What I've Learned About Mental Health This Year

Copyright: Amanda Jette Knox themavenofmayhem.com

Sometimes I like to just sit and watch my 12-year-old bounce around the house with a big smile on her face.

She's not literally bouncing, of course, but her walk is... lighter, like the weight of the world no longer sits on her shoulders. And her steps are more meaningful.

Her reasons for leaving the house - or even just her bedroom - are different. She's no longer simply doing it because we're making her, or because she absolutely has to for some other reason. She actually wants to spend time with people, engage with the world, and experience new things.

This year, for the first time in many, my child is no longer depressed or suffering from severe anxiety.

It has been a wild and unexpected ride to get here.

We went to several different therapists.

I read every book and new study I could get my hands on.

We tried restricted diets, natural sleep aids, and various parenting methods.

We moved to a different province to access better medical services.

She and I sat in emergency rooms during full-on coming apart moments, tears running down both our faces. ("What's wrong, honey?" "I don't know, mom. I don't know why I'm like this. Why am I like this?")

I begged doctors to take us seriously. ("Please help her. I feel like we're losing her and I don't know why.")

Depression. Anxiety. Isolation. OCD. Panic attacks. These were part of her world each and every day. They were part of our family's world. We didn't know why, we just all did the best we could.

Sometimes there is no why; at least not one medical science knows of yet. Sometimes depression is just depression, and anxiety is just anxiety. You treat it, you manage it, and you do the best you can.

But mental illness can also be a symptom of something else, something even you have hidden from yourself for years, bubbling on the surface of you subconscious, irritating your brain and bleeding into your life. In Gutsy's case, it was the denial of who she really was, followed by the fear of revealing that truth to others.  She hid being transgender from herself for years, and then hid it from us until she could finally bring herself to tell her secret.

There are many things I'm grateful for each day. But the one that has stuck out this year above all else has been that our child was brave enough to tell us what was going on. Taking that huge risk has not only improved her life, but also quite possibly saved it.

With her male puberty now suppressed, an army of people who support her living as she, pink streaked hair and an adorable new wardrobe, she is transformed into her authentic self.  She's happy for the first time in years. She still takes a low dose medication for anxiety, but her overall mental health picture is so good. So, so good.

We are not out of the woods. Gutsy faces a lifetime of uphill battles, both physically and emotionally. She will have to stare down a world that sometimes seeks to harm her, to tear her down, to treat her as less than. The rates of depression, suicide and addiction are all higher in the trans community, in large part because of how cruel the world can be. But my child is the bravest and most resilient human being I know. I believe that with love and support, she is going to soar. And the more we talk and educate and learn, the more we improve the lives of all people in the LGBTQ community.

Here's what I've learned this year: When it comes to having family members with mental health issues, the need for connection cannot be overstated. Trust, honesty and support are paramount. Whether there is a detectable reason behind their illness or not, connection with loved ones can be a lifeline. I know that, when I was a suicidal teen, connection saved me.  And while it can't and won't save everyone, I believe it also saved my daughter. 

So, like I said, sometimes I just like to watch her bounce around. I love when she comes into the kitchen and talks my ear off about computers or music production (even if I don't understand half of what she's saying). I love listening to her laugh hysterically with her little brother in the other room. I love seeing her smile finally reaching her eyes.

I love all of it. And I love her.

Raising a Trans Girl: It's Exactly the Same, but Different.

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"It's exactly the same, but different" is how I describe raising a trans daughter as opposed to one assigned female at birth.

I was reminded of this at the dollar store a couple of days ago, as I excitedly strolled down the aisle filled with feminine things. You know, the girly stuff: the nail polish and the lotions and the hairbands. I threw a bunch of estrogen happy stuff into the cart to put under the tree this year.

It was so fun! So great! I was having a blast. I passed the berry-scented shampoo and the cuticle oil and the cotton swabs...

And that's when I came across the pregnancy tests.

BAM. Instant punch to the heart. Tears clouded my vision. I quickly composed myself and kept walking.

Every now and then, I'm reminded that, barring a major medical advancement, my daughter - my only daughter - will never be able to carry and deliver a baby.  She'll never get the positive pregnancy test, or feel the baby kick from the inside, or experience the exhilaration of having just given birth to another human being.  And I won't share in those experiences with her because she won't ever have them.

I know she's not alone in this. I know. Many women deal with infertility. I had secondary infertility and it was balls. Besides, not all women choose to have children. But there's something about never having the choice or the hope or the dream of biological babies for my child that hurts. I hurt for her. 

That's how it's exactly the same, but different.

I hurt because of the atypical-ness of it all.  I feel like the Universe was all, "here, have three boys!" and I said, "Great! Thanks! Boys rule! But no girl? I kind of thought I would have at least one of those." And The Universe said, "Nope. You get what you get. Enjoy!" and I said, "That's cool. I will enjoy!" and I settled into my life with three boys. I was okay with not having a daughter.

And then, a few years later, The Universe came back and was all, "Oops. Listen, there's been a bit of a mix-up. It turns out you do have a daughter! Congrats! But your daughter will need a lot of help to become the person she needs to be, both emotionally and medically.  It's not going to be an easy road. Hope you're ready."

And I am ready. I am. Except when I see the damn pregnancy tests and ovulation prediction kits. Except when I think about the complexities and safety of her upcoming dating life and know I'll be waiting up and worried until she comes home. Until I think about her eventual re-entry into school, and how she's going to navigate the haters and, even worse, the parents who will refuse to get why she'll be using the girls' washroom and locker room. Except when I see the cute little holiday dresses and think of the lost years - the sad, uncomfortable years - and wish we had all known sooner.

It's the exactly same, but different.

And yet, most of the time I think I feel a lot like any other mom tasked with raising a daughter. I think of how I can help her confidence grow - because she's going to need a lot of it. I think about how I compliment her ("you're so smart!" escapes my lips more than "you're so pretty!" but I also want her to know how beautiful she is) I talk to her about friendships and relationships and what to look for in both. I teach her to value and honour her voice and her body.

I sit back and admire the quiet fierceness she carries inside of her. She's intelligent, witty, and knows what she wants. She doesn't put up with bullshit.

And when she brings up parenting, she makes my heart glow. She speaks excitedly about how there are so many children out there who need homes. Foster children. Orphaned children. Her future children. "There are so many ways to become a parent, mom," she tells me. "I might not be able to have my own babies, but I will be a mom someday."

My thoughts of pregnancy tests and ovulation prediction kits fade away when she smiles. Because the important thing is she's smiling. She's happy. She has a plan for her life. She wants to become an oncologist. She wants a family. And while her plans may change as she gets older, I know her determination won't. That kid is going to achieve absolutely everything she sets her mind to.  This is a child who will leave her mark in the world.

She's exactly the same, but different. Wonderfully different.

Why My Daughter is My Hero

Copyright: www.themavenofmayhem.com All rights reserved

Last week, something potentially disastrous happened: My daughter was misgendered.

In case you're not knee-deep in transgender terms like the nerd-turned-ally that is me, I'll let Google explain: to misgender is "to refer to someone, (especially a transgender person) using a word, especially a pronoun or form of address, that does not correctly reflect the gender with which they identify."

In other words, my transgender child, who identifies as a girl and presents as such, was labeled as a boy. It was a younger child who made the faux pas. And while it's happened before (and I'm sure will happen again), this situation was particularly cringe-worthy because it did not stop for what felt like forever.

It went a little something like this:

Younger kid: "So this is Spawnling's brother, Gutsy?"

Me: "No. This is Spawnling's sister, Gutsy."

Younger kid: "That's a sister? Gutsy's a girl?"

Me: "Yes, she is."

Younger kid: "Really? Gutsy, you're actually a girl?"

Gutsy: "Yep. I am."

Younger kid: "No, seriously. Spawnling, Gutsy is your sister?!"

Spawnling: "Dude. It's a long story. Don't worry about it. Gutsy is definitely my sister, ok?"

Younger kid to Gutsy: "Oooook, then. I guess you're a girl who looks exactly like a boy. That's so weird." *shrugs and runs off to play*

I need to state, right off the bat, that this is a good kid. He's funny and sweet and young and was just taken off guard, I guess. He doesn't know our family or its history, and this was the first time he had met Gutsy.

But wow, if I didn't feel punched in the gut right then. I can't imagine being misgendered in my day-to-day life; the idea that the world sees me as I see myself is something I've always taken for granted until recently. But to be a 12-year-old trans kid and have that happen? Ouch.

I would love to tell you that I knew exactly what to say, that I was able to swoop in and educate and make everything better. But I was so taken aback by what had just transpired that it rendered me absolutely speechless (such a rarity, if you ask anyone who knows me.)

So many thoughts ran through my mind. What kind of damage control could I possibly do? He had already said what was undoubtedly a very hurtful thing to my child, the fragile young girl who stepped out of the closet only a few months ago and was just starting to find her wings. She's the one I delicately bubble wrap in a little homeschooling world right now, making sure she's not overly exposed to the cruelties that wait just beyond our front door.

And now this? In our own home? I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know what to say. I didn't know all the things. My heart was pounding.

How was she feeling after that exchange?

As it turns out, just fine. The conversation with her a few minutes later in her room went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, are you ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah. Why?"

Me: "Well, because I was worried about you after what Spawnling's friend said."

Gutsy: "Oh, that? Whatever. It's fine."

Me: "Really? Are you sure you're ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah, mom, really. It's not a big deal. He's just a little kid. He can think what he wants."

So I smiled, gave her a kiss on the top of the head and walked out. And that should have been that - except it wasn't. It stayed with me, even if it didn't stay with her. For the last few days, I've been haunted by it, because I knew I wouldn't feel ok after that. So how could she?

Gutsy took me out for coffee a few minutes ago. Not the cheap kind, either. That girl loves her mom. On the way there, I said, "Can I ask you a question? Are you really ok with what happened with Spawnling's friend?"

"Yeah, I'm totally fine with it, mom. Honestly," she replied, her tone strong and positive.

"Ok. I believe you. You sound fine. I know this isn't the first time someone has said something insensitive to you. But can you tell me something? How do you just let stuff roll off your back like that? I have such a hard time when someone insults me, whether they mean it or not. Can you teach me?" And I meant it, because I've struggled my entire life with how the world views me and how accepted I am by others. It's getting better, but I'm still a giant work in progress. Falling dysfunction. Hard hats required on site.

"It's easy, mom," she explained so matter-of-factly. "I know who I am. I know who I want to be. Other people's opinions don't matter because I know who I am inside. That's all there is to it. I know me."

I sat in silence for a moment, letting her words sink in, this not-so-delicate flower with more fierceness in her than I could ever imagine. "Wow, honey. Just... Wow. Do you know how long it takes most people to figure that out, if they ever do? It's taken me a lifetime. How are you so unbelievably strong? I am amazed by you."

She just smiled at me in that wise old soul way she does and asked me what I wanted to drink at Starbucks.

I should start having what she's having, apparently.

You can keep your astronauts and Mount Kilimanjaro climbers. My daughter is my hero.

Saying Goodbye to My Son (and Hello to My Daughter)

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Last week was a week of changes. They were giant hungry tentacle creature kind of scary changes. Crawl out from the river bank and eat your dog kind of scary changes.

(Maven watches too much sci-fi kind of scary changes.)

Gutsy had her first endocrinology appointment on Tuesday. It was an all-day event in which much testing was done. We had to find out if she is in puberty, and, if so, how far along. Puberty goes in "Tanner" stages, from I to V (in pretentious roman numerals, of course, because it's medicine.) Tanner I is at the very beginning and V is at the end.

Gutsy is in stage III. Mid-puberty.

This is both good and kind-of-ok news. It's good because it's still early enough that she doesn't yet have a lot of masculine and non-reversible traits seen in later puberty. It's kind-of-ok because it's a stage later than they like to start hormone blockers for transgender kids. Normally Tanner II is when the party gets started, before any of the changes happen.

But the endocrinologist assures us that it's ok. We're arresting puberty mid-way, before the big growth spurt, the extreme deepening of the voice, the Adam's apple and the facial hair. If Gutsy had waited much longer to tell us, things could have been very different. I'm breathing a sigh of relief for her. Going through those pubescent changes when you don't identify with the body you were born into can be very traumatic and have long-term, unwanted consequences.

This is step one in what will probably be a long medical process. It's the beginning of saying goodbye to the son we used to have.

I didn't think it would be this hard, you know. I was foolish to think I would handle it better than I have been. I figured I have two other sons, so that might make it easier. I guessed that the fun and excitement of having a daughter would outweigh any sense of loss. I was wrong. Oops.

Because last week we also started packing up her boy clothes, and I can't even bring myself to pass most of them down to her younger brother. Right now, the idea of seeing those clothes on him in a couple of years makes me really sad.  Maybe that will change, but I don't want to find out. I just want to give them to someone else's child and never see them again.

Last week, we started the name change. She's having a very hard time seeing her given name on official documents. She broke down when she got her very first bank card in the mail, tore open the envelope excitedly, and saw her old name printed in big gold letters on the front.  It's very masculine and reminds her of the unhappy person she was before she came out. That's not who she is; she's someone else now. She's ready to legally become that person.

My heart doesn't feel so ready.

Letting go is hard. Saying goodbye to him is hard. I know the same amazing person lives inside my daughter, but it feels like my son is gone. I'm grieving. I'm not saying it's the same as losing a child, because it isn't. But it's still grief, and it's still real, and it still hurts. I know I need to ride this wave. It's an unfortunate part of the process.

But it's not all ravens and emo haircuts over here. On the other side of this emotional chasm is a whole lot of joy. It's great watching her come out of her shell, little by little. She's smiling more, going out more, and spending more time with all of us. She and I are growing closer. We're getting to know each other as mother and daughter, which has been a lot of fun (and at times a little OMG TWEEN GIRLS WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME). She's my giddy mall companion, my partner in crime for cheesy teen television. Those parts are great.

I'm watching her grow up before my eyes. She faced some big fears in the name of being who she really is. She's terrified of needles - absolutely panic-stricken - and yet she had three of them at the hospital last week, including a giant one in her thigh. She's staring down years of injections - possibly a lifetime. And yet she's willing to do it all to live an authentic life.  Her resolve is strong and her bravery astounds me. It also drives home the fact that this is not a choice for her. It is a medical necessity.

So I'll go through my own shit knowing how important this is to her. I'm sure it pales in comparison to the shit she's going through. I can't even begin to imagine how she must be feeling, how scary this all is. She talks to us about it, but I think we'd have to be inside her head to really see it.

These are big changes for an eleven-year-old, and big changes for me. Some days, I feel like I'm on the bank of the river, holding a leash attached to an empty collar. What life giveth, the giant tentacles taketh away. 

Transitions are tough. But my love for her is, thankfully, a a lot tougher.