“Yep, but I’m not watching it alone,” Lee retorts, again making me blush and nearly bringing tears to my eyes. “Me, Neil, Rob and Simon have all agreed we’ll watch the first episode together, when we ALL can.”

“…So are we going to Cardiff or are they coming to London to watch, like, 50 minutes of TV?” I ask, making my friend smirk.

“50 minutes of the most long-awaited TV show since season 1 of Discovery,” Lee says. “Though the Mandalorian may top both of them put together, heh.”

“It’s a good time to be a nerd,” I chuckle. “Ahh… I really can’t wait to get home. And yes, by ‘home’ I do mean our flat. If- if I’m ready for it, of course.”

“Well, that’s the important thing,” Lee says, his demeanour suddenly getting a lot more serious. “Because- because I don’t know if I can, like, deal with, well, ‘that’ again…”

“I- I can always find somewhere else to live,” I mumble. “I’m never going to catch up my uni work in time so I’d need to repeat the year anyway, I suppose I can always look for somewhere in Cardiff… what?” I frown as Lee stares at the floor, clearly trying to hide the fact that he’s started crying again.

“The answer I was hoping to hear was ‘it will never happen again’,” Lee sighs. “Though I get how that’s, like, not a guarantee, sort of thing…”

“I- I hope it will never happen again,” I say gently. “I really do. But- ugh. I wish it had never happened the first time. But it did, and- yeah. I can’t undo that, I guess, no ‘control and Z’ for life. But I am getting better, one day at a time.”

“Good,” Lee whispers. “I- I know things aren’t going to get back to normal quickly. Or even, like, ever. But- but I just want my best mate back, you know?”

“Same here,” I say. “And things aren’t ever going to be the same again, but- ugh. I- well, I mean, like- the thing is, there- there’s something men don’t say enough to each other, ‘cause people think it’s, like- you know… but I- I do love you, Lee. As a friend, like, or a brother…”

“Well- umm,” Lee says, fidgeting awkwardly as my cheeks start to burn. “I guess, in that case- like, under those, like, ‘conditions’, I- I suppose I love you too. Like, as a brother.”

“So… bros for life?” I say, standing up and tentatively opening up my arms for a hug.

“I- I kinda prefer ‘BFFs’,” Lee says, standing up and accepting my hug. “Even if isn’t exactly a ‘manly’ term.”

“Meh, it is now that we’ve said it,” I say with a confident smirk as I remember Ashley's words before we both sit back down again.

“Is- is that how it works now?” Lee asks, before shrugging. “Works for me, I guess.”

“Yep,” I say with a smirk as I feel myself start to fully relax. “So… any news on whether or not we’ll be seeing Chwilen again on TV anytime soon?”

“Not looking likely, sadly,” Lee sighs. “Though dad’s been maintaining her, keeping her up to fighting standard, so we might enter some regional tournaments later in the year. And… we could use a good driver, maybe?”

“I’d love to do it,” I say with a grin as the conversation moves onto other, more trivial topics.

By the time Lee leaves 45 minutes later, it’s like we’ve never had any time apart, and after saying goodbye to him with another man hug, I sit down with a confident smile on my face, actually feeling optimistic about the future for the first time in a long while. However, my smile soon fades when I realise that my future- at the very least, my immediate future- isn’t entirely in my own hands.

“So,” Dr Morgan says as he sits back down in his usual seat, “how do you think that went?”

“Ehh… good AND bad,” I reply as I take the time to mull things over in my mind. On the one hand, it WAS nice seeing Lee again, but the simple fact is that my friend- my best friend, as we both agreed- is now in therapy, and I’m the one who put him there.

“Well, let’s focus on the positives,” Dr Morgan says. “Your friendship is clearly as strong as ever. I will admit, I didn’t expect you- either of you- to make, well, the ‘confession’ that you did. But it’s healthy for both of you that you did say it. Though I am curious as to what you took away from the meeting as a negative?”

“Well, for starters, the fact that I landed him in therapy?” I say, my voice trailing off to a mumble as I hang my head in shame.

“But I thought that we established that there’s nothing wrong with needing psychiatric help?” Dr Morgan reminds me, making me sigh and nod.

“I guess,” I say with a shrug.

“And Lee certainly doesn’t seem to hold that against you,” Dr Morgan says, before pausing as he reviews his notes. “I’m sure the big question on your mind is whether or not I’ll be approving your release, with your 28 days up tomorrow.”

“Just a bit, yes,” I reply.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Dr Morgan says cautiously, “but I am happy with the progress you’ve made since you’ve been in here. I do believe that you are no longer a risk to your own life or the life of others, but I will need to speak with your gender identity counsellor before I make my final decision. She’ll be here in a few minutes, do you- do you want me to stay in the room for this?”

“I- I don’t mind, really,” I reply. “It’s not like we discuss- heh. Was going to say ‘women’s problems’, but maybe ‘biological problems’ would be a more appropriate way of putting it.”

“Infinitely more appropriate,” Dr Morgan says with a smile, continuing to make his notes as I await the arrival of Dr Phillips.

The distinguished middle-aged woman arrives mere minutes later, and after Dr Morgan introduces himself and explains he’ll be sitting in with my consent, we sit down to begin the session.

“Thanks for coming so late,” I say as I pour myself a glass of water.

“This is far from the latest time of day that I’ve seen a client, don’t worry about that,” Dr Phillips reassures me. “The important thing is: how are you feeling? Dr Morgan explained the meetings you’ve had with your friends and family yesterday and today.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And- and I am feeling pretty tired, thanks. I dunno why, I mean, I spend, like, way longer each evening talking to Lee than I did just now- at least, I did before- yeah…”

“Yes,” Dr Phillips says. “It’s understandable that you would be more tired than normal, after all, this last month has been a shock to the system with your usual routine being thrown out of kilter. You have adapted to it well and you do appear a lot stronger than when you first came in here, but it’s important that you don’t push yourself too hard when you leave here. I am pleased to hear that you won’t immediately be returning to university- as much as I support higher education, it’s an additional layer of stress that you simply don’t need right now.”

“Thanks,” I whisper. “It- it’s returning home that I’m more worried about, heh.”

“And when you say ‘home’, do you mean your student flat in London?” Dr Phillips asks.

“Well- yeah,” I reply. “I mean, a part of me does miss Cardiff, but I- I simply can’t deal with my mother right now. And as much as I miss Grandma, and I know she misses me, my- my support network is all here, my friends, my mentor, you… I- I need to be in the place that’s most comfortable for me.”

“Which is perfectly understandable and reasonable,” Dr Phillips says, subconsciously reiterating what Dr Morgan had said to me- that it’s okay to be selfish from time to time. “However, you do understand that your hysterectomy will have to be postponed until I’m satisfied that your mental health has sufficiently recovered?”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” I sigh. “I mean, it’s not like it- well, ‘it’s’ been a problem for ages now, thanks to HRT, but- yeah. Can’t say I’ll be sorry when I eventually get rid of it.”

“Of course,” Dr Phillips says. “In the short term, though, do you have any plans for after you arrive home?”

“Umm, not really,” I say. “I mean, I’ve thought about it, but not really made any plans beyond chilling out, watching TV, playing on the PlayStation, that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Dr Phillips says.

“There’s Stuart’s birthday party,” I muse, “but that’s not until the start of March, so that’s weeks away.”

“Are you sure you want to go to that, even though there may be cameras there?” Dr Phillips asks, making me fidget- though it is something I have thought about a lot.

“…It IS his thirtieth,” I reply cautiously. “And I’m sure he’d say I didn’t have to come if I didn’t want to, but- yeah. Just more of a reason why I should go. And- and as long as the cameras aren’t pointed at me, and- well, even if they are, it doesn’t mean I have to, like, point myself at the cameras, if that makes any sense?”

“It does,” Dr Phillips reassures me.

“Plus, well, it- it should be fun,” I say with a shrug. “I want to start actually, like, living my life. MY life. Not my mum’s or anyone else’s.”

“And- and you want to live this life as a man?” Dr Phillips asks.

“I- I do,” I reply with a confident nod that hopefully hides my uncertainty. “I- ugh. I left London when I was sixteen because life as a girl had become unbearable for me. The two years I was in Cardiff, it- well, like I’ve told you before, it was like my life only started when I started living as ‘Ian’. And that continued when I returned to London, but- yep. Life as a girl was unbearable, but then life as a boy started to become unbearable as well, making me wonder whether anything about me was, well, ‘valid’.”

“Understandable,” Dr Phillips says softly, before nodding her head and allowing me to continue.

“I started looking in the mirror and not knowing what I saw,” I sigh. “But- but I’m gradually getting there. I know I want to be a man, but- but I want to me MY kind of man, if that makes any sense?”

“Perfect sense,” Dr Phillips says. “A lot of people in your position- from all genders- particularly at the start of their transition, they feel a need to ‘belong’ to the gender that most closely fits their identity. This is why many transgender people get their, well, ‘start’ by crossdressing- the clothes themselves are less important than what they represent, which is who they are on the inside. I’ve heard a lot of people argue that a trans woman could continue wearing men’s clothes and be no less ‘valid’ than they were before, but that’s missing the point- humans are by nature social animals. As much as we may try to deny it, we do, at least on a subconscious level, need the validation of our peers. But at the same time, we must remain true to who we really are on the inside, and this is especially true for transgender people.”

“Okay…” I say, confused by my counsellor’s speech. “So… I should- I shouldn’t think of myself as, like, a ‘manly man’?”

“I would advise not thinking in terms of ‘manliness’ at all,” Dr Phillips replies. “Or rather, creating your own definition of ‘manliness’. I have no reason to doubt your sincerity when it comes to wanting to be a man. But you yourself just said you want to be YOUR kind of man, and for that you will need to write your own definition of what ‘manliness’ means.”

“While still simultaneously gaining the validation of my peers?” I ask.

“Given who your friends are, I doubt that will be a problem,” Dr Phillips says with a supportive smile, as I realise that she’s right- my talk with Lee being proof of that.

The old saying that ‘you don’t get to choose your family but you do get to choose your friends’ springs immediately to mind, but I've long since thought that saying is incomplete- ‘you also get to choose which friends become family’. My ‘father’ was a waste of space. My paternal grandmother was a tyrant in a twin set. My mother saw me as nothing more than a pension plan on legs. And as much as I love my maternal grandmother, I can't stay reliant on her forever, partly because of her advancing age but mostly because I need to become my own man. Stuart, however, is the older brother I wish I had when I was growing up, as are the rest of the Celestials. Ellie is like my twin sister, and Laura (despite our ‘history’) and Ashley are like my little sisters. And Lee…

I’ve not always been lucky when it comes to friends. Ollie and Mac are proof of that, while Chloe (and, to a lesser extent, Ella) is proof that I've had just as bad luck when it comes to my love life. All of those people eventually showed their true colours, and today, so did Lee- his true colours being those of the best friend I have ever and likely will ever have. He’s the one who stopped me on my birthday, and who cared enough to ring for an ambulance for me. He’s the one who’ll welcome me back into his home when I leave here. He’s the one who’ll be by my side as I recover. While he’s not family, and I feel no romantic attraction to him, I’m not ashamed to say that I genuinely do love that man, and I believe that he loves me- in his own way, of course, as he has his own definition of manliness, just as I do mine.

Dr Phillips stays for another 45 minutes, but I leave after 30 minutes to allow my two counsellors to discuss my situation. What happens next seems to take place in a blur, as I’m told by Dr Morgan that I will indeed not be kept for further treatment, and will head home tomorrow morning. The evening is spent packing my bag with what few possessions I have with me, before heading to bed just after 10pm- and unsurprisingly, I struggle to drift off, such is my excitement- and anxiety- about tomorrow.

Unsurprisingly, I’m awake early the following morning, and after dressing, I meet with Dr Morgan by the front entrance as he gives me my discharge papers, contained within which are his conditions for my discharge- that I check in with him or one of the other counsellors I’ve spoken to by phone at least twice a week, that I keep a diary of all the feelings I have (especially the negative ones) and that I maintain my schedule of antidepressant medication. After one more handshake, an orderly escorts me out to the car park, where my lift home is waiting for me.

“Thanks again for this,” I say to my mentor as I dump my bag on his back seat and climb onto the passenger seat.

“Honestly, a lift home is the least I can do,” Stuart replies.

“Trust me, it’s a lot more than that,” I sigh as we set off. “Kinda weird to actually be outside again, heh.”

“I bet,” Stuart says, before pausing. “Mate, when we- when we get back to your flat, I’ll stick around for a bit, have a few games of FIFA with you- if that’s what you want, like?”

“You don’t need to babysit me, I will be okay,” I reply. “If I wasn’t, they wouldn’t have let me out.”

“Well- okay, think of it as being more for my benefit than yours,” Stuart says. “In that my wife WILL kill me if I drop you off and run.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Why aren’t you at work today, anyway? I thought you said the band have come back from their break?”

“Yeah, but they’re not recording yet, nowhere near,” Stuart replies. “And I’ve got a bit of writer’s block for these songs I’m meant to be writing for an upcoming musical, so- yeah. Could do with a bit of a non-musical distraction right now.”

“Really?” I ask, a smirk spreading across my face. “Not going to force my bass guitar into my hands the second I get home, then?”

“Not going to force you to do ANYTHING you don’t want to,” Stuart says gently. “Like I said, I could do with a distraction from music, especially as I’ve got a bet going with Mikey right now. He’s bet me that I won’t be able to learn how to play Misirlou on his guitar by the end of February.”

“Isn’t that the theme tune from Pulp Fiction?” I ask, frowning with confusion as my mentor nods. “I thought you already knew how to play it?”

“Yes, on MY guitar,” Stuart retorts. “Mikey’s guitar is set up for a left-handed player, like Dick Dale, the guy who originally recorded the song- so everything’s backwards for me.”

“Huh, welcome to my world,” I snort, before smiling as I realise what I’ve just said. “…He says to the one person who probably knows better than anyone else what it’s like in my world, heh.”

“Nah, everyone follows a different path,” Stuart retorts. “Just because we’ve got, well, ‘similarities’, doesn’t mean I know what it’s like to walk your path.”

“I guess,” I shrug. “…That would actually make a pretty good song lyric, you know?”

“Shut it,” Stuart playfully cautions me, chuckling as we pull onto my street, where I frown as I see a familiar car parked outside our flat.

“Whose Volvo is that?” Stuart asks as we park behind the large estate car.

“Grandma’s,” I reply, my frown deepening as we get out of Stuart’s Audi and head up the stairs to the flat.

I will admit to feeling tears well up in my eyes as I opened the front door and was greeted by the sight of the unmistakable mess that is our living room. From the videogame controllers strewn across the coffee table to the DVDs haphazardly stuffed onto shelves to the print outs of electrical diagrams by the side of Lee’s chair, everything is as I remembered it- just like I'd hoped. Well, everything apart from my grandmother sitting on the sofa, that is.

“Hello, Ian!” Grandma says with a wide grin, placing the large carrier bag that was on her lap down as she stands up and gives me a big hug- a hug I happily reciprocate. “Hello, Stuart.”

“Hello Mrs. Jones,” Stuart replies with a nervous wave. “I- I’ll put the kettle on, do you want tea or coffee?”

“Coffee please,” Grandma replies as she leads me to the sofa.

“Coffee as well, please,” I say. “Why- why are you here, Grandma? It’s early, it must still have been dark when you left Cardiff…”

“No, it was broad daylight when I left Cardiff two days ago,” Grandma retorts with a grin, which widens when I frown with confusion. “I stayed in a hotel the last two nights. And don’t worry, I sent your mother home on a train yesterday so she’s already back home. She wasn’t exactly pleased at having to share a train carriage with, well, ‘normal’ people, but that’s her problem, not yours.”

“Umm, okay?” I say.

“I did also say that I had a gift for you when you got out of hospital,” Grandma says, picking up her large carrier bag and handing it to me. “I wanted you to have it as soon as you got home- home to here, that is.”

“Okay…” I say uncertainly, opening the bag only for my jaw to drop when I see what’s inside.

“It used to belong to your grandfather,” Grandma explains as I pull out a very old, very well-worn leather jacket that’s covered in multiple patches, some bearing the Welsh dragon, others shaped like motorbikes and others bearing logos for organisations I've never heard of before. “When I met him in the sixties he was big into his motorbikes, he was. Was a member of a club and everything- not like a Hell’s Angel, just a club for enthusiasts, and every time he went out on his bike, come rain or shine, he wore that jacket. That jacket has probably seen every road in Wales, heh. Of course, when your mother was born, he had to cut back on his bike time, and eventually he became too old for it, but he still kept the memorabilia and, most importantly, that jacket. I think he always wanted a son to pass it down to, or when your mother got older, a grandson. And while I don’t doubt that he did love his granddaughter for the few years that he knew you, I know for a fact he would’ve been over the moon to have a grandson like you, and he would want more than anything for you to have that.”

“Th- thanks,” I sniffle, tears flowing freely from my eyes as I examine the jacket. “This- you really don’t know what this means to me.”

“I think I can guess,” Grandma says softly, handing me a tissue as a feeling of guilt washes over me. For all my life, my grandmother has been standing by me, defending me against not just my own family, but hers as well- even as she should be enjoying her retirement. I know I shouldn't take her for granted- especially not at her age- but her love and support means more to me than anything right now. And I can safely say that at least there’s one member of my biological family who’ll always be on my side- two, if you include the man whose jacket I now possess.

“Three coffees right here,” Stuart announces as he returns to the living room with a tray full of beverages. “I don’t know how you like it, so I thought I’d just bring the milk and sugar and- whoa, that is a cool jacket! Is that yours, Ian?”

“It- it is now,” I chuckle, blinking to try to dry my eyes.

“It used to belong to my husband,” Grandma explains. “He passed away in 2005.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Stuart says. “So, this is, like, a proper family heirloom, then?”

“We weren’t a very wealthy family,” Grandma answers. “But we always made the most of what we had. Ian’s grandfather treasured that jacket, so it makes more sense for it to be given to someone who will also treasure it rather than have it gathering dust in an attic.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Stuart says. “Gonna try it on?” I bite my lip as I yet again feel pressured to do something that ordinarily, I wouldn't want to do- however, it's far from an unreasonable request to be asked to try on an item of clothing you just acquired. And, more importantly, Stuart IS a friend.

“…Quick reminder that I have done professional modelling work, so this is technically unpaid work,” I say, earning a snort of laughter from my friend as I stand up and put on the jacket… Only to discover that my grandfather was obviously a much taller and heavier man than me.

“…Well, you have friends who make clothes, I’m sure they can alter it,” Grandma says, making me grimace at the idea.

“Ah- I’d rather they didn’t,” I say. “I- I can always roll the sleeves up a bit, I guess. But if they, like, cut bits out of it, it- it wouldn’t be Granddad’s jacket anymore.”

“Well it’s not like he’s ever going to wear it again,” Grandma says bluntly. “It’s YOUR jacket now, Ian.”

“When I gave my grandmother’s engagement ring to Jamie, we had to have that altered,” Stuart interjects. “It doesn’t make it any less priceless. In terms of sentimental value, like.”

“Well- well I’ll think about it,” I say as I sit back down. “But I am definitely going to wear the jacket, even if I’m not a biker, heh.”

“Good,” Grandma says. “It’ll go nicely with those tattoos you’re going to get, as well!”

“Are you getting another tattoo, mate?” Stuart asks.

“I’m- I’m thinking about it,” I reply. “I figure new year, new decade, new me, stuff like that. I’ve read online about, like, ‘semicolon’ tattoos. They're, like, symbols that show that a person's story- or, like, their sentence- hasn't come to an end. Like, as solidarity for survivors of- umm, mental health issues, sort of thing... I also want the word 'goroeswr' on my left wrist.” I bite my lip as I’m greeted by confused looks from my mentor and my grandmother. “…Which is the Welsh word for ‘survivor’.”

“Ah, okay,” Stuart says, before turning to my grandmother. “You- you don’t speak Welsh either, then?”

“Even though it’s the capital, very few people from Cardiff speak it natively,” Grandma explains. “I’m surprised you know the word, Ian.”

“I- I did kinda have to Google it,” I chuckle. “And I know the tattoo will invalidate my contract with the agency, but- but I need to do this for myself, you know?”

“100%,” Stuart says. “And I’ll talk to Jon about it, don’t worry. And on that note, I should probably stop being a third wheel and let you two catch up, heh.”

“And get in trouble with your wife?” I tease my friend, who rolls his eyes as he gets his phone out of his pocket.

“Hence why I’m getting a photo, to reassure her that you’re in safe hands,” Stuart replies as he takes a photo of me and Grandma. “Besides, this way, I’ll be able to pick my daughter up from her dance class and earn myself a few extra Brownie points, heh!”

“Well- okay,” I say with a shrug. “We can always get that FIFA game another time.”

“This afternoon, maybe?” Stuart asks. “If you’re not doing anything, like?”

“I’m not going to be doing much of anything for the next few weeks, heh,” I chuckle, earning a sad smile from my mentor.

“This afternoon it is, then,” Stuart says. “I’ll make sure to bring some beer and snacks too.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, standing up and giving Stuart a fist bump as he leaves, before we both sigh and exchange a quick man hug.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Stuart asks, smiling as I nod before he shuts the front door behind him.

“You hit the jackpot when you made friends with him,” Grandma says softly as I sit back down.

“I can’t argue with that,” I sigh. “Though- heh. His daughter definitely hit the jackpot more than I did. He clearly adores her, like, unconditionally, and I- ugh. I know I shouldn’t be resentful of a 2-year-old kid, but- but if my- if Craig had shown me even for one day the type of love that Stuart shows his daughter, I- I probably wouldn’t have spent the last month where I did.” Grandma opens her arms for a hug, which I gratefully accept as tears flow freely from my eyes once again.

“The important thing is that you’re home now,” Grandma says. “And as much as I would love to have you in Cardiff, where I can keep an eye on you, I know that you need to keep your distance from your mother, so London is the best place for you right now. Stuart is all the proof I need of that.”

“Y- yeah,” I sniffle. “Thanks, Grandma. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me these last few years.”

“Oh, I haven’t finished, not by a long way,” Grandma reassures me. “No parent ever does, not even a grandparent, especially when your so-called ‘parents’ treated you the way they did."

“Well, at least I’ve got a great ‘family of choice’, heh,” I chuckle.

“As long as you don’t forget about your old grandmother?” Grandma asks.

“Never,” I whisper as I relax into another loving hug.

As promised, Grandma stays until just after lunch before leaving so as to be back in Cardiff before nightfall. She does, however, wait around long enough for Stuart to return, ensuring that I’m not alone at any point. I spend the afternoon playing several matches of FIFA against my mentor, before he entertains me with his attempts to play not just the complicated chords of Misirlou, but ANY guitar chords left-handed. After that fun, we head to a local coffee shop for a quick drink, before heading to the location I’ve been looking forward to visiting most of all since leaving hospital- assuming you don't count my home, of course.

“All done,” the tattoo artist says as he puts the finishing touches to the new artwork on my left forearm and wraps it in cling film. “I can see this isn’t your first time, so you know what I’m about to say, but I’m going to say it anyway- don't scratch it, don't pick at it and don't go swimming. Treat it with moisturizing cream twice a day until it's fully healed. That especially goes for that one behind your ear.”

“Y- yeah,” I chuckle as I try not to fiddle with the small semicolon that’s been added to the skin behind my ear. “I know. Thanks for fitting me in today.”

“My pleasure,” the artist chuckles as I pull my granddad’s leather jacket back on and follow Stuart out to his car.

“For what it’s worth, I think the tats are cool,” my mentor reassures me. “My wife WILL kill me if I get any more myself, but- yeah. They do suit you, you know?”

“Thanks,” I chuckle.

“The jacket’s still cooler, though,” Stuart chuckles. “Kinda fifty-fifty over whether or not Jamie would kill me if I bought one of my own, but she likes yours, especially the backstory behind it.”

“Yeah, can’t argue with that,” I say with a grin.

“So…” Stuart says hesitantly. “How are you finding your first few hours of freedom? Apart from FIFA and tattoos, anyway?”

“Honestly?” I reply. “It’s kinda emptier than I expected. No offence, like, but- it’s weird just feeling life go on as normal after a month of every second being monitored, or told where to be…”

“I think I get it,” Stuart says softly. “I mean, I’ve never been in your EXACT position, but- like, after SRS, I mean, I came out with a new ‘attachment’, and other than medication, after I was discharged from hospital it was basically ‘here’s your new life, good luck adapting to it, bye’ if that makes sense.”

“Definitely,” I sigh. “And it does feel like a new life, really. Kinda like when I first went to Cardiff, I left everything behind and started fresh. Only this time I’m returning to everything, but it still feels like I’m starting fresh.”

“Well, as long as you know that this time, you’re not going it alone,” Stuart says with a warm grin as we head back home.

“I know,” I say. And I do truly know now just how many people are on my side. Even on those days when it feels the world’s against me- whether it’s Chloe, Mac, Craig or my mother- I know now that there are people out there who care for me. People who love me, people who want me in their lives. I only wish I didn’t have to hit rock bottom in order to realise that- but as the saying goes, when you’re at rock bottom, the only way is up…