A/N: I really am sorry about the choppy updates. This story is honestly a whole lot harder and much more triggering for me to write than I thought it might be.

"Honey, we've booked an appointment for you." My mother's face was nothing but concern and worry. I knew her and my father had talked about it before, but ... I hadn't thought they go through with it.

"Oh," was all I could muster. Were they finally going to let me see a psychiatrist? Get me started?

Breakfast after that felt much lighter. Although I still felt hopelessly lost and that horrible feeling of dread, that awful trepidation about confronting Ganondorf on Monday pressing down on me every waking moment, I still had a bit of hope. My mother informed me that they'd booked the appointment with a psychiatrist before I'd transferred and that we were going in as a family on Sunday. Tomorrow.

As much as I looked forward to the meeting, I also felt skeptical about my parents being in the room with me. My mother made it clear that that was going to be how it was, whether I wanted to or not. I just hoped that they would behave themselves and not screw this up for me.

Pushing away the meagre remains of my food, I had just excused myself when my mother noticed my hand. I'd wrapped it in athletic tape when I couldn't find anything else and had been trying to hide the injury with my long sleeves. Clearly, it hadn't worked as well as I'd hoped.

"Did you get that from the mirror?" She asked, horrified. The look on her face wasn't suspicious, even though she'd found out before that I'd tried self-harm when I was dating the asshole that was my ex. That was good.

Quickly coming up with an excuse, I nodded. "Yeah, when I tripped I tried to grab the wall and missed." That sounded plausible at least. "It's taped because it's bruised," I offered when she got up to look at it. Hiding it back in my sleeve, I shied away from her. "Really, it's okay."

She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, but didn't push to see it. "There must be glass everywhere, I'll come help you clean it up today."

"I already got it." A lie, but I didn't want her to see the blood in my sink. I forced a smile. "Thanks anyway."

She sighed and dropped back into her seat, shaking her head. "If you say so." As I left, I heard her mumble, "I just wish you'd trust me more."

I fled before the guilt could get me.

The waiting was the hard part. I had always been a tad impatient, but I hadn't quite realized how much so until I was forced to sit fidgeting in an unforgiving plastic chair. My father shot me sour looks whenever I brought my hand to my face to chew nervously at the scrapes on my knuckles, but it was hard to resist. Settling instead for my cuticles, I gnawed away at my fingers until my birth name was called.

Shooting up out of my chair, I almost ran ahead of the receptionist in my haste. I needed to see the doctor, I needed this done. I couldn't wait any more, waiting was too hard, too stressful, and too many things could go wrong in the meantime.

The room we were lead to felt less like a doctor's exam room and more like a principal's office. The large wooden desk separated the doctor from the three chairs – leather, slightly reclined, much more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room. The walls were covered in framed degrees and awards, only a single picture of the doctor's family sat on the desk to make it seem personal.

It made me feel uncomfortable, like the warm colours of the wood and the beige paint were covering the shiny, sterile metal underneath. It felt like judgement. I didn't like it at all.

He smiled at me, shook my hand before I sat. Introduced himself to my parents before they too seated themselves. Then his eyes were on me. They too were warm, much too kind. Uncomfortably welcoming.

I swallowed nervously, waiting for the first question, forcing a smile. I played with the edge of the leather, sitting at the edge of my seat and quite at attention. Awkward.

Finally, he asked, "So, what do you want your name to be?"

My heart soared. He wouldn't be dicking around, that was great! "Sheik," I answered, voice husky. That was all I could say, I was too nervous with my parents staring at me like that. I wanted to spill my guts, tell him everything I knew he wanted to hear to give me the diagnoses – my heart sank. That was right, a diagnoses. I was nothing more than diseased.

My father shifted forward, clearing his throat and grabbing all our attention – silently, I resented him for that. "My daughter wants to be a boy," he said, making me cringe internally. I screamed mentally at him, hurling the most colourful insults I could think of, head feeling fuzzy with anger. Would he never get it?

"I see," said the doctor, waiting for him to continue when my father paused.

"Well? Can you help her?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to calm myself. Hollering at him would accomplish nothing at this point.

"Maybe this is all just a phase, you know? She's always just been a tomboy, I don't think she's serious."

"Although I appreciate you coming in, I would like to ask my patient some questions first."

If it was possible, my heart sank lower, beating roughly where my intestines were supposed to sit. My father's face coloured as he sat back, crossing his arms with a huff. But it did shut him up and for that I was infinitely more glad than I thought possible.

"Sheik." I turned to face him as he spoke. "Why don't you tell me about this yourself?"

My face flushed. It would be hard to say what I needed with my parents in the room, but I had to. They had to hear it too. "Well," I stuttered, knowing I had to start from the beginning but not sure where that beginning was. "I've been like this since I can remember." I had to feed him what he wanted, but I didn't want to lie. "I've felt like a boy since I can remember." I hated that phrasing. Felt like a boy was such a cop out. No, I didn't feel like a boy, I was a boy.

He nodded, scratching something down on his pad. My palms grew damp. Was I doing it wrong already?

Another deep breath. I had to stay calm, begging him would only hurt my cause. "I mean, I felt more at home playing with the boys than with the girls, and I've never been into girly things." Another cop out. What I liked to do as a kid had no bearing on how I felt, but it was true. "I connected better with the boys. It always kind of hurt when they'd tell me I couldn't do something with them because I wasn't a boy."

His eyebrows raised and I clammed up. More scratching on his pad. I knew my parent's eyes were on me and I could even feel the anger and judgement coming off my father. He always was quick to be a prick.

"So, you like other girls, then?"

Other girls? I just about got up and stormed out then. What the hell was so hard to understand about this? Fuck! "No," I answered, voice shaking. Would my parents understand? I knew that they thought I was being selfish and my mother definitely thought I would 'stay straight' if I was ever able to fully transition. "I'm gay."

If his eyebrows could physically fuse together, I was sure they would. Knitted together, they seemed to be, anyway. "I see," was all he said.

Shit. That was obviously the wrong thing to say.

I felt tears in my eyes. How much longer would this go on? I wasn't sure I could take being interrogated like this for another minute. I had to, though. I needed this. So pushing my emotions away, I forced myself to blink away the wetness in my eyes, not letting a drop spill. That would be too weak.

After writing something down for what felt like ages, he looked up again. "Well," he said, standing. "It's been nice talking with you, but it seems our time is up." He nodded at me, smiling at my parents. "Fifteen minutes never is enough. Why don't you talk to the receptionist about making another appointment?"

Wait, was that it?

Fuck.