In the examination room, the nurse practitioner looks just like you. They—they!—greet you with a knowing smile. They give you a checklist. Dysphoria.
"Do you experience discomfort with your genitals?"
"No," you say, because you didn't.
"That's okay," they say. "You aren't any less trans. Do you experience social discomfort with your assigned sex at birth?"
"Yes," you say, because oh, you did.
The nurse practitioner smiles broadly, bobs their head. They check off the boxes almost before you give an answer. They are thrilled to help you; they have the privilege of helping young trans people every day.
You are 112 pounds and your wrists are curtain rods and you wish they could be needles. You imagine when your elbows rest on your knees that they are poking in, blood welling. You hope every day your hips will melt away, your chest will reabsorb the extant fat. This is it, this is it, you think, swinging your legs slightly in the plastic chair. The nurse knows what you need, and they are helping you. You are understood.
The nurse practitioner leaves and returns with a thick packet. You sign, again, again, again. You don't read what you were signing for. you are signing away your right to sue. You read the list of effects of testosterone, but you've already seen this list, dozens of times, online. See, you've been preparing for this moment for years, which means you know everything that's about to happen. You are so informed, eighteen and fully formed.
The nurse practitioner tells you, "I've written a prescription. Well, three prescriptions". Testosterone and two types of needles, large for extracting and small for injecting. "They say each vial of T can only be used once," they said. "But there's a lot more in there than one dose."
"So I should... "double-dip" anyway?"
The nurse practitioner beams at you. "That would be medically unprofessional." And winks again. You smile back. You're so lucky to have a doctor who understands.
You ask if you need to give blood—to test your levels—but the NP shakes their head. "Next month," they say. "get tested then, and we'll go from here." A miracle! They know how lifesaving this medicine is, and so they won't make you wait to go through more tests. you don't need tests, you need care, and you're getting care.
On your way out, practically skipping you think, that was easy.
You start testosterone. You love injecting yourself. For a long time, you have longed to be fixed. And when you screw on the needle, extract, flick the syringe with an expert finger, unscrew the needle, screw on the other needle, plunge it unhesitatingly into the fat of your stomach, press down slowly, watch the amber liquid disappear into your tenderness, you know, you know you are fixing yourself. You put on a bandaid printed with unicorns. Cute.
A day later you have the worst period you've ever had in your life. it is as if there is a beast dragging its claws inside the tunnel of me on its way out. You are so glad this red wet angry part of yourself will shed itself completely and never return. You will be unpossessed by her, you will be free. Lucky, lucky, lucky. A lucky boy you are.
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