Yesterday, I watched All Quiet on the Western Front; the day before that, I called the clinic of a doctor who sees trans people, and was informed that at the age of 42, after many irreversible surgeries, in the year of our lord 2023 on this great liberal West Coast of America, I need a “letter of support” from a therapist certifying that I’m not nutballs and am allowed to see the doctor for trans care.
This would be the ninth such letter I’ve been forced to secure. I have eight different letters of examination already stating that I am of sound mind capable of making my own decisions. I don’t actually know what the even supposed argument is for this being a necessary or good practice, what theoretical catastrophe the powers that be are trying to avert. But I can tell you one thing that for sure has never resulted from any of my doctor appointments: