Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Anger Management for the Transgendered

I have come to understand that a great many of the so-called transgendered feel that they were born into the wrong body. I’ve never had that feeling. What I have felt is that I was born with the wrong personality. I’d have thought gregarious and charming would have been nice complements for my ravishing good looks, but there must have been a mix-up in Santa Claus Village, or something, because what I am is venal, paranoid, cheap, vindictive, mean, arrogant, vain, snobbish, pretentious, smug, self-important, boastful, hubristic, duplicitous, condescending, dogmatic, bossy, arbitrary, egotistical, overbearing, cold-hearted, selfish, rude, dogmatic, imperious, intractable, gruff, demanding, impatient, bitter, cynical, misanthropic, glum, cheerless, churlish, greedy, curmudgeonly, petty, callous, ruthless, and spiteful. If it weren’t for my good looks and natural sexual charisma. I doubt anyone would give me the time of day!

But John, you say, surely you could tried to change the things about yourself you didn’t like? Well, the record shows that I have tried. Over the course of the past five decades, I’ve consulted more psychotherapists than there are calories in a cheesecake. I liked a couple of them, and almost always enjoyed getting to talk about myself for 50 minutes while he or she nodded empathetically, and occasionally murmured such phrases as, "So how did that make you feel?” and “John, what you have to learn is how to establish boundaries”. 

I didn’t cry very often, but was pre-emptively offered enough facial tissues to mop up the Red Sea. They prescribed just about every drug under the sun for me, everything from Valium to nitrous oxide to helium, the idea with the latter being that I’d find the sound of my own voice so hilarious that I’d giggle myself out of depression. One fellow, who had an obvious crush on me, theorised that my anguish all stemmed from my trying to repress my homosexuality. I reported him to the proper authorities. He got disbarred, but went on to develop a line of moisturisers that made him rich enough to have handsome young men with long eyelashes flown up from Brazil or even Peru whenever he craved ‘em.

I can’t say psychotherapy ever made me feel better about myself. It got to the point where, if one of my therapists told me I needed to Establish Boundaries, I’d storm out of his or her office and then tear up the bills they sent me. I’d call the representatives of the collection agencies who came after me awful names. Of course, they responded in kind after noting that my creditors were shrinks. They impeached my mental health, which I’ve never claimed to have a great deal of.

At one point, one of my girlfriends insisted I supplement the psychotherapy I was getting by attending anger management classes. One attends such classes with great trepidation. I was worried that one of my fellow students might punch me in the kisser just because he or she resented my good looks. During cigarette breaks, we’d go into the parking lot and let the air out of the instructor’s Volvo’s tires, or snap off his radio aerial.


None of my fellow students admitted to feeling as though born into the wrong body, and it wasn’t my business anyway.

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