Thursday, 18 July 2013

Negating The Dissociation And (In)justice

Walking on the sunny streets yesterday I found myself contemplating an interesting thought: that this body I seem to be becoming more and more aware of via the sensory input my brain receives, is that of an attractive human female. It's not a thought I seem to have entertained in any significant amount of detail in the past, but which seems to have pushed itself to the foreground due to recent events. Combined with this realisation is the bitter realisation accompanying it that it's basically more or less for show, as I do not have any currently usable female genitals.

The former realisation is both disturbing and pleasant, the second the first few steps on a dark path leading to my inevitable suicide. Throughout it all it pervades me with the uncomfortable truth about just how far-reaching the dissociation between my mind and body has become. Of having essentially nothing more than a vague concept of what a 'body' is or may mean. It explains why my search for the truth about my body the past eight and a half years was crucial to my survival, and why the treatment by Dutch physicians, psychologists and politicians caused me such an incredible amount of grief. I wasn't obsessively trying to prove something of which I knew I had to be right, I was fighting for my very survival and existence.

This all leads to the current lawsuit against me for something which happened over two and a half years ago now [1], at what had to close to the height of the madness I was going through. Just having botched a suicide attempt and feeling horrible about still being alive, I nevertheless managed to prop myself up enough to decide to give things another try. This involved getting a referral to a urologist at a nearby hospital. The first GP office in the city of Rijssen had already rejected me as a patient due to being intersex, and the one I found myself at felt pretty uneasy about it as well. This may have been the reason why they were so hesitant about not providing one.

Promising to provide the referral, but not calling me when they said they would and not having it ready when they had promised led to a situation in which then over six years of humiliation, frustration and anger combined in multiple stress-related disorders including PTSD finally exploded. I remember little of the event, beyond me clutching a bloody, injured hand while surrounded by blood and getting violently bashed into walls, street tiles and car doors by what must have been the police, as well as the unbearable pain of the hand cuffs as they began the horrible damage of the compression nerve damage which tortures me up till today.

Only afterwards did I hear that I had caused damage to a number of mostly glass items. All of it had apparently been enough reason for the police to hold me overnight in a constantly lit cell as my traumas began to further eat away at me. I don't remember much from those horrific hours beyond me tearing an entire roll of toilet paper to really tiny bits in an attempt to stay somewhat sane. Leaving me alone in that cell with no idea of when I would be let out again was worse than a death sentence. I would gladly have embraced death if I had the choice at that point. I still can not write or speak about this event without bursting out in tears.

Yesterday I went to an appointment with my new lawyer for this case after the previous lawyer I had didn't seem to have any interest in the case to the point of not knowing any details moments before the first hearing. My new lawyer, however, is quite different. I have probably mentioned him before, also that I met him before early last year at a talk show and that even back then he was quite interested in my story. It bears no surprise that after talking through things yesterday we both agreed that the only proper outcome would be a dismissal of the case based upon the fact that what happened could not be attributed to me due to all the preceding events.

In early 2007 at the VUmc gender team I lost my temper for the first time, when I threw my own bag on the floor and had to leave the room after yet another reversal and downtalk by a psychologist. That was after about two years of dealing with the situation. Fast forward four more years and not only did I have the uncaring attitude of the VUmc gender team to deal with, I also had two German reports proclaiming me to be intersex and yet finding myself unable to get even the slightest admission from Dutch physicians that I was indeed intersex. Looking back I should have quit dealing with Dutch physicians at that point, but what makes sense afterwards isn't obvious when you're in the midst of the madness.

Even now, eight and a half years after I first started looking for medical help with my issue, and despite scoring some minor successes I can not with any words describe how much sadness, bitterness, rage, frustration, anger and other intense emotions I feel just thinking about how I was treated and how I am still being treated. I now know that I have to leave the Netherlands and never return as it's the most unhealthy place for me to be. Yet two and a half years ago I wasn't that far yet. By taking that overdose of sleeping pills I had already given up on that what should be most precious to oneself: one's own body and with it life and existence itself. I had absolutely nothing to lose any more.

Now, I have to prove to the judge that what happened at the GP's office can not be considered to be my responsibility. Yes, I did do it, but not consciously and only as a result of many years of what can only be described as intense psychological and physical torture, resulting in PTSD and DID, conditions I informed and warned the GP's office about beforehand as was my responsibility. That they then decided not to act upon it and have no consideration for my condition is wholy their choice. That they then also decided to breach the doctor-patient confidentiality by sharing my address and other personal data with the artist whose works also had been damaged, resulting in me getting a letter from said artist demanding a large sum of money, this too doesn't display a leaning towards being responsible and mature. Worse, such a breach is quite illegal.

The defence will therefore hinge mostly on my back story and diagnosis with PTSD and DID as the existing situation and my clear warnings as me being the responsible party. The treatment by the GP's office in addition to the previous rejection at the other GP's office in the same building would be an agitating factor with the difficulty in the last week before the event to get the referral ready as the final trigger. It should paint a picture of me as the obvious victim in a much larger game where I am pretty much powerless to control the flow. I feel pretty confident about the case, as does my lawyer.

I simply have to be left off the hook in such a complete manner for there to be justice in this case. Anything else would basically mean that losing yourself after years of torture is meaningless and any back story deemed irrelevant. I didn't mean to do anyone harm, or cause any damage. My completely spotless criminal record is evidence of this. I'm about the dullest person you can encounter when it comes to obeying the law. For me to be pushed so far that I'd damage someone else's property takes a lot. In this case about six years of near-constant agony for me to finally break. If anything this should be considered commendable.



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