Totally Insane 8–Post Partum
by Angharad

I sat outside the doctor’s room, I’d been in there for forty five minutes, and
now it was my parent’s turn. I was trying to pretend I was reading a magazine, but my hands were shaking.

I reflected on what had happened. Dr Andrea Schlessinger was a Brit. She was also ancient, at least thirty and I suppose for an old woman, very pretty. She had long dark brown hair, with brown eyes and a nice smile. She was wearing a top and skirt, with black boots.

“Oh hello, young lady, I was expecting to see a boy.”

“Do you want me to dress up as a boy, I can go home and change if you want?” Was I saying the right things? Suddenly the strappy dress with tee shirt and leggings felt very hot.

“No, if you’re comfortable wearing those clothes that’s fine.” My mother came in with me, but she was shooed out a few moments later, with, “It’s okay, Mum, I’m only going to ask your daughter a few questions, then I’ll talk with you afterwards, if that’s okay?”

“Shouldn’t one of us be here as well?” asked my mother wanting to know what was going to happen.

“It’s okay, I’ll talk to you about what Kylie and I said.” Then she pushed my mother out of the door.

“Right, Kylie, how about a cold drink, it’s warm in here isn’t it?” She placed a small tub of orange drink in front of me, one of those with a straw in the top. I watched it for several minutes before I picked it up–and only after she had said, “It’s okay you know, it isn’t poisoned.”

I laughed and she laughed too, she had a lovely laugh and I relaxed a bit. She sipped her glass of water and I sucked on my straw. The orange drink wasn’t as nice as the barley water we get at home, but it was okay.

“Is it okay if I call you, Kylie?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Forget the doctor bit, I’m Andrea, okay?”

“Thank you, Dr Andrea.”

“So how long have you been wearing dresses?”

“About a week or so.”

“Is that all? Goodness, you seem to have become used to them very quickly.”

“I don’t know, have I?”

“Do you like wearing them?”

“They’re okay.”

“Would you prefer to wear boys things?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Well, where I am and what I’m doing. Like, at home it doesn’t matter unless Philip comes around, or my brother, it piss.., erm, it annoys him.”

“So it pisses off your brother, does it?”

I blushed and nodded.

“Who is Philip? Does he like you in dresses or does it annoy him too?”

“Philip is a friend from school–we play badminton together.”

“Is he in your class?”

“Yes, for some subjects.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes.” I blushed.

“Does he like you?”

“Yes, but he prefers Kylie.”

“So he likes you as a girl?”

“Yes.” I blushed even more.

“As a girl, do you like him?”

“Yes.” I said very quietly and felt, even hotter.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m not here to judge you, just to try and understand what’s happening inside you. If you like Philip, it’s okay with me.”

I nodded my response, too embarrassed to speak.

“Have you held hands?”

I nodded.

“And kissed?”

I nodded again, there was a definite danger I would be ruining my makeup any minute.

“Was it good?”

I nodded and the tears came.

She handed me a tissue and told me to be careful how I dabbed my eyes otherwise it would mess up my mascara. I nodded, I liked her, she was really nice.

“Did you do your own makeup?”

I nodded again.

“Hey, you’re really good at it, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“You certainly are, I see seventeen year olds who don’t do it as well?”

“What, boys?”

“No, girls–duh!” she rolled her eyes upwards and we both laughed. “You’re a very pretty girl, Kylie.”

I was back to blushing.

“Do you see yourself as a girl?”

I nodded, my throat was too choked to speak.

“Do you prefer it to being a boy?”

I shrugged.

“Do you get bullied as a boy?”

I nodded, and the tears came back.

“Okay, young lady. Would you like to dress as a girl all the time?”

I hesitated, then thinking about being bullied, I nodded. I didn’t know if it was the right answer.

“Why did you start dressing as a girl?”

“I needed to get into the girls school to try and get some letters my brother wrote, back for him.”

“What? You went undercover to help your brother?”

“Yes.”

“So you hadn’t thought of being a girl before then?”

“Not really, I just knew everyone thought I was different, more like a girl than a boy. They even called me names in school: they called me Kylie ages ago.”

“So it wasn’t your idea to dress up in skirts and things?”

“No.”

“So someone helped you?”

“Some girls I know.”

“But you enjoyed it?”

“Not at first, I thought I’d look stupid…”

“But you didn’t–look stupid?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you like what you saw?”

“It was okay, I guess.”

“And no one said anything?”

“Mrs Smith, said I looked nicer. She thinks I’m a girl anyway, she doesn’t know I’m a boy. If she did, she’d have killed me.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“I slept with Gemma.”

“You shared a bed with her?”

“Yes.”

“Was that good?”

“We had a nice chat.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, what else would we do?” I felt myself blushing.

“You didn’t try to kiss her or touch her?”

“Of course not.”

“And she didn’t try to touch or kiss you?”

“No, why?”

“Have you kissed Philip?”

More blushes, “Yes.”

“Was it nice?”

I nodded, it was getting really hot in this room.

“Did he like it too?”

I nodded again, “He said I kissed like a girl.”

“Do you?”

“I dunno, I’ve never kissed one.”

“And he has?”

“I think so.”

“Did he try to touch you anywhere?”

“No, he just put his arm around me.”

“Did you want him to touch you?”

“I don’t know, didn’t think about it.”

“But you like being a girl for him?”

“Yes, he’s nice and I like him.”

“Does he protect you from the bullies?”

“Sometimes; he’s not always around.”

“But he’s a good friend, okay? Do you have any other friends?”

“Gemma and a couple of other girls.”

“No other boys?”

“No, they just tease me or beat me up.”

“What do you do when you’re with your girl friends?”

“We hang out, talk, play music, that sort of thing.”

“You didn’t want to wear their clothes or play with dolls and things?”

“Nah, none of them play with dolls, we’re eleven and twelve.”

“Goodness! How silly of me, of course you are. However, some girls like dolls at that age: I did.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I’d upset her now, she’d probably lock me up as mad.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but some girls enjoy their dolls until quite a bit older. You don’t have any?”

“No, I’ve got a teddy.”

“Nice one?”

“I like it.”

“Do you do anything else with the girls?”

“Ride our bikes?”

“I like cycling, what sort of bike have you got?”

“A mountain bike, a girl’s one.”

“So that was fortuitous?”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry, a bit of good luck, to have a girl’s bike.”

“It was an accident, my old bike got pinched and Daddy said I had to buy the next one myself. Brian, said his friend had one for sale, a good one, so I bought it and it turned out to be a girl’s one; he thought it was very funny.”

“Who’s Brian.”

“My horrid big brother.”

“I see. What would happen if I said you had to go back to wearing boys clothes?”

“My parents would be mad.”

“Would they, why is that?”

“They’ve spent quite a lot of money on girl’s things.”

“So they like you being a girl?”

“They do now they’re getting used to it.”

“They didn’t before?”

“They were surprised.”

“Did they say anything about it?”

“They didn’t recognise me at first.”

“Is that all?”

“Daddy said, I looked better as a girl and it explained a number of things. He thought I looked strange as a boy.”

“What do you think about that?”

“It’s okay, he took me shopping and bought me this dress.”

“He has good taste.”

“No he doesn’t, he wanted me to buy one that made me look about six, I chose this one.”

“So, you have good taste.”

“Thank you,” I smiled, it seemed I had done something right at last.

“It’s coming near to the end of your part of the interview, I want to see your parents next, have you any questions?”

“Am I really a girl?”

“By appearance, a very pretty one. If I saw you in the street, I wouldn’t know you hadn’t been one for long.”

“Am I transgen..whatever it is?”

“Transgendered?”

“That’s the word.”

“Possibly, it’s an umbrella term which doesn’t mean much by itself. The diagnosis I’m looking for is Gender Identity Disorder, or GID for short.”

“Am I, GID?”

“You could be, I need to see you some more before I can be sure.”

“Does that mean, you’ll cut my winkie off?”

“Would that make a difference?”

“Not really, although I suppose it would hurt and how would I wee?”

“So if you didn’t have a ‘winkie’, you wouldn’t care?”

“Not really, should I?”

“I don’t know, I’m not here to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.”

“Does it hurt to cut a winkie off and would I still be able to wee?”

“Why, do you want me to?”

“I don’t care, but I don’t like being hurt.”

“Well relax, I’m not going to cut anything off, so no one is going to hurt you.” She paused, “Is that your own hair?”

“Yes, is there something wrong with it?”

“No, it looks lovely. Do you always have it as long as this?”

“I have for a year or two.”

“What do your parents say?”

“They were always telling me off, but I refused to get it cut.”

“Is that so you looked more girlish?”

“I don’t know why, I just don’t like having my hair cut.”

“If I said, I wanted to cut it to make it prettier, would you let me?”

“Maybe, as long as you didn’t cut too much off the length.”

“Okay, Kylie, I need to see your parents now, can you wait while I chat with them?”

I nodded.

“Good girl.” She opened the door, “Mr and Mrs Mosse, do come in. I’ll see you again, Kylie, bye.”

So here I am waiting to see what happens next?

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Thanks to Gabi for express proofing. Any errors still here are entirely the responsibility of a certain cat, who shall remain nameless.