Rediscovering Who I Am After Conversion Therapy

By Arielle Rebekah (they/them)

It’s National Coming Out Day 2013, and I’ve finally decided–psuedo-impulsively, but not without months of repeatedly talking myself out of it–that it is time to share my truth with the world (or at least with my isolated microcosm of the world). My parents recently enrolled me at Carlbrook, a therapeutic boarding school in South Boston, Virginia. Though nestled in an ultraconservative enclave, the seemingly progressive staff and student body had felt generally supportive of queer and trans folks up to now.

I’d had a concept of my girlhood since I was four and my parents bathed me alongside a family friend, a cis girl around my age. From that moment on, I longed to one day wake up in a body that looked like hers, but felt totally isolated in my deep, inutterable pain. At the time, I lacked the slightest inclination anyone else could relate. The word “transgender” would not even enter my vernacular, my girlhood into the realm of possibility, for nearly a decade.

At Carlbrook, we close each evening with “Last Light” where the student body sits sprawled across the carpeted floor of the commons building as one or more students sits in an armchair facing them and shares a vulnerable piece of their life. On this evening, I take the stage in front of 130 of my fellow students and staff and tell them I am transgender. I tell them I intend to transition while at the school, and undergo gender-affirming surgery as soon as I graduate. Many of my peers offered words of support, but looking back on that evening, I realized the staff completely avoided addressing it.

After a suspiciously calm week, my therapist approaches me in the dining hall as I finish my dinner. As he walks me across the pond for my weekly parent phone call, his face sinks into that condescendingly sympathetic therapist frown (you know the one). “There’s something I have to tell you,” he begins. My heart pounds against my chest. Never a good start to a sentence. “I had to tell your parents what you shared during Last Light.” My heart sinks.

We walk the rest of the way in silence. As I pick up the phone, my parents are stern and accusatory. Though at first unclear why, I soon understand my therapist had assured them my coming out was merely a desperate ploy for attention rather than an important milestone to be taken seriously.

His outing me to my family was the first of many egregious violations of my autonomy and trust at Carlbrook.

Over the next few weeks, I slowly come out to teachers and other staff, and several of them agree to use my name and pronouns. This goes smoothly for about a month until I notice that one day, all at once, everyone who had previously been naming and gendering me correctly suddenly stops. I do not understand why a group of folks I thought were my allies seemed to do a 180 overnight, but the change is far too synchronized to be coincidental.

Before long, I discover what had happened. During a staff meeting, a school administrator who had caught wind of my request to these staff members forbade them from using my correct name and pronouns or else risk being fired. Around the same time, another administrator held a meeting where he emphasized an expectation he held for the school’s therapists—“do not indulge anything regarding gender.” At one point towards the end of my stay, the headmaster admitted they were afraid

Rediscovering Who I Am After Conversion Therapy by Arielle Rebekah

ARTWORK TITLE: Protect Trans Kids

ARTIST: Theodoor Grimes of how other students’ parents would react if they found out Carlbrook had a transgender student.

ARTIST STATEMENT: An illustration of a Black trans child smiling. I wanted this child to be dark skin, as dark skin trans folks are underrepresented in art and media. It was also my goal that they radiate joy, safety, and peace. This child is an embodiment of the kind of confidence all trans children deserve to have.

Any attempt to transgress the gender-based rule system in order to manage my worsening gender dysphoria earns me the label of “troublemaker” and I am made to feel guilty for it. When I try to grow my hair past the allowed length for “boys” in order to look slightly more feminine, I am swiftly coerced into a barber’s stool with the threat of detention.