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Memories: 28 June 2022

by Tanya Arons about a month ago in humanity
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Serious health issues which I am still barely surviving. :-(

28 June 2022

3 pm. I have been down to Coles to buy groceries. I had to push myself out into the world. It took almost superhuman stoicism. My lungs are still quite bad but I figured I was not coughing too much. Halfway through pushing my supermarket trolley I felt faint but I reminded myself that I am strong and I can do almost anything.

Other humans shuffled around the supermarket looking flaccid, soulless and frankly traumatised. There was hardly any toilet paper again (wtf???) but I bought one packet (I refuse to hoard like an animal…it’s indecent and frankly blocks my chi ;-)).

I struggled around the store and went into Miss Five comfort mode by buying four blocks of chocolate! But they were on special for $2:50 each. No toilet paper but we can all kill ourselves with copious carbicide. Eat shit and die…Bitches! :-)

I did buy watermelon and mushrooms. Not much vegetables available. We are being slowly starved out. I would go to war about it but as I am so very ill I don’t have the energy and soon this shall pass… or I shall pass…whatever!

I got frustrated by the checkout woman having a long conversation with a customer/friend while I waited patiently. The steam was rising but I tamped it down. Being angry takes away precious reserves including my breath.

Besides it’s the zombie apocalypse…be nice, smile through grit teeth, pretend you don’t mind that they waste your time, oxygen and energy on fraternisation.

Right? Yeah right on baby, you got this. Most are not at home in their own minds and bodies but you are, fully functioning on your precious low-oxygenated body as you have done since infancy.

I check out. Pay. Saunter to the lift. The same silly chattering woman gets into my lift with me. I feel sure we have briefly met before under similar circumstances.

I try very hard not to roll my eyes. I even smile. “Be kind…be kind…it’s not their fault you are sick and have to struggle alone and get rightfully enraged”.

She looks into my face and quietly muses that she has lost track of time as how much effort it takes just to get groceries. I want to yell at her, well if you focused on the task at hand instead of nattering for hours you would be home already and so would I!

But I smile serenely like a serial killer and reply “indeed, time marches on…with or without us”. She did a little quiver. Nice woman, really. It’s me that has an attitude as I am in Berserker Survival mode with my current longterm illness.

I go to my car, load it up. Some woman in giant mercedes 4WD tries to park behind me and almost drives into me. I shoot her my best death stare. She reverses and then re-enters the park. Slightly less aggressively this time.

I smirk at her. Get in my car. Drive home. Home home home. I am like a homing pigeon. No longer wanting any unnecessary interactions with other humans. What have I become?

Disgusted. Contemptuous and often discombobulated. There has been too much propaganda, too much vicious attacks (both physical and emotional) on my life lately.

I feel like The Joker on the brink of anarchy.

But shhh….it’s just the lack of oxygen talking. I get home, put the food away. Smile at my poor housekeeping strategies: chocolate, tea, dog food but not enough actual food! Psy sighs. This will mean other forced interactions with a supermarket in the near future.

I am worried about money but I congratulate myself on having paid off all my current debts. I ponder how I will get through the next fortnight. But…I mollify myself that I will do it. Like a champion. No need to grind my own gears and eat my own liver.

I just need to heal myself. Life will blossom out again, by the will of all the gods.

Grateful happy woman here. (Even if I was surrounded by acopic idiots today)

28 June 2019

#queenslandhealth

#PrincessAlexandrahospital

#queenElizabethhospital

#healthrightscommission

Trigger warning: csa, systemic abuse, domestic violence. Spiritual abuse.

I am processing the incongruent confluence of events that cumulated in my systemic and familial abuse when I went in for surgery on Tuesday.

Several things come to mind so I will Document them here. Some of it is some god awful Ancestral curse and some of it is the result of inter generational trauma and our current sick evil perverted society.

So I will speak of my inherited trauma from operations my mother had (during my childhood) first.

When I was 7 (at a very vulnerable time in my then life as I was regularly molested by my god father from age 6-8) my mother Gisela had dental work done and actually died of an asthma attack while on his chair. She was clinically dead for two minutes.

The last thing she heard was the dentist freaking out and it was the nurse who yelled to call for an ambulance and started administering cpr.

My mother told me that she had an OBE (out of body experience) and went through a tunnel out into a bright light that became a beautiful meadow full of wildflowers that almost flowed with luminescent vitality.

She wandered through the meadow in a blissful state for what seemed like hours but was mere minutes until she heard a church bell tolling all around her. A voice told her “You have to go back” she replied “but it is so lovely here, so peaceful. I don’t want to!” The voice replied again “you have to go back, but remember...there is life after death”.

The last words echoing resonantly, exhorting her to “remember” with the tolling bell. She was sucked back into her body, looking into the faces of her very distraught dentist and his assistant.

It was a bitter twist of irony that after 37 years of threatening me as her child that she would die of cancer, she actually died of Advanced Alzheimers so she could no longer remember anything at all.

My mother Gisela (unworthy of title of mother but that is another story) had also had a similar experience without the actual clinical death, when I was born. She had gripped my father’s arm (coming out of the etheric anaesthetic from the Caesarian) and told my Dad that she had been to the other side and seen heaven.

Now as a background...as a 7 year old I was so deeply traumatised by my familial abusers (suffering sexual, physical, emotional and mental violence regularly) that I had been praying for what all good little (former!!!) Lutheran children believe in … that Jesus that I was already not so sure about as I was already rejecting the kind of “god”that could allow my abuse and the kind of ministers that could tell me at age 6 that only Christians went to heaven and everyone else was condemned to hell.

Well I knew I was already in a living hell and that somehow I had to survive it. So I prayed to God every night to save me. Often weeping for hours, shaking and mortified.

When my mother clinically died and saw the meadow and heard the angelic voice instructing her to come back I knew one thing. My prayers had not been answered. I would never be saved and that I was stuck with that particular monster. But I did not hate god, only Jesus for his epic filthy betrayal causing the children to suffer unto him! I did not seek out suffering. I wanted redemption. Joy. Healing. Real love. Safety.

Just before my 8th birthday I was saved from Trevor Singh by my mother taking me on a cruise to Germany (we disembarked The Fairstar, at Rotterdam, The Netherlands). God had answered my prayers! I was going to be safe. I almost danced for joy.

But no…My father threw a mad borderline catastrophic violent Berserker fit on the day we embarked the Fairstar. He smashed a bathroom window. He screamed for hours. He knew his marriage was about to be over. I was deeply distressed that first afternoon on board the ship. Confused and mentally distressed. Yet excited by the possibility of freedom.

That was short lived as again a paedophile was our steward and he attempted to molest me in our cabin while my mother cavorted at night. But I made loud noises and rolled my tiny body away and pretended to sleep. So he did not do much to me and I was relieved.

Someone must have seen him as after several nights he stopped sneaking into our cabin. But my mother invited him to my 8th birthday on the ship and he gave a present of a gonk toy. Funny looking fluffy thing. I just stared and stared at him in contemptuous amazement at his gall.

I became sick on that cruise shortly after we left the Canary Islands. The ships doctor could not identify the cause of my itchy hives and fever and distress. (An obvious reaction from being surrounded by predators on the open sea).

Arriving in Lisbon I was still weak and feverish. My mother said I wasted her money for the tour through Lisbon as I slept through most of it, my head pressed against the glass, drooling. She even hit me in the face because of it.

Now to go back to our medical histories: when I was 11 my mother was 49. We were then living in Melbourne with my new de facto sexual predator bastard concentration camp surviving step father! He regularly denied me medical treatment with my bronchitis as he accused me of being an actor!

I would get so Ill and weak that Gisela would eventually take me to the Royal Alfred. Where I would be grilled by elderly unkind unsympathetic doctors and fed tetracyclines. (Which damaged my teeth but kept me alive I suppose!)

We had been living with Cees since I was 9 as she met him in our return voyage from Europe on the Ellinis. She almost died on that voyage of a severe asthma attack and was in the ship’s clinic for 3 of the 4 week voyage.

I looked after myself. All meals are provided on ship and had generally a marvellous time except for the worry that my mother might die.

Anyway at my age 11 she gets surgery for her gallstones. She was out at the end of a long cold ward and barely given any care. (Her asthma which was often brought on by anxiety or trauma but that time on the Ellinis it was the stifling stale air on c deck three levels below the sea without air conditioning was baddd).

I feared losing my mother like never before. She had a long incision (about 6 inches long) on her right side of her belly. She was also in menopause. She sweated and swore and was delirious. A lot. She begged me to get the nurses. I did. They seemed aloof and disinterested. My mother told me she feared dying and as this was a frequent refrain in my childhood I believed her. At this time it certainly looked like she might not make it!!!)

For months, even a year or two after that surgery my mother would triumphantly rattle a specimen bottle full of her gallstones each morning. I would be asked to study and admire how hard and green and shiny they were. What a miracle a human body is that it can create stones!

This wore a bit thin after a while. But she had endured terrible systemic abuse at that hospital in Melbourne and as a child I was very proud of my mother for merely surviving it. (She had also been abused in Germany in labour with Angela. Forced by nuns to walk up 5 flights of stairs in extreme agony in full labour and tore open). She always hated nuns and catholic hospitals after that.

Now fast forward to a few years ago. My daughter Crystal had gall bladder surgery at the Royal Brisbane hospital. She had a laparoscopic procedure like mine but under an emergency situation as she had had an extreme attack but was sent home after 3 hours without being monitored overnight or without any post-op pain relief. She went home with her boyfriend who did not bother to ask for pain relief for her...but himself in chronic pain, fed her a few of his tramadol.

By midnight I received a frantic call that she was in agony. I offered to come immediately but I needed to bring my dog. There was a massive fight about that because the bf is a psychopath.

So I arrived in great distress, drove my daughter to the hospital and I yelled at the hospital staff as I had had to make my daughter walk as there was no parking and the entire thing was sadistic, cruel and completely avoidable had the discharging doctor not been another incompetent perverted sadist that put my daughter through hell. (He offered her a suppository and she refused(a trauma response!) but he refused her any other alternative pain relief and sent her home with nothing. The evil bastardddd!!!

So anyway in the midst of that crisis my daughter turned on me and I left her there at the hospital as her bf was going to pick her up so I drove to a safe place and rang my friend Lyn and broke down. She calmed me down enough so I could drive myself home. I had actually fought for my daughter but had been rejected (in favour of her then abusive bf!)

Now flash forward to the events of Wednesday after I discharged myself from the PA hospital after I was told they would not send me home with endone (after the pharmacist had already agreed!)

I completely lost my temper and confronted my (alleged!) surgeon on his undermining the authority of the pharmacist who I had just haggled with for 10 endones). It was not until I got to the chemist that I read they had ordered 20 after I had had to make the most dreadful scene about the harassment and trauma I experienced at preadmission on Monday and I had stated that that had made putting my body and trust into that hospital for my operation on tuesday excruciatingly difficult. But by my willpower I had done that!

The surgeon told me that I should not be in so much pain so I screamed at him that he had no right to invalidate or deny my actual pain post-surgery. He is not inside my body and I had felt violated enough by the several sexual overtures, innuendoes and inappropriate comments made by himself, the anesthetist and the blood tech on Monday’s preadmission already!!!! I stated I should never have allowed them near my body after that.

The woman nurse manager asked me if I had any issues with the performance of her ward nurses at ward c during the previous night. All had been wonderful except for one nasty bitch who told me I was being dramatic.

I told the nurse manager that her staff had been wonderful through the night but I was still in considerable pain and had no pain relief since 7 am. It was now 11:30ish. One of the nurses ran and came right back with an endone! Nice!

So another nurse removed the iv drip (I was by now hysterical!) and another nurse came back soon after to remove my drain from my right side!

The lovely supportive physiotherapist had arrived to give me exercises just as I had demanded to see the doctor as I wanted to speak to him about the abuse before I discharged myself. The entire team had appeared at my bedside. (Which seemed highly unusual!)

I told the lovely physiotherapist that I was about to lose my temper but it had nothing to do with him he had not done anything wrong. I bollocked my young surgeon for attempting to deny me pain relief and (almost!) repeating similar systemic abuse my daughter had endured.

A nurse (amid my shrieking!) shoved a script and discharge notes into my hand and looked me in the eye and said “here are your scripts”. I rolled my eyes and shoved them into my bag without looking as I said “I was Done!!!”

I walked out of that hospital weak as a kitten on wobbly legs, on my own two feet extremely traumatised and degraded and humilitated.

And in pain….(even though a nurse had quickly administered me an endone during my rant!). Which was kind. Thanks for that.

I waited for my daughter to pull up with the car but another epic fight ensued because she would not pull up because she said some man had given her the finger. So off we went again!

I said “so some vapid cunt male abuses you but you let an abuser once again, be a priority over your own mother”. So we fought in the car all the way to the chemist. I even at one point tried to get out of the car and walk from Logan road to the fucking chemist.

She grabbed my arm and screamed hysterically. It was then I realised that this is some fucked up surreal game and I will have to survive it. So I sat back down. Put on my seat belt and waited until she parked outside the chemist.

Now I love my daughter….but this was all extremely awful and borderline. All of it.

So I get out of the car and start walking to the first chemist. But again, a wave of fury overcame me and I turned to yell “take my car and fuck the hell off out of my life”. Walked into the chemist and was largely ignored at the counter with tears streaming down my face.

Ok ok. I think. Not unusual. Dereliction of duty and bad service. Nothing new under the sun. Rather a theme of that day!! So I walked out saying “fuck!”

Walked in the rain to the next chemist (orange pharmacy) to discover some actual kindness at last from the young Asian Australian pharmacist there. He told me I had been given 20 tablets.

I said there was some mistake. I had been made to fight like a crazed bitch for only 10 which was all I requested. I then said the hospital pharmacist must have taken pity on me after all. He smiled.

No no no. It was an epic arse cover lest I report to the health rights commission. I took my medications back to the car. My daughter still mysteriously awaiting me although once again we were both deeply traumatised.

She came into my house, offered to make me tea (I insisted on making it) and we sat amicably and unpacked the new nighties and pj pants that I had ordered a day before I was even told I was to have surgery at Crystal’s suggestion as there had been a huge sale on at Peter Alexander!

The synchronicity and the alignment and humour of my trickster gods not lost on me. My young surgeon is also called Peter. Peter of Princess Alexandra! Anyway we were both pleased with my purchase. We sat amicably for about an hour. Then my beautiful and beloved and brave daughter went home.

Last night I had a crisis as I thought the red bruising and swollen belly was an infection and with a history of septic arthritis I thought I might die. I rang 13 Health who refused to help me.

So in desperation and with paranoid fears that I may have been blacklisted for whistleblowing on the systemic abuse at the PA that I may never receive medical treatment again and was going to be left to die.

I reported to my local member of parliament who is a registered nurse by profession. The kind man who took down my report recommended I go back to the PA if I feared secondary infection.

Instead I rang my friend Sally who asked a doctor friend for advice. She said I could go to any hospital or go to my gp in the morning. (I can’t drive for 7 days and am alone so ok). But It calmed me to know that I was heard and validated and that the extreme redness might only be bruising!

So here I am. Another day in Paradise. Lyn is coming over shortly to spend time with me. Jarrod has been supportive as has Sally and Crystal, who shifts in and out of reality with me, also tried to be supportive.

I have fought hard to stay Alive yet again. Although I must wonder to what end???? It would be comical if it weren’t so utterly horrific.

Grateful for another day. And another. Then it will be time to find a new way of living that is gentle, kind and safe.

I was actually feeling happier, even as my body was getting weaker and weaker in recent weeks.

So I have a default state to aspire to now.

I just wish I could get treated respectfully and decently like any other human being in this planet and that humans would not ride on me when I am in actual survival mode when I have had major surgery. Same evil Shit happened when I had my hysterectomy in 2007.

I Pray this is my last surgery as no one deserves to be treated so badly as I have been in my entire life. I told the doctor I was so beaten down by life last time in 2007 I actually was pressured to flush my endones I then needed, down the toilet because my munchhausens-by-proxy forensic psych nurse former friend feared her heroin addict daughter stealing them.

I was Denied my own pain relief back then by abusers. I yelled I was never ever ever going to be beaten down like that again.

Although no one needs 50 endones post-surgery. That had been a mistake on the part of the QE2 pharmacist. But they could have been returned, not flushed and I had certainly needed them for a few more days.

So the mere thought of more vicious games being played with my post op pain treatment tipped me over the edge.

Embarrassing and awkward. But I should never have been put through all that or treated like some lab rat to be sadistically toyed with as happened at pre-admission. Complete fuckery.

….

The red welt under my skin near the belly button wound has changed to brown. So it was some weird ass bruise after all. I feared sepsis. Thought I was going to die. But no. The world is stuck with me for a while.

I had to take another endone as the pain is still bad. But I think maybe today I will start feeling better. Or tomorrow. Thankfully I have enough endone (which I fought so hard for) to last me for next few days. But I managed without for 6 hours last evening and slept through the night as well. So on the mend albeit slowly.

I want to cry at all the betrayals and abuse that I endured during this intensely vulnerable time. But tears won’t give me back my life or make anyone love me more decently.

So I will heal and I will be yet another incarnation of my constantly evolving blossoming Self. Better not bitter.

28 June 2015

I had to knock myself out at 6 pm last night with seroquel. My mind was racing and I hadn't slept more than 2 hours. I was asleep in 10 minutes.

I just woke up at 4.40 am. I had left the back door open and forgot to lock the chicken coops. I feel much calmer now I have rested. It's a rainy cold morning.

I missed out in going out last night but it doesn't matter. Sleep is way more precious to me.

I am still in poor health so it's probably good that I didn't over-do it by dancing 2 nights.

28 June 2014

5.00 am. Just got home to find a brick had been moved from front edging and placed in front of my front gate. So I had trouble getting in. WTF?

Who would do something like that? Why not leave a fucking note like normal people?

4.38 am. Finally on bus home. I had a great night. Drama at bus stop so I will be glad to get home safe tonight.

28 June 2013

I arrived to make a statement at Brisbane city CIB to be confronted by fireTrucks and an evacuation. Apparently there had been an issue on the 7th floor.

So I waited til it was safe to go back in the building. I made my statement but was told, "it's just drunk people and you could be charged for assault for pushing the guy away!" What the Fuck?!!!!!

Also…Tacit! A basic word in our English language! Detective asked me to spell it and had no idea what it meant. Save us from their epic stupidity and apathy!

Sylvia Shine: wow, hope you are ok!

Me: I'm ok Sylvia but emotionally shattered how this society treats women. Having the Police treat me like a loser on top of it was really distressing. At the end of the day I know I am in the right and now the statement is made they can investigate or hide it on their filing system.

It was rather funny when I arrived during their evacuation. I said. "Are you serious I can't go in to make a statement right now? I could get a little Paranoid??? The lengths some people will go.." So the cop outside even laughed.

Less amusing was the fact another officer asked me if I was coming in to see the detective so "knew" who I was without me giving my name. So that means they had already done some background investigating.

Sylvia Shine: sometimes life sucks,unfortunately,sometimes you have to grin and bare it,unless you are strong enough to beat the system,and not many people can,they turn it around,and make you the guilty party,look what they do in rape cases,one day,someone strong enough,will beat them,meanwhile,keep away from trouble,and keep safe,you don't need the stress,go to nice places. x x x

I've been reading Charles Bukowski as I was told several years ago that I have a similar writing style to him.

Interestingly one of his stories I just read paraphrased my life. This makes me wonder if the traumatised, disenfranchised, fringe-dwellers of society all have the same Style? It's not so bad...expressing our reality profoundly. We don't expect anything other than to be Heard! Seen! Connected.

Today I was so ill, I went to the doctor. I felt faint and woozy all day. Lungs were clear which is something but she gave me heavy antibiotics to get rid of the sinus infection.

I was supposed to see Jasmine but she wasn't there at 1pm and I felt so sick I went home and back to bed. Hopefully when the antibiotics work their magic I will feel better in a few days time.

28 June 2012

So tired and drained today! I will have to go to bed early and hope for a perkier day tomorrow!

28 June 2011

I had a busy day, saw GP this morning, medical cert for my car license renewed but she's making me get retested for Sleep apnoea and to undergo treatment for it which I've managed to avoid for 8 years. Oh well. If I keep being happier and peaceful it might be nice to live another 20 or so years. I was hoping I'd check out early as I do not want to live a life of continued prolonged stress and trauma.

I then caught the bus to Garbo, then walked to Kessels Road, enormous queue at Transport dept but lady at front counter kindly processed my Medical cert as I said I had an appt in half an hour and the queue was way longer than that.

Then I saw my psychiatrist for my regular debrief and he's happy with my emotional and energetic shifts too. He agrees my goal to buy my own home is a practical and sensible one, as it will afford me security for the rest of my life and he agrees I don't need a husband that would destabilise or decompensate me (my words) or push me back into poverty.

Also he thinks it would be nice for me to have romances down the track but I must never put myself at the mercy of a "husband" again, so we had a good giggle about that.

He advised me that if I can afford to buy a house, I should buy the car as a loan against the equity of the house as soon petrol cars will be extinct so if I buy one now it will be useless in ten years and with depreciation it's better to have my money in a property which will only gain in value as opposed to a machine which is a loss.

I like the way he thinks! So here's hoping miracles continue to manifest and all our dreams, prayers and wishes for my future come true!

After seeing my psych, I caught a bus to Mt Gravatt central and bought advocate and a tick collar for Bella as she was way overdue and was surprised and delighted to discover that JB Hifi has opened up, then I walked a long way to holland park, and caught a bus home, then another walk from the bus, plus the walk to Whites Hill and back this morning phew.

My behind is aching (probably from my lower back probs lol) my thighs are aching, even my feet feel tired. Even my hips were getting sore. So I've enjoyed a quiet evening watching True Blood Season 4 episode 2 on the internet and just relaxing. I bet I sleep all day tomorrow!

Harper G Maz: hi get that sleep apnoea treated. problem CPAP machines cost to hire unless there is a program up there to get one. Youwill feel less depressed, more energy, even lose weight.

Me: Marion, 8 years ago when I actually attempted treatment for my sleep apnoea, I got even more depressed from the chronic pain caused by the machine, got fatter, felt majorly ugly (looked like the Bride of Darth Vader) and had less energy and will to live.

So I'm not looking forward to being put through that again with the promise of a longer life and an easier death. I'll just get tested and keep an open mind.

If I’m worse, I'll save up for the pump that can be installed near the heart to make me breathe at night. I really am not interested in the mask and snorkel.

Copyright Tanya Désirée Arons

humanity

About the author

Tanya Arons

I write about my life experiences. I write about complex ptsd, the agonies, the angst and my post traumatic growth. About Beauty, Truth and Honour and little vignettes of comfort from the spirits that love me: living and dead. I also Dance!

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