Reparative Theramalarkey

Sometimes I wonder why I subject myself to such nonsense.  Does my getting all pissed off about the idiocy of some people really serve a purpose (other than achieving that little extra push during cardio at the gym, of course)?  Does it really do me or anyone else any good that I sit here steaming over things like the fallacy of reparative therapy, or the “moral majority’s” belief that they must interfere with other people's lives for the sake of what is “good and decent?”  Does it really matter?

Of course it matters.

Given the attention this topic has received, my contribution to the discussion is nothing more than piling on.  Anything I have to say has already been said by hundreds of people much smarter and better versed than I.  For that reason I will refrain from offering analysis, but I will tell you what I think.  I just watched the most infuriating set of videos on YouTube (which I have intentionally NOT linked, as I would hate to contribute to any more proliferation of nonsense) in which a couple “Christian counselors” offered their take on how boys “become” transsexual, and how they “fix” that problem.

Can you believe that one of these nuts actually suggested that a boy being too close to his mother often causes transsexualism?  Yes, because a mother is “too enmeshed” with her son, the boy will want to wear panties and play with dolls.  That makes perfect sense.  And can you believe that curing that boy’s “sinful nature” is as simple as getting his father to play with him more?  Miraculous.  I think I might actually have cured myself just by watching the video!  I think I’ll go take up baseball or shoot a gun or something.

I have never had a close relationship with my mother.  In fact, I think the nicest thing she may ever have said to me was “I certainly hope you don’t turn out queer.”  So loving.  On the other hand, my father was a loving and supportive part of my life.  There were incidents, of course… trying to teach me to play baseball, spending the entire lesson yelling at me for throwing like a girl, and eventually giving up and having a Coke together… that kind of thing.  But to his dying die, I always knew that my dad loved me no matter what, and I always felt safe with (if somewhat afraid of) him.

So, maybe all these years, I have been cured and I just never realized it?  I wonder if that’s why I have dreams about football players – large, muscular, powerful football players in tight pants... tackling each other.  I must want to be an athlete.

Thanks Mom!  Thanks Dad!  Thanks Christian Coalition!  Thanks reparative therapy!

So, do you think Coach makes duffel bags?  I need somewhere to store my Gucci baseball glove and Prada cleats.

Love you all, and good night!
Hugs,
Kate