A gender-related empty chair exercise

A healing conversation with self

Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

In therapy, the empty chair exercise invites a client to play the role of a different part of themselves or to take on the mantle of someone else to develop perspective-taking and empathy skills. It originated as part of gestalt therapy, developed by Fritz Perls, Laura Perls and Paul Goodman. The empty chair technique is a potent experiential gestalt-based technique that can help people work through unresolved emotions, grief or inner ambivalences.

The following piece is a written experiment — an attempt at something like an empty chair exercise with myself. Typically the therapist asks guiding questions to help the client integrate parts of themself they’d rather forget about. I have bolded the questions a therapist might ask, and responded from the place first of the Wounded Self and then later from the Healing Self.

From my Wounded Self position

Describe how you first learned about transgender identities

Well, the first time I ever encountered anything to do with gender nonconformity in real life was as a teenager, meeting one of my father’s friends. He was an eccentric older man who lived alone with his chihuahua and would sometimes come over for whiskey and dinner. We never talked about it directly with him present but after he left, I remember my parents saying that he was gay and sometimes dressed up as a woman. I thought it was odd and interesting but I didn’t give it much more thought.

Later, when I went to university, I encountered butch lesbians and gay men but not anyone trans until I made a friend who was going through the process of getting a diagnosis for gender identity disorder (at the time that was the term). This friend didn’t want to become a man necessarily, but she wanted to take testosterone and masculinize her body. Given that she was less masculine than I, I figured that maybe I could get a GID diagnosis too. And I did.

What were some of the signs that led you to believe you needed to transition?

For years up to my formal diagnosis I had struggled with suicidal depression, with social anxiety and with feeling that something was deeply wrong with me. I struggled to connect with my peers. I had difficulty feeling at home in my skin. I’d gone to therapists and psychiatrists; I’d been on a whole host of medications. Nothing seemed to help. I did’t really see a future for myself, so I decided to pursue a GID diagnosis as a last-ditch attempt to improve my life.

How did transition improve your life?

It took a lot of energy and focus to essentially reinvent myself. There was all the medical stuff, the legal stuff — getting a new driver’s licence and updating my academic documents — and then there was also the social stuff. The social stuff was complicated. While I passed relatively quickly once I started hormones, I still had to learn how to behave like a man. I couldn’t talk with my hands as much as before, in case I got read as gay. I had to learn how to date again and how to talk about being a trans man. Surprisingly, I dated more people after I transitioned than before. Probably because transition was a reset button that gave me a new sense of confidence. It helped me break out of my shyness, and my depression and anxiety — at least in the short term. I was even able to work again.

What were some of the signs that led you to question your transition?

About a year into my transition, a friend — also trans — died by suicide. It shocked me because I’d looked up to her as someone to emulate. She seemed confident on the outside. She had a stable job, a solid relationship, a strong voice in the community. It sent me into a tailspin and led to a new round of suicidal depression. Depression was the reason I’d transitioned in the first place. Clearly, it wasn’t a cure. A few years after that I had a mastectomy and I remember waking up and feeling depressed that I had had to remove healthy tissue to be comfortable in my own body. This experience was exacerbated because I was recovering next to a woman who had had her breasts removed due to cancer. She was surrounded by family and loved ones. Meanwhile, I was completely alone. While I didn’t regret removing my breasts it also didn’t feel good. It just left me feeling numb.

What really led me to question my transition, though, was when I started to hear about detransitioners. I saw myself in a lot of their experiences. It made me question whether my transition was as inevitable as I’d been led to believe. I started to wonder whether I could have learned to live a good life without transitioning, and with my body intact.

What were some of the associated feelings of what you’d been through?

The more I started to question the medical pathway I’d gone down, the more alarmed I felt. So much of my life had been spent chasing after something that at the end of the day is impossible (i.e. changing sex). And it really hadn’t delivered on its promise. I’d been told that transition would help me be less depressed and anxious. It did help initially. But the depression didn’t really go away, and the anxiety was still there too. I felt let down and I felt a bit angry too. Angry at the doctors, but also angry at myself for being so naive and stupid.

What are the qualities about you that enabled you to move forward?

I am someone who is stubbornly curious while also anxious and risk-averse. It’s an odd combination. I contain a lot of contradictions. I’m a reluctant rebel. I want to people-please and be liked, but I also I don’t like to be told what to do or think. I’ll comply up to a point but if I’m pushed too far I will walk away. I used to wish I could be more bold and just say what I really think without fear of what others might think in return, but as I’ve gotten older I also appreciate that more cautious side of myself. I do care what others think, and I don’t think that’s a bad quality. I care about others and I hope they will care about me too. That’s not a weakness.

What were the first steps you took to make changes for yourself?

I became more and more interested in learning about the science behind the gender affirming care model. I sought out the stories of detransitioners. I connected with service providers and researchers who were willing to ask important questions about the implications of telling a generation of young people and their families that transition is a cure for suicidal depression. I became curious about the cultural forces at play and the pressures that lead people to seek out medical solutions to their gender distress. I also started to reconnect with people from my own life who knew me before I transitioned. Some of those people I’d been estranged from for years.

Is there anything further you’d like to tell your Healing Self about your Wounded Self?

Just that I’m sorry I let you down. I wish I’d been able to find a better way through the darkness. Instead you are now stuck with a body that is permanently scarred, in a gender that you no longer identify with. I wish I’d been able to find a different path forward for you.

[At this point in an empty chair exercise, the client would move to a different chair to inhabit a different role or part. I am now moving to my Healing Self position, to answer the next number of questions.]

From my Healing Self Position

What is it like to travel from a wounded place?

It is very difficult. Particularly because it feels in part self-inflicted. I know that I didn’t create this mess alone. That there were a lot of forces already in place long before I made my way to the gender specialist’s office. But it’s hard not to feel like I should have known better. It’s hard not to feel like a fool. And then there’s all these voices out there now that basically want to wipe out trans people from public life completely. I don’t support that either, obviously. There’s not a lot of empathy out there, for anyone. It worries me.

What can you tell your Wounded Self are the qualities/strengths that brought you through your experience?

Your openness to new information, your curiosity, means you are also open to changing your mind when you realize that what you are told isn’t true. Your innocence means you are willing to give other people the benefit of the doubt. You operate in good faith with others until it no longer makes sense to do so. It means sometimes you will be let down by others but it also means you will open yourself up to new, meaningful connections. And that’s a good thing. Your search for real solutions can be frustrating at times, when they don’t immediately reveal themselves, but your persistence means you stay the course. I admire that about you.

What qualities/strengths have you held on to?

I’ve held onto my open heart. I don’t hate anyone. I don’t see myself as a victim either. Life is complicated and none of us get through it without taking a few wrong turns along the way. The wrong turn I took is bigger than most, and it has had some pretty dramatic impacts. But it also led to wonderful things — I met my wife, I went back to school and built a career I’m proud of. I love the life I have. I’m grateful for every part of it. My persistence has paid off in ways I could not have anticipated.

How does the healing journey look different for you, from you wounded journey?

Healing to me means embracing every single part of my journey — the good, the bad and the ugly. It means choosing to stay open to life, not numbing myself out from any of it, even when it’s painful. Healing means speaking the truth of my experience and being OK with not everyone liking me for it. I do care what others think but I also care about what I think, and what I know to be true. And I know that I did what I thought was right at the time. I didn’t do it to hurt anyone or mislead anyone. As I live my life ahead, I know that some will want me to detransition or disown other trans people. That’s not my path. I want to improve the path for others who may be navigating similarly difficult waters. I choose to focus on what that might look like. It’s easy to destroy and tear down. To build something new, something meaningful and strong, that is hard. I’m here for it.

How has this healing process changed you as a person?

It’s humbled me. It’s opened my eyes to the best of humanity and also some of the worst of humanity. It’s made me more cautious and maybe a bit mistrustful of people. It’s made me push myself to stay open, to risk being hurt for the sake of deeper connections with people I would never have met if I didn’t take that risk. Healing has meant letting go of anger and resentment. It’s meant refocusing on what matters and continuing to work on becoming the kind of person I wish I’d had in my own life. The healing process is a process — and some days I’m more successful than others.

What have you learned through the healing process?

I have learned to appreciate the little things in life. They aren’t really so little. Coffee and breakfast with my wife. Walking my dog along the river. Co-workers who inspire and challenge me. A relatively healthy body. A mind that no longer dreams of dying. Laughter and art. The sunrise peeking through amongst the clouds. The smell of wood burning in an outdoor fire-pit.

What lies ahead?

I’m not entirely sure. I want to continue to seek out moments of beauty, moments of laughter and connection, moments of joy and wonder. I will likely continue to look for opportunities to make a positive difference in the work that I do, to work with others who are equally committed to improving healthcare for all people who experience gender-related distress.

Is there anything else you’d like your Wounded Self to know about your Healing Self?

Just that I love and accept you. I wouldn’t be here without you.