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If today I said that I identified as a woman, those who know me would believe I was joking. They would think that it’s just another one of those things I do to see if I can get a reaction out of people or to make a point.
If tomorrow I started wearing makeup, high-heels and women’s clothes, those who know me would begin to believe there was something wrong with me.
They’d start talking amongst themselves about what could possible be happening. The discussion would cover a wide range of things like maybe I have a brain tumor, perhaps a chemical imbalance, did I have any recent head injuries, is there a family history of mental illness, maybe it’s an aneurysm, cancer or some other disease.
It would never occur to them that there might not be anything wrong with me. The thought wouldn’t cross their minds. They would think that I was clearly ill, and that illness was causing mental instability. They would think that I was somehow, hopefully not irreparably, broken.
Those that know me wouldn’t call me “Michele” or refer to me using whatever pronoun I choose. They wouldn’t, in any way, reinforce my self-deception. They wouldn’t pretend that I was acting normally, they wouldn’t encourage me to “be my true self” nor would there be any praise for my “strength” or for telling “my truth”.
No, they wouldn’t do any of those things. Because they would realize that I was, hopefully only temporarily, insane.
I’ve been considered legally able to make my own decisions for just shy of 42 years. I have a reputation for being level-headed and not prone to making rash decisions. I carefully consider all available data and base all of my decisions on facts and logic rather than emotions. I’m about as ordinary and average as one can possibly be, and I have never exhibited any type of behavior that could be considered to be mentally unstable or irrational.
But, if I claimed that I was really a woman, those who know me would know that I was somehow mentally disabled. And they’d try to fix me.
I would be taken to a hospital where they would run a battery of tests on me to try to figure out what the problem is. I’d have blood tests, brain scans and psychological tests. They’d look at environmental factors to determine if maybe that was a cause. I’d have appointments with therapists to see if perhaps I can work through whatever issue is causing the problem. And, I would see specialist after specialist to find a cure for my illness.
Hopefully, they’d eventually figure out what is wrong and perform some surgery or put me on meds (or a combination of the two) so that I no longer had the delusion that I was a woman.
If, for some reason, they were unable to eliminate my delusion, and I started talking about mutilating my body as a physical manifestation of my hallucination, my wife would have no choice. While continuing to search for a treatment, she’d lock me out of our joint accounts and work to have me declared incompetent to make my own medical decisions. And she would be right to do so.
Because, if I started believing that I was a woman, people would think there was something wrong with me. They would think I was crazy. And they’d be right.
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