To See Through a Glass Darkly 10

Printer-friendly version

To See Through a Glass Darkly

Chapter 10

Sasha sees Dr. Torricelli about the hallucinations, but it's hard for anyone to ignore the boy presenting en femme.

Ms. Tollefson and I got out of the car. It took me but a single attempt to get the move down of keeping my legs together, swinging them out, and standing up, and that was it. Then Ms. Tollefson and I strutted across the parking lot to the Medical Arts Professional Building. For some strange reason, I felt more in control of my life than ever before, all while going to a psychiatrist.

That essay on "The Meaning of Irony" was sounding better all the time.

As we approached the building, a man who was on his way out smiled and held the door open for us.

I smiled back at him, batting my eyes, and said, "Thank you, sir!"

"Not at all, miss!" he replied, smiling.

Ms. Tollefson grinned and nodded her approval of my simple interaction.

"Sasha, you do realize that he saw you only as a girl, don't you?"

I had some difficulty believing that I had passed so easily as a girl in my first test with a stranger.

"I guess so, but it didn't seem real," I told Ms. Tollefson.

"It was very much real, Sasha," she replied. "There was no reason for him to suspect that you were anything but the teenage girl you appear to be. Get used to it."

Inside the building lobby, we went to a security desk to announce our arrival. Ms. Tollefson had made the appointment for me, so she went to take care of it.

"Hello, sir!" she addressed the guard. "Astrid Tollefson and Sasha Petroff to see Doctor Torricelli."

The guard, a young man in his early twenties, checked information on a desktop computer.

"Yes. I see your names here," he confirmed. "Still, I need to check with Doctor Torricelli's receptionist and then issue you temporary badges for your visit."

He picked up a telephone and pushed some buttons.

"Marjorie, this is Sam… Astrid Tollefson and Sasha Petroff are here for you. May I send them up?…"

"…That's fine, thank you," Sam the guard said, then ended the call. "Yes, ladies. You can go on up in just a moment."

He printed our names and other information on two small white cards and asked us to sign our names to a list in a logbook. He the put each badge into a clear vinyl holder with a green lanyard, emblazoned with the words "Medical Arts Professional Building Client" repeated around its length and gave them to us.

That's a nice ring set," he said. "Are you a newlywed?"

"Yes," I heard myself say, "only two weeks. My wife asked me to vow m'habiller en femme at our wedding and I'm still getting used to it."

"Wow! That's not easy to do, Sam conceded. "My fiancée asked me to do it, but I think she was just kidding. I'd look too ugly. Anyway, you're a much better man than I to do it!"

"Not at all, Sam," I assured him. "Let each one live as each one may!"

"Thanks for that. Please wear these at all times in the building, ladies," he said. "Doctor Torricelli's suite is on the third floor. It's at the far end of the corridor to the right of the main elevator. The Ladies' room is to your left, just before the suite. Have a pleasant visit."

"Why, thank you, Sam!" I offered him my gratitude.

Ms. Tollefson said simply, "Thank you."

"Did you hear that, Ms. Tollefson?" I inquired as a reality check.

"Hear what?" she asked me.

"Sam asking if I were a newlywed?"

"He said no such thing!" Ms. Tollefson insisted.

Hallucination over.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We went to the elevator and immediately it opened for us, so we rode it directly to the third floor. We turned right to go to the end of the hallway where we could see the name Antonio G. Torricelli, MD, Psychiatrist stenciled on a translucent glass door.

I was about to open the door to the psychiatrist's suite when Ms. Tollefson grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the left and back a couple of steps.

"We need to freshen up first," she decreed. "Come with me."

She dragged me where I'd never gone before: into the Ladies' room.

"Ms. Tollefson, I can't be in here!" I objected.

"You can and you will!" she replied. "If you're going to dress like that, you gotta come in here. Stop and think for a moment: what would happen if you went to the Men's room?"

Dressed as I was, that would be absurd.

"Your point is taken," I conceded to her. "But you might have just said so instead of dragging me in here."

I looked around and noticed differences between men's and women's restrooms. Of course, I would not have expected to see urinals in here, but what did surprise me was that there was a sofa against a wall. There were also dispensers for sanitary napkins and tampons. Most notably, everything in here was really clean. And it smelled of perfume. It was cleaner than I had seen in a men's room before but that might also have been the building management's policy. Were all women's restrooms like this or were there more deluxe features in this building?

Ms. Tollefson was looking at her image in the mirror, touching up her cosmetics. I didn't know how to "freshen up" anything, though. I simply smiled at my reflection and was once again amazed how thoroughly cute and feminine I looked. Sis really had done a great job.

"Remember, Ms. Tollefson," I said. "I'm new at all this."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We stood at the door of Dr. Torricelli's suite.

"Ready, Sasha?" Ms. Tollefson asked.

"No more or less than for anything else today," I replied as non-commitally as possible.

"Here we go!" she announced as she opened the door and strode in.

I followed her in, feeling more butterflies in what might be best described as a performance of sychronized fluttering.

As we approached the reception desk, a young woman smiled at us. A cherrywood nameplate on the desk bore the name Marjorie Stedham engraved on it.

"Good morning, ladies! I'm Marjorie," she greeted us. "How can I help you?"

"This is Sasha Petroff," Ms. Tollefson said. "I'm Astrid Tollefson, his school psychologist. He has an appointment with Doctor Torricelli."

Suddenly those butterflies had formed into a chorus line and were kicking away like the Rockettes in a grand finale. She had called me "he." Ms. Tollefson had given me away immediately. My face was turning beet red. Then unexpectedly, Marjorie came to the rescue.

"You're a boy?" the receptionist was glowing wide-eyed, as if star-struck. "Wow! That's so cool! You look perfectly like a girl. I'd have never known if she didn't mention it. You're so cute. And how did you get such nice legs?"

This was seeming surreal, but I did feel somewhat relieved. Remembering what Sis and her friends had told me, I decided to go with it.

"I play ice hockey. The skating helps shape my legs up quite nicely. And it helps me balance in these heels, too. When my sister dressed me up this morning, she and all her friends were just a little jealous."

"I am too," Marjorie confessed. "You look great!"

"Well, you're nice to look at, too!" I affirmed, returning her compliment.

Marjorie coyly batted her eyes. I felt myself blushing yet again.

"Why, thank you! We'll have to talk before you go, today," she promised. "When a boy can pull off your look, I can learn something from you!"

"Thanks, but this was my sister's doing," I cautioned her, "and really, I'm clueless about what she did."

"Still, let's talk," insisted Marjorie." Now, here are some forms for you to fill out. When you're done, then you'll meet Doctor Magnusson who does our intake counseling.

The forms were standard forms for contact information, medical history, privacy protection, and informed consent. There was also a form for parental consent that I'd need to give Mom. There were also forms for Ms. Tollefson of some kind. When we finished filling the forms out, she had something to tell me.

"Sasha, I'm going to have to go back to the school," Ms. Tollefson informed me. "I have to meet with Doctor Martin right after lunch."

"You mean you're leaving me here alone?" I objected. "That's not fair!"

"These are nice, friendly professionals here," she replied. "I can't imagine them giving you any grief."

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" I offered my verbal riposte.

"Sasha, now that you're dressed up like a pretty young lady," Ms. Tollefson said, "let it work for you."

"How do I do that?" I asked her.

"Bat your eyes and blush a lot," she suggestively teased me. "And don't forget to smile, too!" With that she stepped out of Doctor Torricelli's suite.

So, why does the school psychologist like to tease me? I could feel yet another screw loosen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I took my set of forms to Marjorie and asked about the parental consent form.

"Is one parent enough or do I need both?" I asked her.

"You can ask Doctor Magnusson about that," she replied. "I'll call him now. I still can't get over how nice and feminine you look."

Marjorie picked up the inter-office telephone and pressed a button. "Doctor Magnusson," she began. "Our new patient is ready for intake. Should I bring him in now?… Thank you… We'll be right there…"

"Sasha, Doctor Magnusson said for you to come right in," she said getting up from the reception desk. "Come with me, please."

As she stood up, I noticed her knee-length navy skirt with very narrow pleats. Her shoes were each made of a white canvas vamp attached to a sole built up into a high wedge-shaped heel from what looked like a woven material, with ribbons wrapped around and tied above her ankles. She wore a navy waist-length jacket and a ruffled white blouse. I felt somewhat strange. Marjorie was beautiful, but I wasn't certain if I were in fact attracted to her, or merely interested in her clothes. But I knew that I wanted shoes like hers.

She led me to another office in the suite where stood a thin, tall man with blond hair and a well-trimmed reddish blond beard waiting. He smiled and held out his hand to greet me.

"Sasha, this is Doctor Robert Magnusson," she introduced him to me. "Doctor Magnusson, Sasha Petroff. Astrid Tollefson brought him in this morning after another appointment cancelled."

"Welcome, Sasha!" he greeted me. "Nice to meet you."

"Uh... uh... good morning, Doctor," I stumbled over my words. "I'm pleased to m-meet you."

"Doctor Magnusson will do your intake interview, first," Marjorie reminded me, "then he'll confer briefly with Doctor Torricelli before you see him."

"Thanks, Marjorie," I said. "You've made me feel more at ease here today."

"That's my job, Sasha. Thanks!" she said smiling as she closed the door behind us.

Dr. Magnusson motioned for me to sit in an armchair or on a couch. I chose the easy chair, then sat down smoothing my dress underneath me and crossed my knees. I noticed that his cherrywood nameplate was engraved "Robert D. Magnusson, Psy. D."

"All right, since Marjorie referred to you as he," Dr. Magnusson began, "I should conclude that despite your appearance, you're in fact a boy?"

"Yeah," I answered him. "I suppose you'd like an explanation?"

"Well, it did cross my mind, yes. But I think that you would like to offer one, anyway. And for what it's worth, I wouldn't have guessed that you're a boy if Marjorie hadn't called you 'he.' I hate to say this, but right now, you're prettier than my daughter, who's almost your age, and she's not at all a bad-looking girl, herself. So why are you dressed en femme for your visit today?"

En femme? I had heard that phrase in my hallucination with Sam and had not only known but even used the phrase. Would it be French for "in woman"? No, maybe, it's "as woman"? I'd need to look it up to be sure.

"My sister, Sonia, had wanted to dress me up like a girl for a long time. She teased and pestered me about it until yesterday when I gave in to her. She's been on cloud nine ever since. Since I'm not allowed to return to school until I get this medical form signed, I promised her that I'd stay dressed as a girl through Monday. It's been less than an hour ago that Ms. Tollefson called me and said that I could get an appointment here today. I didn't even have time to change. But even if I did, I promised Sonia I'd stay dressed up for her and I dont't want to break that promise. I even slept in a nightie for her."

"So, then you don't feel like a girl trapped in a boy's body?" the psychologist asked me.

"Gosh no!" I answered. "I'm a boy trapped in a girl's dress. But I was just starting to have some fun when Ms. Tollefson left me here alone. I might look prettier than your daughter, but I still mostly think and act like a boy."

"I can understand your dilemma," he said to reassure me. "You really would prefer to look like a girl instead of a boy in a dress?"

Yes, this is not the first time that I was hearing that phrase recently.

"That's a good way to put it," I responded.

"Have you ever wanted to dress up like a girl on your own?" asked Dr. Magnusson.

He would ask me that, wouldn't he? Of course, he would; that was his job. I was about to deny it, but then I thought back to what I had thought while I was awake between dreams and to what Ms. Tollefson had told me about being honest with therapists.

"Yes," I replied. "Whenever Sonia would mention it, I wondered what it might be like to wear pretty dresses and things like she did. It goes back to when we were little kids. I can't even remember when the first time was. After a while, I might imagine it myself sometimes, but mostly I would just push it out of my mind. Since I was about twelve years old, though, I might think about a girl I saw wearing something nice and wonder how it might look on me and what it would feel like to wear it myself."

"How did you feel about that?" he probed.

"Embarrassed and ashamed," I admitted, "but still very curious about it."

"Did you ever cross-dress before now?"

"No, but sometimes I wanted to."

"So, why didn't you?"

"Well, I was too afraid of being caught for one. It would have been too embarrassing for me. But there was also Sonia's teasing. If I had dressed up, even in secret, it would have been like giving up and I would lose the game with her."

"That's an interesting way to look at it, for sure," he said, scribbling on his notepad.

"Then why did you give in to her yesterday? What changed?" inquired Dr. Magnusson.

"Two things," I began. "First, I had started having these hallucinations where I was dressing up like my girlfriend, Tina. As the hallucinations continued, I started to feel comfortable seeing myself dressed up like her. In my hallucinated world, Tina and I were already married and I seemed to express my affection by dressing up like her."

"So, then there's a continuity to these hallucinations that you've been having?"

"Yeah. It's almost like I'm in a different place when I have them."

"That's very interesting," he commented, jotting down something in his notes. "What else changed, so that you agreed to dress up for your sister?"

"I learned what my sister really wanted for me."

"Oh?" Dr. Magnusson asked as his eyebrow went up.

"Sonia is very beautiful. She likes to model in fashion shows and compete in beauty pageants. She had always wanted a younger sister to teach sisterly things to, but that never happened. So she needed me to play that role for her. And she confessed that she loves being a girl and that she had always wanted to share the joy of being a girl with me. When I looked at it that way, I felt a little guilty that I had been so resistant to her. When I offered to let her dress me up over the weekend she smiled like I had never seen her before and then she started crying. So here I am, as you see me."

"And how do you feel about it, dressed as you are now?"

"All mixed up!" I answered, knowing he'd want more explanation. "I feel silly and happy, embarrassed, afraid, confident, trapped in women's clothing but more in control of my life than I've ever been. As scared as I am like this, it also seems to be fun!"

"You enjoy the risk of it?"

"Maybe. But I'm not sure if that's what I feel the best about. I don't really know."

"Would you do it again?"

"I promised Sis that I'd let her dress me up through Monday. So I have to do it until then."

"What do your parents think about it?"

"They're okay with it. Mom confirmed what Tina told me about why Sonia wanted it and also suggested that it might not be so bad. She called me her 'new daughter' at breakfast."

"And your father?"

"I was sure he'd object, but when Mom called him, Dad was only concerned that I was doing it willingly and hadn't been forced. She took a photo of me to email him before I left."

"Are your parents still together?"

"Yes, they're still married. Dad's an engineer, though,and since the metallurgy plant closed, he's worked all over the country as a consultant. Right now he's working on a project in New Orleans, but Dad always tries to come home to be with us for the holidays and special days."

"How does Tina feel about you dressing up?"

"She seemed totally giddy when she saw me dressed like a girl this morning," I related to Dr. Magnusson. "And she said that she wants us to pretend we're lesbians."

"So you vowed to stay dressed en femme for your marriage?

"Yes," I answered. "Tina asked me to."

I glanced down at my hands and contemplated my wedding rings for a moment.

"Well, that's not too unusual when younger men of your age get married nowadays. And as nice as you look, it's not such a surprise that your wife wants you to stay dressed like you are." But now, Sasha," continued Dr. Magnusson, "I'd like you to describe your hallucinations to me in as much detail as you can remember."

"I'm having one right now," I told him. "I can see my—"

The rings were gone again.

"Well, I was having another one," I insisted. "But it now seems to be over. This is typical. Most last for only a few moments."

"What did you see?"

"My wedding rings and French manicure," I responded. "That's how I usually know when I'm hallucinating. I can see the rings and manicure that I don't really have. Also, you asked me if I had vowed to remain dressed en femme after we married."

"But I did not," Dr. Magnusson objected.

"No," I agreed, "but the hallucinated you did."

"Have you seen other persons in your hallucinations?"

"Yeah," I affirmed. "I've seen Mom and Sis, Tina, their friend Deb and many of my classmates and the school staff in them. I've seen people from this building, too."

"Hmm?" he seemed to ponder his next question. "Have you hallucinated about anyone whom you don't know?

This was not a question that I expected. So, I paused and thought about it for a moment. It seemed that everyone I had seen were people that I knew, whom I would normally encounter every day.

"No," I replied. "They're all my family or friends or other people that I normally would see."

"That's very interesting," said Dr. Magnusson. "Could you describe your other hallucinations to me? And please try to remember as much detail as you can."

So I began to detail my hallucinatory experiences for him. This continued for almost forty-five minutes as I did my best to recall everything that I saw, heard, and felt while he stopped to verify every detail and nuance that I reported. He seemed to be the most interested in the extended hallucination that I had of Tina applying makeup to my face and fixing my hair.

Then I related my earlier encounter with Sam the guard downstairs. Dr. Magnusson's face turned white at my recollection of it. He just scribbled more on his notepad.

"So, Sam discussed your dressing up with you as if it were a custom that he knew?"

"Yeah. He told me his fiancée had asked him to vow dressing up as well, but he thought he'd be too ugly."

"There's no doubt about it," chuckled Dr. Magnusson. "If he showed up in drag at the security desk, I'd turn and run!"

I giggled like a girl at that, myself. And Dr. Magnusson wrote something else on his notepad. He must have noted be giggling like a girl.

"When I told Ms. Tollefson that he asked me if I were a newlywed, she said he didn't."

"And she was standing right next to you?"

"Through the whole conversation."

"Remarkable!" he observed. "How did you feel when she said that?"

"Relieved," I replied, "because I knew the hallucination was over."

"So, Sasha, looks like you've got quite an interesting case here," concluded Dr. Magnusson. "I'll confer with Dr. Torricelli then you'll meet with him. While we do, the nurse will give you a simple check-up and take your blood."

"Why?" I asked.

"Remember that a psychiatrist is also a physician. Since Dr. Torricelli may need to prescribe you medication, we need to give you a basic health check. Many psychiatric symptoms can be caused by physical illnesses. We want to see if you might have one of those. And we need to start with the same things that any physician would," so the psychologist explained to me. "I should also ask if you have any other questions?"

"Since Dad is not going to be in town for a while, is it enough for just Mom to sign the parental consent forms?"

"That should be okay. But please ask your mother to give a telephone number for him, in case we would need to reach him. Anything else?"

"Am I going crazy?"

Dr. Magnusson frowned a little, leaned back in his chair, touched the fingertips of his two hands together, and then he sat up and smiled.

"In truth, I can't tell you, now. But in clinical psychology, we talk about something called 'insight.' That means the patient knows that something is wrong and understands that he or she must be careful in judgement and actions. Sasha, you're a bright young man, or young woman if you prefer, who has remarkable insight into what's happening. You knew something was wrong, so you immediately sought help. Also, you've developed an appropriate method of reality-testing that works in your circumstances. Your awareness, intelligence, and insight are protecting you right now. That's the best thing that you've got going for you, and it can go a long way to help you. I trust you to take care of your own sanity and you should, too."

"Will dressing like this affect my sanity?" I asked, more in fear than curiosity.

Dr. Magnusson simply smiled.

"This might surprise you, but my instincts tell me right now, that it might be the healthiest thing you could do."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dr. Magnusson picked up his telephone and called for Marjorie to come and escort me again. She led me away from his office and into an examination room.

"Nurse van de Meer will be here in just a moment to take your vitals and draw blood for some basic medical tests," Marjorie began, "So I should ask you to undress, but just down to your undies. If you need it, you can wear this gown."

She placed a paper gown on the padded examining table. Already I would need to take off my dress in front of a stranger. And the day would become weirder yet.

"Okay," I acknowledged, "but I might need your help with my zipper, though."

"Sure, Sasha!" she answered smiling. "It's easy enough."

She unlatched the fastener at the back of the collar and zipped my dress open.

"Thanks!" I said. "I'm so grateful for that."

I let the dress fall down my body and stepped out of it. This felt really weird. There I was, a teenage boy of sixteen, wearing bra, panties, pantyhose, and high-heels, standing in front of a young woman I'd only met an hour ago. I could see myself blush again in a full-length mirror mounted on a wall. For the first time, I noticed that there was some padding in the panties as well as the bra. My sister must have wanted me to have some curves.

I sat down in a chair and began to unbuckle the ankle straps of my shoes.

"Will you need any more help?" asked Marjorie.

I stepped out of my shoes onto the floor. The cold tile felt a little strange through the feet of my pantyhose, yet I liked it.

"Only to zip my dress up again before I leave," I told her.

"Okay," she said. "I'll come back when it looks like you're ready."

We heard a knock on the door and a voice asking, "May I come in?"

Marjorie opened the door and a nurse wearing a white dress, tights, shoes and a cap entered. This was really unusual since nurses mostly wear scrubs these days. Then I remembered to glance at my hands. White tips and wedding rings. I wanted to put on the paper gown, but now it was not on the examining table.

Marjorie smiled back at me and closed the door.

"Good morning, young lady," the nurse greeted me. "I'm Nurse van de Meer, but please call me Becky."

"My name is Sasha," I responded. Good morning, Becky."

She opened a file folder. And looked in it for a moment.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" Becky exclaimed. "I thought you were a young woman!"

"That's okay!" I said. "I'm relieved that you did. Today I'm supposed to look like a girl."

"Are you coming in for gender identity counseling?" she asked me.

"Oh no!" I replied. "I'm just dressing up a few days for my sister."

"For you sister?" the nurse probed. "Would you step up on the scales, please?"

"Yeah. She always wanted to dress me up. She teased me about it since we were little. Yesterday I decided that I'd do it for her. I feel nervous about it, but I think I can have some fun doing it, too."

"You're at fifty-six-point-seven kilograms, Sasha," the nurse informed me. She lowered a small metal arm down to the top of my head. "And a hundred sixty-five-point-one centimeters."

She took me by the elbow and helped me step down from the scales. I noticed her cap had been replaced by a white hairband and now she was wearing white scrubs.

"Well, Sasha," she addressed me, "You're so sweet to do it for your sister. You make a very convincing young lady and an especially cute one at that. You certainly fooled me!"

"Thank you, Becky" I said. "I was afraid that I might look like a boy wearing a dress."

"Little chance of that," the nurse reassured me, "unless you move or talk like a boy. By the way, that's 'Becca' and not 'Becky,' please!"

"Oh! I'm sorry, Nurse Becca," I apologized to her. But I was sure that she'd given her name as "Becky." Once again my manicure was no longer visible.

"We do see boys here with gender identity issues who are still learning to present as girls," explained the nurse. "They might dress nicely, but then they don't walk right or talk right or they have other failures in proper feminine behavior. There's so much more to being a woman than just pretty clothes."

"My sister's friends will be teaching me those things after school today," I said. "Or at least they plan to start. My girlfriend's involved, too."

"So it sounds like she might want to have fun with you dressing up, too."

"I've been having hallucinations where we're married and I dress up like her."

"That's unusual," the nurse said.

"It's why my school psychologist brought me here," I admitted.

"Is that Astrid Tollefson?" Becca asked me. "I thought that I saw her earlier today."

"Yeah," I confirmed. "I came with her this morning."

"Sit down now," she instructed. "I need to get your temperature and blood pressure next."

Becca put a fresh sleeve on a digital thermometer and thrust it under my tongue. Next she wrapped a cuff around my upper left arm and began to pump a rubber bulb, then listened to the inside of my elbow with my her stethoscope as she watched a sphygmomanometer.

"Hmm?" she wondered. "Seems a little high. Betcha it's 'cause you've never had anyone see you wearing girls' underthings before."

I blushed again. Becca grinned at me and squeezed my hand. She held my wrist and looked at her wristwatch.

"Your pulse is a little elevated, too," she said with a professional but sincere smile. "Relax, Sasha. You'll be fine."

Just then, I heard a loud beep and she extracted the digital thermometer from my mouth and wrote down the numbers in my chart.

"Astrid and I were roommates in college. We've had a lot of fun together. She can be so silly sometimes! Sit up on the examining table, if you would, please," she told me. She took a wooden tongue depressor out of a jar as I climbed up onto the padded surface of the examining table. The folded paper gown was there once again, right where Marjorie had left it.

"Say 'ah!'" she commanded.

"Ah!" I said as she thrust the oversized popsicle stick into my mouth.

Stepping on a pedal, a trashcan bearing the familiar Biohazard logo opened, and she tossed the once-used piece of wood into it.

"Do you know Ms. Tollefson's brother then?" I probed, curious about our school psychologist's backgeround.

"Dougie? He's a really charming guy," she said. "He's dating my little sister Lisa now."

Next she took a wand of some kind and put a plastic cone on the end of it.

"Turn your head left," she ordered, looking into my ear. "Now right." She opened the trashcan again and discarded the cone.

"Cross your knees," she said next, then struck just below my knee with a rubber hammer.

I felt a tingle as my leg kicked out. I giggled. Like a girl. Again. I still had trouble understanding how I could do that without any coaching.

"Cross them the other way, now." She tapped the other knee with the hammer and it kicked out like the first. I giggled yet again.

So, now I was really scared. I discovered that I like the way pantyhose feel on my legs. I really liked wearing them. That I liked how they feel embarrassed me.

"Sasha," she began, "your legs are so nice. I wish my legs were that shapely! However did you get legs like that?"

"Playing ice hockey," I told her. "Ice skating does wonders to shape up your leg muscles."

"Then I'll have to get out my ice skates next winter."

Was everyone going to ask me for beauty tips today?

Becca took a small flashlight and pointed to a corner of the room.

"Look over there, please," she said, shining the flashlight into one eye, then the other.

Next, she brought out a plastic T-shaped tubular device and put a plastic sleeve on one end it. The bottom of it was plugged into a desktop computer.

"This is a spirometer," explained the nurse. "It's used to measure both breathing rate and volume of breath. Put your lips around the sleeve and breath normally."

Nurse Becca wrote down numbers she read from the monitor and then typed some information into the computer.

"We're almost done here," said the nurse. "Now comes the part that's no fun. I need to draw your blood."

"This will hurt, I'm sure?" I asked her.

"Just a stinging sensation for a second or two," she confirmed.

She produced an empty syringe with a ring at the top of the plunger and a piece of rubber tubing.

"Which arm would you prefer for this?" asked the nurse, offering me a choice.

"Left," I said.

She tied the tubing around my upper arm and felt around the inside of my elbow and just below it. Then I suddenly felt the needle jabbed into my arm and looked away while it filled. Tough as I like to think I am, I'm still quite squeamish. Then I felt some pressure applied to my arm.

"Hold that," Becca told me and I compressed the gauze pad as she let go of it. Quickly she secured it with a strip of medical adhesive tape.

"You can get dressed, now, Sasha," she said, moving toward the door, "and I'll take this over to the lab."

"Could you send Marjorie in to help with my dress?" I asked her.

"Certainly!" Becca promised as she closed the door behind her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I stepped into my navy dress, pulled it up, and thrust my arms through the sleeves. The door opened and Marjorie entered.

"Help!" I cried. "Please zip me up!"

"Of course, Sasha," she said as I felt her hands on my waist from behind. Her hands deftly found the zipper and she closed it up my back. Then she hooked the fastener at the top. I sat down to put my shoes on.

"Sasha, by the time you're done with Dr. Torricelli, it will be time for lunch. Why don't you join me? My treat. It'll be fun to talk with you."

I thought for a moment. I only had twenty dollars in my wallet, and I might need that to get home. Also, I'd be worried about what Tina might think. But Marjorie just seemed curious about me dressing up and maybe she wanted to trade fashion tips. And somehow, I needed to find out where she got her shoes.

"That would be nice. I want to ask you for some fashion tips. I am new at all this," I said, fastening my ankle straps with their tiny buckles. "I'd like to be able to talk about this with my sister, my girlfriend, and their friends without appearing completely uninformed."

"So, you have a girlfriend? Marjorie inquired. What does she think of you dressing as a girl?"

"I'm afraid that she may have way too much fun with it," I lamented. "Sis put her in charge of picking my clothes out for this. But this dress is one of my sister's. It was special to her and she wanted me to wear it for my first day as a girl."

"Do your sister's things fit you well?" she asked.

"Mostly, I would guess. She is a couple inches taller than me, but we seem to have about the same build. My feet seem to be a size larger, because I had to borrow my shoes from one of her bigger friends. Sonia's shoes were just too tight for me."

"Did you do your own face?"

It took me a second to understand that she meant my makeup.

"Oh no!" I answered. "Sis did that. She's really an expert with it. Our faces share the same features and she already knew what to do with it."

"And so elegantly, too, I see," commented Marjorie. "She gave you such a very light touch of it, yet your face has so inviting and sophisticated a look. It contrasts nicely with your pigtails."

"Believe it or not, the braids were my idea," I confessed. "Sonia had done them for me last night, so after she put me into this dress, I asked her to braid my hair again. My biggest fear is being recognized as a boy in a dress. I asked Sis to make me look as much like a girl as she could."

"Seriously, Sasha," she said, "there's nothing the least bit boyish-looking about you whatever. You need to appreciate that many, many girls out there would do anything to look as cute and as pretty as you do right now."

"Really?" I pressed her for reassurance.

"Well, you might need to touch up your lipstick and lipgloss just a little," she said. "There have been days when I didn't look nearly as nice as you do now. But please, never underestimate how— how right you look as a girl!"

She picked up the spirometer and took its sleeve off and gave it to me. There was a light ring of lipstick around it. My lipstick.

"Here's a souvenir for you, Sasha," said Marjorie. "Your first lipstick stain!"

"How many times have I seen women leave lipstick on cups and glasses?" I wondered aloud.

"Next time your girlfriend wears a light-colored blouse," Marjorie said to preface her suggestion, "you should kiss her and leave a lipstick stain on her collar."

I grinned and giggled at the thought.

"We'll go to Dr. Torricelli's office as soon as he signals me that he's ready to talk with you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Marjorie had escorted me again, this time to the psychiatrist's office. This time, I decided to sit on one end of the couch. Weren't psychiatrists supposed to have couches for patients to lie down on? Marjorie closed the door behind me as I sat across from Dr. Torricelli.

"So, your name is Sasha and you're a young man and not a young woman?" Dr. Torricelli asked me.

"Yeah. I dressed up like this as a favor to my sister, Sonia," I told him. "Dr. Magnusson said that I look prettier than his daughter. What do you think?"

"You do look like a very pretty girl," he said, "although your mannerisms and speech need some work."

"Sis has a couple friends she's asking to coach me on those things."

"Your goal is to pass as a girl?"

"Well, I promised Sonia that I'd dress up for her, but I didn't want to look like a boy in a dress. I look a lot like her, but she said my speech and movement was much more likely to give me away than my looks."

"I'd say that she's probably right," he agreed. "So, how do you feel dressed like that?"

"Somewhat anxious and apprehensive, but I'm also trying to have fun with it. Sis says it's important to her for me to enjoy this. I don't want to disappoint her."

"Are you and your sister very close?"

"Yeah," I answered. And I'm beginning to believe that we're even closer than I thought. I think I started to feel that way recently. Sonia set me up with her best friend, Tina, and we really hit it off. She knew somehow that we belong together."

"D'you think you're in love with her?"

"We've both got it really bad!" I confessed. "We've just been dating two weeks but it already feels like we're getting serious."

Dr. Torricelli smiled at me.

"Now, have you ever felt that you are, or want to be, or should have been a girl?"

"Even though I might look like a girl," I answered, "I'm perfectly happy to be a guy. This is all just for fun!"

"Again, answer the question: have you ever felt that you wanted to be or should have been a girl?"

Now he was asking me about what I had wanted? And he wasn't going to let me deflect the question. I'd need to be careful. I took the opportunity to stretch out on the couch. The leather was cool and I liked the way it felt through my pantyhose along the length of my legs.

"I've imagined being a girl," I admitted. "Mostly curiosity, I think. I've wondered how it would feel to be a girl, but I wouldn't want to quit being a boy, either. And Sonia is so good at being a girl, sometimes I've been a little jealous of her. If I were to be a girl, I'd want to be one like she is."

"Sounds like she's a role model for you? he speculated.

"Maybe," I replied, "but I think she's the world's best sister."

"All right," Dr. Torricelli said, relenting from that topic. "What I really need to discuss with you is the series of 'hallucinations' that you've reported."

"That's why I'm here," I affirmed. "They've really been freaking me out. They seem, they feel so real— too real!"

"When did they start, Sasha?"

"Two days ago," I replied.

Dr. Torricelli looked at notes in a file folder, frowning. He then consulted a small spiral-bound volume on his desk.

"Sasha," he said, "there's much more here than meets the eye."

"No kidding, Doc!" I retorted.

"By the book, son," he continued, "most of the unusual perceptions that you described to Dr. Magnusson, may not be hallucinations, but illusions. It's not clear to me exactly which you've experienced. Maybe you've had some of both? I can't really tell from your descriptions alone."

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"Technically speaking, a hallucination occurs when your perception has no external stimulus," explained the psychiatrist, "but an illusion is only a distorted perception of an external stimulus."

"I'm not sure I understand the difference."

"Let's take your own descriptions as examples," he began. "You dress in a black tee-shirt and red denim jeans, but then you look at yourself wearing a black turtleneck with a red denim skirt. That sounds more like an illusion to me. But when you're alone in your bed and your girlfriend suddenly appears next to you, and then she's gone, that seems more like a hallucination.

"Okay, I think I get the difference there," I confirmed. "But how important is the difference?"

"Well, a hallucination usually occurs as a symptom of a psychotic disorder, while an illusion does not. In the case of a hallucination, you're seeing things that aren't there to begin with. That's usually more serious than an illusion. In an illusion you're misperceiving what is there. That's not quite so serious as the first case."

"So, you're saying a hallucination means a more serious illness?"

"In a word, yes," he confirmed. "But again, it's not clear which kind of perception we need to deal with just yet. So don't go jumping to any conclusions now. First of all, we need to do a few tests on you.

"What kind of tests?"

"Tests on your brain. I must refer you to a neurologist for those," the doctor informed me as he wrote on a small pad. "At the very least, you'll need an EEG and we'll take it from there."

Ms. Tollefson said that Dr. Torricelli would probably make such a referral.

"What's an EEG?"

"That's short for electroencephalogram, which is a chart of your brainwaves. If your brainwaves aren't normal, it might indicate a brain injury of some kind."

"Ms. Tollefson said that it's possible I could have concussion from playing soccer or ice hockey. Would that cause what's happening to me?"

"Certainly it could, although it would be somewhat unusual. But checking for it is simple enough and it's a good place to start looking. However, there are also many other things that it might be. Don't jump to any conclusions. But I should ask you have you had many collisions playing sports?"

"Oh yeah. Quite a few, especially at ice hockey."

"Have you hit your head in these? Hitting your head on the ice might result in a serious injury."

"I get knocked down a lot, but not on my head. Most often it's on my butt!"

"That makes a concussion unlikely," he assured me, "but it's still possible. You don't look to me too much like a hockey player, though."

Was he referring to my dress or my size?

"I had the most penalty minutes on the team this season. I may be short, but I'm tough in the rink! Mom says I 'assert my presence' on the ice."

"Yet you're okay sitting here dressed like your sister," chuckled Dr. Torricelli, "although you don't feel compelled to become a girl? Sasha, maybe you're just very androgynous?"

"That's what Ms. Tollefson said after she gave me that test yesterday."

"What test?"

"She said it was the Bem— BSRI?"

"The Bem Sex Role Inventory?"

"Yeah, that's it!"

"Did she tell you your score?"

"I think it was six-point-one on the em-scale and six-point-four on the eff-scale."

"Yes, that would mean that you're fairly androgynous according to the test."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked. "This morning Mom said that Dad is also very androgynous."

"Well, that depends entirely on what you do with it. You present well as a young woman. I expect that you are no less as a young man. From what you told Dr. Magnusson, you seem quite curious about exploring the feminine lifestyle. You may have some gender identity issues, but you don't seem to have any real gender dysphoria. For you, the time you spend dressed as a girl may be time well spent."

"You mean I should dress like this?"

"In your heart of hearts, I think you want to. You've been curious about it for a long time, if for no other reason, because your sister kept reminding you. And I also think that somehow she knew that you wanted to do it."

"I only promised her that I would until Monday."

"Yes, but I think that you will want to extend this little experiment a while longer. You had mentioned that you were beginning to have fun with it. Since you've already given yourself permission to do it, also give yourself the permission to enjoy it."

"Dr. Magnusson said it would be healthy."

"If you're doing it the right way and for the right reasons, and I think you are, then yes!"

"Can you sign this medical readmission form so I can go back to school next week?" I asked, presenting him the blue paper.

Dr. Torricelli took my form and said, "In my professional opinion you present no danger to yourself or others. Do you plan to dress like that for school on Monday?"

"I don't know. I didn't think that I would get my form signed before next week. But I did promise Sonia that I would dress up, thinking that I'd still be at home."

"There's an area here on your form to indicate any conditions or restrictions for you to return. I'm going to indicate that they should allow you to attend classes cross-dressed if you'd like to. I want you to have that as an option."

"Is that necessary?" I queried him.

"Necessary? Probably not," he remarked. "But if you should like to or need to show up at school en femme, noting it on this form, signed by your psychiatrist, would help you avoid possible administrative hassles. Remember, we do see boys your age with gender dysphoria here and I have had some experience with how school administrators can react."

Hmm? Should I let Sonia know about this? If I told her,then I knew I'd be wearing a dress to school Monday. But Dr. Torricelli was right. I was beginning to enjoy this enough that the possibility that I could go to class like this excited me. But it frightened me as well.

"Thanks, Doc!" I said, accepting the form back from him.

"Sasha, here's a referral to a neurologist for you," he said, handing me yet another paper. Paula Bennett is very, very good at what she does. Give this to Marjorie before you leave and she'll schedule an appointment with her for you."

"Does it matter when I see her?" I asked, taking the referral form as well.

"The sooner, the better," he said. "We need some test results before making a definite diagnosis. I'm not prescribing you any meds today because I'm not sure that your symptoms are really psychotic. Anti-psychotic drugs can have very nasty side-effects and I don't want you taking them unless and until it's absolutely necessary. If what you're having are not hallucinations, the meds might not even help. If you can't sleep, that's a different matter and I might offer you a sleep aid."

"What should I do until then?" I asked the doctor.

"Dr. Magnusson said he told you about insight. You seem to know what's real and what's not. You have found your own way of knowing what's not as it should be. I'd rather for now that you rely on your own insight as much as you can. Frankly you're handling this as well as anyone could. Are you having any trouble sleeping?"

"Not really," I answered. "Except for some really strange dreams."

"What kind of dreams?"

"I was dreaming that I was playing soccer and then ice hockey wearing a cheerleader's uniform. And someone would ask me if I was a particle or wave? That made no sense to me whatever."

"Have you taken high-school physics yet?" asked the doctor.

"No, that's scheduled for next year," I said.

"It's a reference to quantum physics," he told me. "It's possible to view subatomic phenomena as either a wave or a particle, but not both. As an observer, you can set up an experiment to look at whichever you want, but not both at the same time. It's your choice which one to study, but then you can't know anything about the other. When this was first discovered, it shook up the physics community around the world. It's something you can look up in the library, or ask a science teacher about it."

"Why would I be hearing it while dreaming?"

"I don't know," Dr. Torricelli admitted. "That's a very good question. Indeed, you've picked up some knowledge of it, even if you're not aware how, when or where."

"That's weird," I commented.

"Welcome to my world, Sasha!" he retorted, laughing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Marjorie set her telephone handset down in its cradle. "I've arranged an appointment with Doctor Bennett for you next week. Her office will call to remind you the day before and tell you any special instructions you might need to follow."

"So is everything all set?" I asked her.

"Yes, it is," she said. "Let's go to lunch, now. I'm ready to eat something before I starve! You wanna try Aunt Ellie's Kitchen? It's just across the street. They have good soups, salads, and sandwiches there, and they make a really great deep-dish pizza. Many of us in the building eat there often. We use them for catering, too."

"It sounds fine to me," I answered.

Then let's go, Sasha," Marjorie ordered. With that, she stood up, slung her purse over her right shoulder, and we were out the door.

up
96 users have voted.
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos! Click the "Thumbs Up!" button above to leave a Kudos

Comments

Strange, But Not

littlerocksilver's picture

I love the Quantum Theory reference. As I read this, each of the episodes, hallucination or illusion, becomes more solidified. So what is going to become a firm reality?

Portia

Portia

Curioser and Curioser

This gets weirder by the chapter - I wonder if Sasha will have any insights into the relationship between the alternate reality versions of himself and Tina from before their marriage two weeks ago (which coincided with when they first met in this reality). It seems interesting that practically everyone is encouraging him to dress en femme... I wonder if the real world version of himself will eventually succumb to temptation and order a French manicure (although on the other hand, since that's the primary distinguishing factor separating reality from illusion, maybe not...)

 

Bike Resources

There are 10 kinds of people in the world - those who understand binary and those who don't...

As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!

particle or wave

another great chapter, and it looks like sasha has more people in his/her corner, no matter which he/she chooses.

DogSig.png

Strange

Still in the dark. Thanks. Waiting for the next chapter.

Wth the Doctor's help,

Sasha is getting better. It seems that now that his hallucinations are known, that in time, he will control them

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

I need to read this whole series.

This story is a little hard to classify. I really enjoy reading it, and I look forward to more! Some stories give you an idea where they are going. This one is a liitle harder to anticipate, which makes it very enjoyable!

Waiting for more!
Wren

particle or wave again

This is a very interesting story and fun to read.

No criticism but,..... Yeah, I can't help it.

There have been experiments that show that visible light can be seen as a particle or a wave. I have no idea of the size of the particle, but I think one photon is visible without magnification, if one gets er eyes as dark adapted as possible. The wave length of visible light is a little smaller than a micron, 10^-6 meter. An atom is about 10^-10 meter, also known as an angstrom unit.

Hugs and Bright Blessings,
Renee

Hugs and Bright Blessings,
Renee

Little Peeks

Cindy Lou's picture

What a marvellous collection of vignettes. Well defined and pointed up.
I kept looking for continued 'hallusions' in the second half of this chapter; especially since time and events were so compressed. Now, I am left wondering if that is significant.... perhaps your intent.