Transition as a Cure to Trauma From Abuse – My Experience

In the days of modern medicine, with increased understanding, support, and treatment of all things mental health, you’d think we’d know what we’re doing when it comes to supporting young people with trauma. But shockingly, when a young person comes to the conclusion that they’re trans, the treatment isn’t to probe gently, to provide resources and support for a traumatised and damaged teen girl, to question, “Is this discomfort about your body perhaps related to the abuse you went through?”

Instead, hormones and surgery are the order of the day. I remember anxiously contacting my doctor at 16. I was struggling so badly with social skills that I didn’t speak to him face-to-face, but over a text messaging service that my local GP surgery provides. I declared, “I think I’m actually supposed to be a boy, and I want to go on testosterone.” I sat on my childhood bed, in the middle of the COVID-19 lockdown, awaiting his response.

I’d been identifying as a boy since about the age of 13, when puberty kicked off somewhat staggeringly while I was recovering from a gruelling episode of anorexia. These body issues had come from years of domestic and sexual abuse inside and outside the home. My body was suddenly changing, growing breasts, and that made my nervous system scream “danger!” Developing curves felt foreign, and I was surrounded by young girls who were obsessed with their weight. I was also subject to intense bullying in school, and as a result, I became obsessed with my weight, limiting myself to just 500 calories a day and waking up at 4 AM to secretly exercise. Photos I have of that time show a ghostly pale young girl, deeply unhappy, constantly worried about how her body was perceived. In reality, I was underweight, unacceptably invisible, and living in survival mode. Every period I had then wracked my entire body with intense pain, too much for such a fragile little body to endure on so little fuel.

Not one person worried about me.

Given this, it wouldn’t be illogical to think that intense mental health support would be the best course of action for this suicidal young girl. Shockingly, the GP, a member of the LGBT community himself, asked minimal questions, glossed over any red flags in my background, and referred me to the NHS gender identity clinic straight away, along with prescribing me antidepressants. He agreed to shared care with a private telemedicine clinic specializing in rapid affirmation. He’d gone away to spend an hour researching them before deeming them “not dodgy”. Within 2 weeks, I was pumping a massive dose of testosterone into my body, even before the antidepressants were given a chance to work. The telemedicine clinic failed to flag that I had far too much testosterone in my body, and it was only due to my NHS GP telling me to ask them to lower the dose that they did. “Shared care” was just a formality; “dodgy” was indeed the correct term.

By the time I was seen by the gender identity clinic (via telephone), they were happy to sign off on allowing the NHS to take over my care completely, as I’d already started on cross sex hormones. Again, very few questions were asked, and the “support” was extremely basic, completely ideological, and totally unhelpful. Any mention of unhappiness with my body was put down to dysphoria. There were no safeguarding procedures completed.

If someone, anyone, a school or medical professional, had taken the time to stop and notice, my story could have been so very different. I might have been taken out of the abusive situation I was in and given the help I needed. Instead, two months after turning 18, I underwent a double mastectomy, removing my ability to feed my future children without relying on formula, before I was realistically an adult myself.

When I finally left home at 20 to live independently, the relationship between my mother and me was at a breaking point. Over the next two years, I slowly started to unpack all that had happened to me: a terrible family life full of its own abuse; being sexually exploited from the age of 7 to 18 by multiple different men. These were what had caused my body issues, and — it seems so obvious now — I was being told by other trans people and medical professionals that “Actually, you’re just trapped in the wrong body, and you need to transition.” Imagine telling an anorexic person they should take Mounjaro to become the person they want so badly to be. The public would roar with outrage at the medical negligence of it all.

Only with transition, there wasn’t the same response. Cross sex hormones became a “cure-all” magic medicine for a lost and vulnerable teenager. Upon realising this, I contacted the gender identity clinic to let them know I didn’t want to continue my transition. The absolute disgust in the receptionist’s voice was plainly evident, and I have never contacted them again. Not once in my “journey” did I ever meet a medical professional involved in my gender care face-to-face. Not once was I offered counseling. When a doctor tells you something’s wrong with you, especially as a naive child, you believe them. They wouldn’t do harm, surely? Doctors make people better.

At 22, I’m not doing what most of my peers are doing at this age. I’m in the trenches of slowly detangling the years of damage and trauma, processing it correctly with a private therapist who doesn’t affirm. I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD, and I spend much of the time attempting to make sense of the marks left imprinted on my mind and, thanks to being medically transitioned, my body too.

Transition wasn’t a cure for abuse. Transition was abuse. For children like me who have suffered abuse, it’s totally unacceptable. Transition is not a safeguard. It’s not the way to ensure a young person reaches happiness with their body. Early intervention, robust safeguarding procedures, care, and support are the way.

Mental health care still has an awfully long way to go.

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