I finally have another appointment to see that psychiatrist. The NHS psychiatrist who gets to decide whether I get my body altered to fit how I think it should be. The one who broke the promises she made on my previous visit. The one who, after talking to the second psychiatrist I saw, appeared to have suggested that I’m deluded. The one who left me in tears, depressed and feeling suicidal.
So that’s it, the final chance; the last gasp effort. I want to believe it’s worth going.
I’m sick of waiting for other people to play their games with my body.
I’m trying very hard to rationalise not taking things into my own hands, and taking care of it with some sharp instruments and a lot of alcohol and painkillers. I’m succeeding for now, but it’s getting more difficult.
