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It took about two minutes of looking at the explanation of how PCOS was diagnosed and treated for Tommy to decide that he would rather die than be diagnosed with that .
He didn’t even have that bad of symptoms, just slightly more hair on his face and stomach. And maybe some really bad cramping, but that was normal! He wasn’t on T, he didn’t have any blockers to prevent him from having his period. Obviously, he hadn’t asked Phil and his old family wouldn’t have given them to him even if he’d begged for weeks. They wouldn’t even let him wear his binder , taking blockers or testosterone was a whole different level.
Still, here he was, listening to Wilbur’s music with his earbuds in, crying like a girl would over having a disease a girl would and then immediately feeling guilty because being a girl in and of itself wasn’t bad he just wasn’t a girl but the whole medical world didn’t see it that way. He was still listed as female on his records because his parents said it was “important for the doctors to know” and he couldn’t change it because he didn’t know how, he didn’t have the money to anyways and there were so many legal ramifications and the like to the whole stupid thing.
Running a hand through his hair, tugging at the too-long blond curls (they weren’t that long, he was just being overdramatic and pathetic , Techno’s hair was a thousand times longer than his was and everyone saw him as a man, Phil’s hair was longer than his was and no one cared), Tommy let out a quiet sob. In all honesty, if it came down to it, he would really rather die from some stupid “girl-only” disease than get it diagnosed. Than get anywhere close to getting a diagnosis for it.
A sense of nausea welled up in his stomach, aggressive and overtaking like a flood. Shaking his hands out, he paced around his room tightly, eyes narrowed. He still had his old razor sitting on his vanity, he could grab it. He could kill himself right then, never have to worry about it again.
Stop being dramatic, he snarled at himself. If he was going to have to beat his body into submission to make it work, then so be it. He was not going to be like this, he wouldn’t let it. You don’t need to kill yourself.
He was not going to get this diagnosed. He could deal with a little pain—not like he was planning on having kids anyways. How could he? After all, if he carried them then sure that was his choice but his parents would mock him. The others would probably all look at him weirdly, because that was kind of weird, wasn’t it? So what if he had fertility issues? Who gave a shit anyways? He didn’t, it was his body.
Scratching at his arm again, he looked down at it. He couldn’t relapse. He wouldn’t, he wasn’t going to relapse especially since he told people that he was fine. He was supposed to be getting better, not having stupid dysphoria-induced anxiety attacks over some stupid disease he might not even have!
There was a knock at his door.
“Tommy?” Phil’s voice filtered in. “Mind if I come in?”
“Go ahead.” Tommy replied, wincing at the voice crack as he sank down on his bed and began picking at his nails. Within a few seconds, he’d accidentally ripped off the top layer of one of them. Damnit. Next to him, the bed sank down. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to know how you were doing. With the whole…doctor’s appointment and everything.” Phil tipped his head to the side. Pulling his knees up to his chest (his stupid chest he didn’t have top surgery at least he had a binder now but even that he was carefully monitored with so he didn’t hurt himself), Tommy glared at the floor.
“I’m not getting those exams. For PCOS.” Tommy decided, speaking in a fierce tone. “I don’t care what you say, I’m not getting those exams.”
Phil sighed, like he wanted to protest but wasn’t sure how. “Tommy—”
“No, Phil. I don’t care. I don’t care even if I have cancer or some shit like that, I would rather die.” Tommy fired back, focusing a glare on him. There was a peculiar look on his adopted dad’s face. “ I’m not getting it. You’re not going to make me.”
“Tommy, I want you to be healthy .” Phil pointed out. “If you need this kind of thing so you’re not hurting—”
“It doesn’t matter! I’m going to get a hysterectomy anyways once I’m old enough, I’m not having kids. So what if I have to deal with a couple more years of—whatever the hell this is!” Jumping up, Tommy gestured, “I’m not! I won’t let—I will fight you, you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming there. I’ll walk right out of the stupid—right out of the office, I’ll walk home. I’m not getting those exams.”
Phil was looking at him. “I don’t want you to be in pain, Tommy.”
“I don’t care! It’s not that bad, I’ve dealt with it before.” Crossing his arms over his chest, tears welling up in his eyes ( why did he have to cry when he was angry, it was so stupid) , Tommy focused a glare on his gaming setup. “I’m not—it’s my body. Why don’t I get to make decisions about it?” Phil went quiet. Turning to look at him, Tommy asked, “Well? Why don’t I get to choose? I’m not having those tests, I would rather die.” The whole idea made him want to puke, gave him every sign he was about to and even just that nearly sent him to tears. He was going to have a mental breakdown about medical examinations that weren’t even going to happen.
“Tommy.” Getting up, Phil crossed the space, reached for his arms and then hesitated. When Tommy didn’t move away, he let his hands rest on Tommy’s shoulders, holding onto him lightly. “I’m not going to make you get those tests if you don’t want to. Hell, we—we might as well just see if we can get you on, like, birth control. I’m sure something will help with that, alright?”
Shaking, Tommy broke down crying again, and Phil pulled him into a hug.
“Why can’t I just have been normal?” Tommy asked, face pressed into Phil’s collarbone as he shook and cried. Pulling him tighter, Phil rubbed his back once, tugged him over to the bed so they could sit down.
“You’re perfectly fine the way you are, Tommy.” That just made Tommy cry harder, and Phil let out a soft huff. “We’ll get through this, kid. I promise.”
Still holding onto him, Tommy kept crying.