Chapter 12

At first, Mila genuinely liked her new surroundings. She had a slightly bigger room, though she shared it with a woman who screamed in her sleep. That aspect certainly detracted from Mila’s enjoyment of the facility. The meals were still as adequate as they had been in the other section of the hospital, so in that area she had no complaints. The group therapy she had every day except Thursdays and Sundays, though, that was a complication. At first she was confused. She knew she was being transferred to the psychiatric ward; the nice nurse from downstairs had told her that much. But this therapy, this was something she didn’t see coming. Mila struggled daily to make sense of the whole program. It seemed to her that she was in a room full of people who were a lot sicker than she was. She appreciated that she could be hidden and protected from her mother in here, but she sometimes worried about the violence she saw in the common room. She worried that one day it would touch her in a way she wouldn’t be able to counteract, and that gave her great reason to fear her fellow inmates.

Wednesday’s group therapy session had gone about as smoothly as they always did. People crying, people talking, people confused about where they’d been and why they were here. And as usual, the therapist wanted Mila to address her issues, but Mila had no idea what to make of that. As far as Mila was concerned her issues with her mother were not to be examined by outsiders, and could not be understood by them in any case. So when they asked her to “share,” Mila didn’t quite know what to make of it. She would give the group leader a quizzical look and a slight shake of her head and give the person next to her a look that allowed them to jump in and take over the conversation. It provided temporary relief, but she knew that one day she would be called upon, and no one else would have anything left to say. She sat in fearful dread of that approaching destiny.

On Thursday, Mila had her private mini session with the resident psychiatrist as usual. The doctor had a peculiar name that she could never quite remember, something beginning with a P, or so she thought. She would sit in his office and look around at things, trying vaguely to pin her mind to the task at hand.

“Let us address your gender issues,” he said, cutting to the heart of the matter. Mila only blinked at him as he kept talking. “Do you... realize... that you are in fact a male? You are a man?”

He asked her this last week, and Mila still found herself bewildered. The doctor sighed and rearranged his notepad in his lap. He tried again. “You are aware of the fact that you possess male genitalia and this therefore entitles you to be called a man.”

Mila was shocked and horrified, and yet somehow his words made sense. She nodded timidly.

“You understand this, and yet you have assumed a girl’s name, you keep your body slight, and your hair in the extreme length preferred by the opposite sex. By women, I mean. Are you following me so far?”

“Yes,” Mila answered truthfully, her mind wrapping itself slowly to the concept.

“I want to be clear,” the doctor went on. “I am trying to determine whether you are merely a harmless deviant, or whether your behaviors are the particular markers of a more serious psychological problem.”

“Sir?” Mila queried, unsure of what he meant, and how she should extract an explanation from him.

“Do you ever awaken to find yourself in strange places, without memory of how you’ve gotten there?” the doctor persisted, making notes. Mila shook her head. “What about loss of time? Do you ever wake up and realize it is much later in the day than you thought?”

Again Mila shook her head. “No, not at all.”

“Good, good. That’s just fine,” he said, still writing. He paused to reissue his questions in another vein. “Do you ever think that you should have been born a female?”

Mila furrowed her brow, trying to mentally dissect his words. “What do you mean?”

The doctor seemed perturbed as he restated, “What I mean is, do you ever wish that you were a girl instead of a boy.”

“I...” Mila paused, deeply confused. “I am a girl.”

“So you genuinely believe yourself to be a girl?” he clarified, marking something down on his notepad.

“I... I am a girl,” she repeated desperately.

“And how long have you wanted to be a girl?”

“I am a girl!” she said, a bit more forcefully. He stopped and looked up at her.

“How long?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How long have you been a girl?”

“I don’t know. Since I was born, I guess. How long are most girls...girls?”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Mila said, frustrated with this line of questioning.

“Now then, just take it easy. Be calm, and just remember that I am here to help you.” He looked neither calm nor helpful, making it rather difficult for Mila to believe he was capable of either action. “Do you ever have trouble sleeping? Nightmares? Insomnia?”

“Nightmares some...” she admitted.

“I’m going to prescribe you some medication to help you relax. Perhaps after a week’s introspection you may find yourself better able to open up to me about your problems.” He smiled with unassigned kindness and bid her good day. She left the office and followed the attendant back to the pharmacy window. She would take yet another medication, and wait out the days until her life changed. She could feel it coming, and was unsure whether to shrink from it or barrel into it head on. She supposed she had no choice in the matter.

She took her medicine without complaint.