It started with a neon-bright, alien-themed Hawaiian shirt, impulsively ordered for a family trip right before the start of the pandemic. It was gaudy and flimsy and covered in vacationing extraterrestrials lounging in flamingo floats, so of course I had to have it. As resentful as I am about capitalism’s greedy, ad-targeting claws, I admit that I fell prey to them this time.
When the package finally arrived, I could barely stop myself from leaving work early to retrieve it from my front steps. I held out until the end of the day, however, before rushing home, releasing the Chihuahuas into the backyard to potty, ripping into the bag the shirt had been delivered in, and donning my, ahem, “gay apparel.”
I admired my reflection in the hall mirror. Winter-whitened skin, screen-strained eyes, and the tackiest shirt in all the land, and yet I felt so perfectly me and good in a way that I hadn’t for quite some time. I couldn’t control the parts of me that were causing increasing discomfort - my chest, my hips, my voice - but I could put on a bright, goofy shirt. Something that communicated some part of me that I hadn’t been communicating before, even if the communication was mostly to myself.
Of course, I say it started with the shirt, but really, this has been a conversation I’ve held with myself for most of my life. That conversation has been at times aggressive and self-eviscerating, at other times whispered, muzzled. I could say it really started with buying a binder for a drag show in college, or being mistaken for a boy in a Target as a preteen, or even insisting that “I’m not Abi, I’m HENRY!!” as a child. If this all sounds familiar, it’s probably because I wrote about these incidents in 2017, when I first published a piece on my genderqueer identity. Even that could be called a start, even though I’d been talking about wibbly-wobbly gender stuff for years before that essay.
But the shirt was something different. It was a step toward a new outward presentation, something I hadn’t allowed for myself outside of select scenarios. Everything about it was unapologetic. It was confidently ridiculous. It was masculine, but in a very unserious way. It was playful, bold, and silly, and it was me.
Oh dear, I thought as I surfed a wave of euphoria. This may require action. How inconvenient.
Months passed. Strange, lonely, stressful months, and I was one of the lucky folks who didn’t get sick, didn’t experience the pain and horror of a family member or close friend dying from a disease that we should have, as a society, been able to contain and mitigate. Even so, by November, I had scheduled my first voluntary therapy appointment.
I have severe depression and anxiety. I’ve talked quite a bit on this site about my experiences with those illnesses, and my fluctuating willingness to even admit I struggle with my mental health. The American healthcare system and the general societal stigma regarding mental illnesses have hindered my willingness to seek professional help, and even when I did, negative experiences with medication and dismissive doctors scared me off for a long time. Instead, I relied on an “imaginary therapist” - a nameless, faceless figment to whom I could rehearse what I would say to a real therapist. That was helpful for venting purposes, and sometimes helped me work through irrational thoughts in order to see my situation more clearly, but talking to myself could only take me so far.
I meditated. I changed my diet. I exercised, I cleaned (although it’s never been my strong suit), I forced myself to sit outside in the sun on the days I just wanted to hide in a puddle of blankets. I researched and practiced my mindfulness. I kept a gratitude journal. For a while, those things helped, too.
But day by day, and funky Hawaiian shirt by funky Hawaiian shirt, I realized there was an underlying issue that I wasn’t equipped to handle alone. After some false starts and scheduling issues, I finally met with a therapist, and, in addition to working on my standard array of struggles, I started talking about coming all the way out of the closet.
I am now four months on a low dosage of testosterone and am going by my middle name, Gordon (Go for short!). I no longer feel like I have to be “good” or “valuable” enough to ask for people to refer to me correctly. I no longer fret over ignorant people who insist I have no right to my pronouns. History and grammar are in fact on my side, after all.
And I’m aware that I’m not alone. The isolating (and traumatizing) environment of the pandemic has brought many people face to face with themselves as individuals, and that kind of introspection tends to result in discoveries and growth. With growth comes pain, but my pain has been MASSIVELY offset by new heights of joy and self-confidence.
With that in mind, clad in a shirt as loud and weird as I myself am, I have held an imaginary funeral for my imaginary therapist. This essay stands in as a eulogy for them. Without their presence, and the encouragement of my actual, non-fictitious friends, I may not have had the strength to seek a real therapist. And had I not done that, I may have delayed my coming out even further. I regret how long it’s taken me as it is. However, I’m relieved to finally be here, and I have renewed energy for the long trail that still stretches ahead of me.
Between the time I started writing this entry and now, I’ve learned that my actual, real, would-not-be-accepted-into-Foster’s-Home-for-Imaginary-Friends therapist put in her two weeks, and I’ve seen her for the last time without even knowing it. I gotta say… That threw off my groove a little. That said, I’m grateful for the months of work I’ve done with her, and because of that positive experience, I’m more willing to seek out assistance again. The system is imperfect, not every therapist is a good match, and obstacles like insurance and stigma still block the way sometimes, but I believe in the value of forging ahead regardless.
Farewell, imaginary therapist. Hello, new tools and refreshed hope.
And hello to the bigger, happier version of myself whom I’ve gotten to know quite a bit this past year. So many loved ones have welcomed this version of me into their lives, and I’m so grateful. I’m still evolving and still struggling from time to time, but I feel lighter as I go.
As Kurt Vonnegut would say: “If this isn’t nice, what is?”
Hugs and Butterfly Kisses, Your Friend,
Go