He is running from one corner of the room to the other, only giving himself a break when he flings onto the furniture for a rest. The therapist sits across from me. “Has he been diagnosed … ?” Before he can finish the statement, Henry darts at me, his face inches from mine. “Have I been diagnosed? Have I been diagnosed?” His questions come without pause, offering me no space to answer. I talk over him. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. We’ve all been diagnosed. You’ve been diagnosed with a cold. Remember, when you were sick and the doctor said you had a cold? That’s a diagnosis.”
I hope my answer signals to the therapist that we have not told Henry about his autism spectrum diagnosis. But as I see him reach for the DSM, it is clear my signal was too weak.
“See, this is a book that has diagnoses. The therapist holds the DSM high above Henry’s head. “It helps us understand how to help people.” As the therapist talks, Henry runs to another corner of the room. I can feel the searing heat build in my ears. I watch as Henry expels all of his energy and frustration in a single dramatic body fling onto the floor. I want to be free of this anger and be present in my body.
The therapist turns to me again. “So, Dad, what do we want to work on today?” I look back at Henry and lie. “Everything has been going pretty good. I don’t have anything.”
Outside the office, Henry hops down the steps. “Did you know there is a green, red and black Hulk?” I give no answer and he keeps going. He continues on for the entire car ride. As we ride, the heat in my ears has worked its way inside but I don’t snap at him, as I sometimes do. Why are there so many books that diagnose people as wrong?
When I was 14 years old, the preacher at the front of the church held up the Bible and said, “It’s in God’s word. Homosexuality is a sin. Not only is it a sin, it’s an abomination.” Ellen DeGeneres had come out on her sitcom that year. In response, my church had an entire week’s worth of services dedicated to homosexual atrocities. For the first time, a book was given more credence than my lived experience.
Thirteen years later, I find myself in a therapist’s office explaining that I would like to have top surgery. She scribbles notes. I’m her first trans patient. She explains the Henry Benjamin Standards of Care in more detail than I need. We will follow this protocol. First, the DSM. She explains in order to obtain top surgery, I first need to be diagnosed. Gender Identity Dysphoria. Here is another book with another description of my incorrect, diagnosable life.
Henry unbuckles his car seat and jumps out of the car. The fall air swirls around us. “Look at all the stars.” He stops for one second, “Yeah!” He spins around the yard as the yard spins beneath him. His energy is limitless and diagnosable. “Come on. We need to get inside.” He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t come. But neither do the stars.