"I arrived in Toronto June 30, 1991. Classes were to begin in September, giving me a couple of months to get on with the therapy. I was assigned to a psychiatrist specializing in gender reassignment. It was expensive, but I had managed to bank a good load of savings over the years, plus I had also been enrolled into a special program for financial assistance as needed. My psychiatrist, Gwen, was a particularly frank and direct kind of woman, no beating around the bush with her. She was well in her fifties, and as a thirty year old I would have to struggle not to place on her any maternal expectations. She was a hardass from start to finish, with a wicked wit and no patience for idiots. I had already begun living as a woman, as Karen. Gwen was puzzled that I did not wear dresses or makeup, nor that I seemed interested in doing anything with my hair, which fortunately was abundant. I had grown it to just cover my ears, but I otherwise had little interest in looking like a traditional woman. My uniform was no different from when I was Kevin. A few random T shirts and blue jeans. And running shoes. She later confessed that on our first visit, upon giving me the once over, she almost told me to leave her office. But when I spoke of having a uterus, of believing that I was menstruating, despite the absence of blood every month, she put me through a whole battery of of tests and questions. This went on for the whole summer. Then, as my classes were about to begin in September, I began taking hormones.
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