After a lot of delays, I’ve finally received the psychologist’s report I need in order to apply for my Gender Recognition Certificate. Unfortunately I can’t actually afford the application fee for said certificate because why should anything be easy – I’ve also had to halt my weekly electrolysis sessions because paying the equivalent of some people’s mortgages isn’t easy when you also have actual rent to pay – but at least I’ve got the paperwork for when I can.
It’s a very strange thing to receive. I hadn’t really thought about it, but the evidence the doctor needs to provide includes all the documentation of my initial assessments and subsequent appointments. As a result I’ve got copies of the doctor-to-doctor letters detailing my entire life story. Spoiler alert: it turns out I’m trans.
Obviously I know what the letters contain, but it’s still a bit disconcerting to read your own life story when somebody else is telling it. It’s bittersweet, too: despite the dispassionate, clinical language the story it tells isn’t a happy one. It’s a story about somebody who tried very, very hard to be somebody they weren’t for a very long time.