I´m on a list.
Hey, wait. No, not that kind of list. Although sometimes it feels much the same. Actually it feels pretty much the same. I´m on a list for treatment with a genderteam in Amsterdam, which is one of two nationally established teams that diagnose gender dysphoria and then proceed to decide (for you) whether your claim is truly valid.
You can´t think for yourself, after all. It is absolutely paramount that someone who studied gender for about three years in university be in charge of deciding who you are exactly and whether you get to become who you want to be in life. We could outsource the treatment plan to trans* identified people who have actual experience in the field of transitioning, but we wouldn´t want that, because all those guys want is to convert new youngins to the ranks of transsexuals.
As you might be able to tell, I am not exactly thrilled about the paternalistic approach with which gender institutions deem it necessary to treat my “condition”. First of all, the list itself is some four to six months long (depending on the year and whether or not their computer system needs to be updated). If you manage to survive this time mentally unscathed (which is unlikely), you get to be evaluated by a psychologist who promises to take another six months minimum to “observe you” for one hour each month.
If you, as a friend (or not as a friend, I don´t know who reads this), forcibly put me in a cubicle and tell me that I should conform to certain stereotypes in order to qualify as transgender, you will undoubtedly discover that I will not be incredibly frank with you and that it is not possible to see how I relate to other people while watching me sit on a chair unwillingly. Thus, the being on a list is not quite a cause of celebration. Every sane trans* identified person would at least wonder why they are being subjected to dysphoria for much longer than they need be.