Hope is like a fly, bumping against the same window as maybe this time it will turn into a passage. Hope is like a death row convict, who knows that he is innocent but - all appeals exhausted - lies strapped down, merely awaiting the IV needle. The governor's last-minute phone call won't ever come, but there's always the possibility. There is always that little voice, that instinct, that feeling, which keeps urging you forward because maybe it will be different this time. Maybe the bullets won't mow down me like they just turned my mate into mincemeat. Keep hoping.
Opposing hope is realism. Knowing when to relent, when hope becomes obsession and insanity. One can not tell exactly when or why this realization will hit, but it will be there one day. At that point you can only abandon hope to save yourself. So too for me. Growing up in a dissociated state with an increasing separation between mind and realization of body for over fifteen years, I was excited to learn that there was a whole world out there filled with feelings, sensations, empathy and joy. As gradually my senses of smell, hearing and others recovered I began to experience things I hadn't experienced since I was only a few years old. Now I have to abandon all of that again.
I slipped into dissociation as a child because I didn't understand my environment due to my giftedness, nor did I understand my body due to the intersex condition. With the onset of puberty all hope was lost until about a decade later when I discovered what was going on. Yet after nearly nine years of struggling through a lack of help and understanding I have to retreat, wounded and bleeding, as I realize that medical and psychological help isn't forthcoming and never will be.
With the final rejection by a Dutch surgeon earlier this month I began to feel it again: the all too familiar sensation of dissociation. Separating the matters of body and mind. Cutting and sawing at the threads connecting both. Any thought involving body is now rejected and discarded. With it most of feelings and emotions as well. During high school it was all too familiar to me, to have the emotional grasp of a 6-year old, having to compensate at every point in social interactions with my intellect. It was the only way I could do it.
The coming weeks and months I'll keep losing more and more of what I gained. Sexuality, relationships, friendships, the sensation of feeling like a grown, adult woman, the drive to care about where I am living and staying, my sense of smell and hearing, empathy... it's all fading already. It's not that I do this on purpose. It just happens. Just like how I got PTSD and DID: they're just ways the human mind protects itself against things it can not deal with.
The only positive thing I can say about this process is that it frees up the intellectual side of my brain for more serious purposes. My performance and productivity are increasing.
At what horrible cost, though... it shouldn't have been like this. This tale shouldn't have ended like this.
I guess there truly aren't happy endings.
Maya
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Menstrual Cycle And Possible Death Sentence
Many years ago, before the full onset of puberty, I had this horrible abdominal cramp which necessitated me to be carried to the local doctor. The pain had lasted for a while by then, rendering me unable to walk or move much. However, by the time I was at the doctor's office the pain had subsided and it was dismissed as anything serious with no examinations performed. The years after that I would have those severe abdominal pains on a semi-regular basis until at some point into puberty I didn't recall them being that noticeable any more.
Of my physical condition before 2005 I do not recall much, as I was disjointed from my body to the point where I lost much of my sense of smell and hearing due to severe dissociation. What I do recall of the years since then is the frequent sensation of discomfort in my abdomen. The last few years especially, with an onset of burning pain in my lower abdomen, focused primarily on the area between the torso and the beginning of the legs as well in the nether regions, around the location of the vagina. The skin in that area will be sore and painful to the touch. After a few days this will subside again only to pop up later. Whether this occurs on a monthly basis I'm not sure.
There's also the regular bouts of nausea mostly in the morning but also suddenly during the day which seem to be linked to those periods of pain. Add to that a craving for different foods (mostly sweets and snacks) and a strong sense of irritation and being on the verge of bursting out in tears. Yesterday I nearly lost it when a chocolate bar wrapper refused to relinquish its contents. Despite sleeping well I'm tired during the day. I'm quite certain that in a few days this will have passed again.
Everything put together, there is the definite possibility that I have ovarian tissue and with it something resembling a menstrual cycle. The undeveloped testicles which were removed weren't ovatestes as is common with hermaphrodites. No research has been performed on variations in my hormonal levels, nor on the state or functionality of my closed-off vagina. With Dutch physicians outright denying that I am a hermaphrodite or even intersex, that's just not going to happen either.
It does put me into a pickle, however. First of all I feel bitter about not having been taken seriously as a child, secondly I feel sad and filled with despair as I realize that a) I know I'm unlikely to ever find a physician caring enough to perform the necessary research and b) I am quite aware of the risks of having a menstrual cycle if any tissue involved in creating the womb's lining is present. This can lead to Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS) if the right (wrong) bacteria find their way into it, much like with those deaths from tampons a long time ago.
On one hand I shouldn't even think about these things, just suffer through these PMS-like symptoms every month as I'm not going to get medical help. On the other hand it turns my life into a game of Russian Roulette. Every time I feel a sudden stab of pain in my abdomen or nether regions which has me buckling over in pain it leaves me wondering how serious it is.
Feeling like crying in utter frustration now...
Maya
Of my physical condition before 2005 I do not recall much, as I was disjointed from my body to the point where I lost much of my sense of smell and hearing due to severe dissociation. What I do recall of the years since then is the frequent sensation of discomfort in my abdomen. The last few years especially, with an onset of burning pain in my lower abdomen, focused primarily on the area between the torso and the beginning of the legs as well in the nether regions, around the location of the vagina. The skin in that area will be sore and painful to the touch. After a few days this will subside again only to pop up later. Whether this occurs on a monthly basis I'm not sure.
There's also the regular bouts of nausea mostly in the morning but also suddenly during the day which seem to be linked to those periods of pain. Add to that a craving for different foods (mostly sweets and snacks) and a strong sense of irritation and being on the verge of bursting out in tears. Yesterday I nearly lost it when a chocolate bar wrapper refused to relinquish its contents. Despite sleeping well I'm tired during the day. I'm quite certain that in a few days this will have passed again.
Everything put together, there is the definite possibility that I have ovarian tissue and with it something resembling a menstrual cycle. The undeveloped testicles which were removed weren't ovatestes as is common with hermaphrodites. No research has been performed on variations in my hormonal levels, nor on the state or functionality of my closed-off vagina. With Dutch physicians outright denying that I am a hermaphrodite or even intersex, that's just not going to happen either.
It does put me into a pickle, however. First of all I feel bitter about not having been taken seriously as a child, secondly I feel sad and filled with despair as I realize that a) I know I'm unlikely to ever find a physician caring enough to perform the necessary research and b) I am quite aware of the risks of having a menstrual cycle if any tissue involved in creating the womb's lining is present. This can lead to Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS) if the right (wrong) bacteria find their way into it, much like with those deaths from tampons a long time ago.
On one hand I shouldn't even think about these things, just suffer through these PMS-like symptoms every month as I'm not going to get medical help. On the other hand it turns my life into a game of Russian Roulette. Every time I feel a sudden stab of pain in my abdomen or nether regions which has me buckling over in pain it leaves me wondering how serious it is.
Feeling like crying in utter frustration now...
Maya
Thursday, 25 July 2013
End Of The Line: Giving Up On Any Further Medical Help
It's been nearly nine years, many dozens of physicians and surgeons around the world later, and time to make up the final score.
I'm probably a hermaphrodite, but some countries like the Netherlands are still denying this. In Germany diagnostics are no problem, but a surgeon for the final restorative surgery can not be found after all. I'm getting no contact any more with the Hamburg clinic where I had my surgery in 2011. For about a year I have tried to get my surgery report from there now, but without anything but a few empty promises from the surgeon. I don't think I'll ever get it.
So, that's it. I now have to learn to live with a body which can be described as 'female, but without genitals'. I can forget about sexuality or intimacy. The traumas I had to suffer to get this far will also go untreated, as dozens of psychologists and psychiatrists later I only found one who acknowledges what has happened to me, but who is incapable of treating me for it. For the long term I have no idea what the medical complications are of having a closed-off vagina and possibly other hidden issues such as ovarian tissue. I have no idea how my PTSD will develop.
Yet the medical and psychological specialists seem to think that I'm ready to head off into the world like this, without any further care or treatment.
All I can do is try, right?
Maya
I'm probably a hermaphrodite, but some countries like the Netherlands are still denying this. In Germany diagnostics are no problem, but a surgeon for the final restorative surgery can not be found after all. I'm getting no contact any more with the Hamburg clinic where I had my surgery in 2011. For about a year I have tried to get my surgery report from there now, but without anything but a few empty promises from the surgeon. I don't think I'll ever get it.
So, that's it. I now have to learn to live with a body which can be described as 'female, but without genitals'. I can forget about sexuality or intimacy. The traumas I had to suffer to get this far will also go untreated, as dozens of psychologists and psychiatrists later I only found one who acknowledges what has happened to me, but who is incapable of treating me for it. For the long term I have no idea what the medical complications are of having a closed-off vagina and possibly other hidden issues such as ovarian tissue. I have no idea how my PTSD will develop.
Yet the medical and psychological specialists seem to think that I'm ready to head off into the world like this, without any further care or treatment.
All I can do is try, right?
Maya
Monday, 22 July 2013
Losing Sight Of Myself And Motivation
Today I bought new sandals. Really nice ones made by a Spanish brand with a minor heel and an overall very elegant design. With the current temperatures around 30 degrees Celsius during the day it's nice to feel cool and look fancy while doing so. This time I wisened up and got EU size 40 as for some reason I used to buy things size 41 which always turned out to be a tad too big. Now I'm all happy with these new sandals.
Looking at the sandals again, though, it occurred to me that I bought those because of my struggle to find myself. It's only because I figured out that I have a female physique and with it female sizes that I'm dressed the way I am now. Today I'm wearing jeans shorts and a black top with a bit of black lace around the top part. It really brings out my figure and when looking at myself in the mirror I have to admit it looks good. The looks I get in public are telling too, even if they make me feel uncomfortable more than anything else.
Yet what does it truly mean to me? I do express myself through the way I dress, just like everybody else does. I go for a rather basic style, with mostly primary colours and generally no prints, pre-destroyed clothes or accessories. I do like skin-hugging clothes, though, and dislike loose clothes. This seems to mean that I'm extroverted, but not seeking attention. I'm present, but would prefer to draw attention to me by my personality rather than my looks. I'm okay with that.
With all that I guess everything that can be said about my body and everything around it which doesn't touch upon traumas has been said. This year seems to have been the one which broke the proverbial camel's back, pushing me firmly away from sexuality, relationships and my intersex body. It also pushed me into the big wild yonder, as I am forced to grudgingly accept that there is absolutely no way I could conceivably stay in the Netherlands. Much like my body is traumas and traumas are my body, so the Netherlands in many ways stands for everything which has gone wrong the past almost nine years.
Amsterdam to me means the VUmc, AMC and OLVG hospitals and the terrors and humiliations I had to suffer there. Same for Utrecht, Rotterdam, Groningen and Breda. The Hague with its politicians means the gross violation of human rights to me. The public transport systems, other places... everything seems to hold a piece of the trauma which is just called 'the Netherlands'. If I stay in this country I'll forever be surrounded by the reminders, causes and ruins of my traumas. I have to escape. Break free. Even if it hurts and forces me to leave part of myself in this country.
The Netherlands is the place where I was born and grew up. I learned its language and customs from a young age. I was a good student at school, breezing through everything and generally considered exceedingly polite, intelligent and well-spoken. Somehow, somewhere along the way this country changed, like how a gentle, caring husband changes into a violent, gambling drunk. This made the other transformation I had to deal with even harder, namely that of my psyche and self-image. In a way what happened to this country and its treatment of me was the inverse of me learning the truth about my body and the joy at learning the truth, hard as it was at times.
So now I'm left with again the rejection of free will and choice. There is no future, no existence for me in the Netherlands. For all eternity the physicians, psychologists and politicians will keep denying that I'm intersex and refuse to provide me with the medical and psychological care I require. At this point there is nothing else for me to concern myself with but pure survival. Staying in this country will mean having to hide in crevices like some small critter, terrified of the next predator to swoop or run past. It would be not something compatible with a humane existence. Thus I have to move, which won't be easy either.
Germany seems to be the obvious country for me to move to. I work for a German company after all, the German physicians have been very helpful and honest and in socio-economic perspectives Germany is a very attractive choice as well. It won't be easy of course, because I'm not familiar with all systems in Germany and do not speak very good German yet. I have given myself a few months to work on the latter through reading books and the like. Unless after the public hearing against the VUmc in September something changes, I will finalize my arrangements to move myself and my company to Germany. Just a matter of which area and city then.
It is my hope that in Germany I can finally find myself again. At this point I'm feeling so worn out and emotionally numb that I barely respond to triggers any more. It's nice because it allows me to focus on my work more, but also disturbing because I know that I'll have to pay the bill for it soon enough.
All I hope for at this point is to find myself in a place where I do not have to fight for my life and existence any more, but where I can be an actual human being. Maybe even the woman I keep dreaming of, with the final restorative surgery finished and never having to worry about MRI scans, physical examinations and hospitals again. As usual hope is dangerous for me as it triggers depressing, suicidal thoughts directly opposing any hopeful thought.
It's easy for me to know when I'm happy and in the right place. That will be when I do no longer feel this pain inside and the thought of ending my life doesn't fill me with an intense longing any more. If only...
Maya
Looking at the sandals again, though, it occurred to me that I bought those because of my struggle to find myself. It's only because I figured out that I have a female physique and with it female sizes that I'm dressed the way I am now. Today I'm wearing jeans shorts and a black top with a bit of black lace around the top part. It really brings out my figure and when looking at myself in the mirror I have to admit it looks good. The looks I get in public are telling too, even if they make me feel uncomfortable more than anything else.
Yet what does it truly mean to me? I do express myself through the way I dress, just like everybody else does. I go for a rather basic style, with mostly primary colours and generally no prints, pre-destroyed clothes or accessories. I do like skin-hugging clothes, though, and dislike loose clothes. This seems to mean that I'm extroverted, but not seeking attention. I'm present, but would prefer to draw attention to me by my personality rather than my looks. I'm okay with that.
With all that I guess everything that can be said about my body and everything around it which doesn't touch upon traumas has been said. This year seems to have been the one which broke the proverbial camel's back, pushing me firmly away from sexuality, relationships and my intersex body. It also pushed me into the big wild yonder, as I am forced to grudgingly accept that there is absolutely no way I could conceivably stay in the Netherlands. Much like my body is traumas and traumas are my body, so the Netherlands in many ways stands for everything which has gone wrong the past almost nine years.
Amsterdam to me means the VUmc, AMC and OLVG hospitals and the terrors and humiliations I had to suffer there. Same for Utrecht, Rotterdam, Groningen and Breda. The Hague with its politicians means the gross violation of human rights to me. The public transport systems, other places... everything seems to hold a piece of the trauma which is just called 'the Netherlands'. If I stay in this country I'll forever be surrounded by the reminders, causes and ruins of my traumas. I have to escape. Break free. Even if it hurts and forces me to leave part of myself in this country.
The Netherlands is the place where I was born and grew up. I learned its language and customs from a young age. I was a good student at school, breezing through everything and generally considered exceedingly polite, intelligent and well-spoken. Somehow, somewhere along the way this country changed, like how a gentle, caring husband changes into a violent, gambling drunk. This made the other transformation I had to deal with even harder, namely that of my psyche and self-image. In a way what happened to this country and its treatment of me was the inverse of me learning the truth about my body and the joy at learning the truth, hard as it was at times.
So now I'm left with again the rejection of free will and choice. There is no future, no existence for me in the Netherlands. For all eternity the physicians, psychologists and politicians will keep denying that I'm intersex and refuse to provide me with the medical and psychological care I require. At this point there is nothing else for me to concern myself with but pure survival. Staying in this country will mean having to hide in crevices like some small critter, terrified of the next predator to swoop or run past. It would be not something compatible with a humane existence. Thus I have to move, which won't be easy either.
Germany seems to be the obvious country for me to move to. I work for a German company after all, the German physicians have been very helpful and honest and in socio-economic perspectives Germany is a very attractive choice as well. It won't be easy of course, because I'm not familiar with all systems in Germany and do not speak very good German yet. I have given myself a few months to work on the latter through reading books and the like. Unless after the public hearing against the VUmc in September something changes, I will finalize my arrangements to move myself and my company to Germany. Just a matter of which area and city then.
It is my hope that in Germany I can finally find myself again. At this point I'm feeling so worn out and emotionally numb that I barely respond to triggers any more. It's nice because it allows me to focus on my work more, but also disturbing because I know that I'll have to pay the bill for it soon enough.
All I hope for at this point is to find myself in a place where I do not have to fight for my life and existence any more, but where I can be an actual human being. Maybe even the woman I keep dreaming of, with the final restorative surgery finished and never having to worry about MRI scans, physical examinations and hospitals again. As usual hope is dangerous for me as it triggers depressing, suicidal thoughts directly opposing any hopeful thought.
It's easy for me to know when I'm happy and in the right place. That will be when I do no longer feel this pain inside and the thought of ending my life doesn't fill me with an intense longing any more. If only...
Maya
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.
Maya
[1] http://mayaposch.blogspot.nl/2011/05/taking-nightmare-notch-further.html
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.
Maya
[1] http://mayaposch.blogspot.nl/2011/05/taking-nightmare-notch-further.html
Sunday, 14 July 2013
Saturday, 13 July 2013
Realizing The Hidden Torment
Even before I got the rejection from the last surgeon I found myself wondering how I would respond emotionally to such an event. I know that rationally I can not get terribly upset about it, even if I do find myself shocked by the casual attitude with which physicians - not just in the Netherlands - treat their patients. I was however worried that I would collapse emotionally at any further bad news. That's why I was surprised when I didn't notice much from my emotional side the day I got that feared phone call. I felt clear-headed without much emotional interference. I did fear that the backlash would come later, as I wrote in my previous post.
Yesterday things were pretty calm for me as well. I was quite productive, the work for my German employer went well and I felt okay. Only after dinner did I begin to feel less great. I began to feel terribly sad and upset, inching towards a depression until around 9 PM I figured it was time I got some sleep and just went to bed. This morning things felt alright again. I went off to be very productive on this one company project, completing a large section of it. Around noon I began to feel strangely tired, though, and decided to take a nap. That's when things went south.
Once in bed, I read a bit in my current book, then tried to sleep. At first I drifted off alright, maybe even slept a bit, but gradually I became aware of an increase in dark thoughts. Trying to determine the source of them, I thought I could feel hands and... other things touching and prodding me with voices proclaiming things which cut deep into my soul. Terrified, memories and reality blended together and I could only curl up helplessly while I cried in shame and humiliation. How could I have allowed them to have done such horrible things to me? Why have they done such horrible things to me?
When I say 'they', I am referring to a large group of people. The dozens of medical specialists who have performed examination after examination on my naked body, doing things with their fingers and instruments I do not care to recall but which eagerly feature in my nightmares. The acquaintance who introduced me to sexuality years ago by raping me. The many others who used my body for their own carnal pleasures.
My recent experiences with this last surgeon must have made those memories surface so brilliantly that I can not conceivably ignore them any more. It does lead to a good understand at least to me of why I'm absolutely done with any further medical examinations, relationships and sexuality. For years I have tried to ignore the traumas and mental injuries I was inflicting upon myself by pushing myself past any reasonable objections, allowing anyone to just use my body, from rapists to physicians alike.
My body is the trauma. The trauma is my body. I can not separate them. Few can even understand how this would feel, or how to provide help. Referring me to yet another physician shows a fundamental lack of understanding. I must concede that asking for help isn't going to work, that any offered help is only the beginning of additional trauma.
Not that I'm completely giving up on getting medical help, but I do know much better where my limits are now. No touching of my body. No undressing. No more examinations. No more random consults. Only hard guarantees. If this does mean that I'll never get medical help, so be it. After literally dozens of physicians abusing me in such a fashion I simply have to refuse. It's telling that the memories of those examinations and me getting raped blend in so seamlessly. The similarities are just too striking. It also offers me an insight in the mind of a cousin of mine who committed suicide after getting raped by family for years on end as a young child, with the justice system and her environment then completely abandoning her. I do not want to follow into her footsteps, but life seems to be pushing me down the same path.
I'm tired of being raped, physically and emotionally. This is my body. Here is the line. Only cross if you have the proper respect.
That's how it should be, at least...
Maya
Yesterday things were pretty calm for me as well. I was quite productive, the work for my German employer went well and I felt okay. Only after dinner did I begin to feel less great. I began to feel terribly sad and upset, inching towards a depression until around 9 PM I figured it was time I got some sleep and just went to bed. This morning things felt alright again. I went off to be very productive on this one company project, completing a large section of it. Around noon I began to feel strangely tired, though, and decided to take a nap. That's when things went south.
Once in bed, I read a bit in my current book, then tried to sleep. At first I drifted off alright, maybe even slept a bit, but gradually I became aware of an increase in dark thoughts. Trying to determine the source of them, I thought I could feel hands and... other things touching and prodding me with voices proclaiming things which cut deep into my soul. Terrified, memories and reality blended together and I could only curl up helplessly while I cried in shame and humiliation. How could I have allowed them to have done such horrible things to me? Why have they done such horrible things to me?
When I say 'they', I am referring to a large group of people. The dozens of medical specialists who have performed examination after examination on my naked body, doing things with their fingers and instruments I do not care to recall but which eagerly feature in my nightmares. The acquaintance who introduced me to sexuality years ago by raping me. The many others who used my body for their own carnal pleasures.
My recent experiences with this last surgeon must have made those memories surface so brilliantly that I can not conceivably ignore them any more. It does lead to a good understand at least to me of why I'm absolutely done with any further medical examinations, relationships and sexuality. For years I have tried to ignore the traumas and mental injuries I was inflicting upon myself by pushing myself past any reasonable objections, allowing anyone to just use my body, from rapists to physicians alike.
My body is the trauma. The trauma is my body. I can not separate them. Few can even understand how this would feel, or how to provide help. Referring me to yet another physician shows a fundamental lack of understanding. I must concede that asking for help isn't going to work, that any offered help is only the beginning of additional trauma.
Not that I'm completely giving up on getting medical help, but I do know much better where my limits are now. No touching of my body. No undressing. No more examinations. No more random consults. Only hard guarantees. If this does mean that I'll never get medical help, so be it. After literally dozens of physicians abusing me in such a fashion I simply have to refuse. It's telling that the memories of those examinations and me getting raped blend in so seamlessly. The similarities are just too striking. It also offers me an insight in the mind of a cousin of mine who committed suicide after getting raped by family for years on end as a young child, with the justice system and her environment then completely abandoning her. I do not want to follow into her footsteps, but life seems to be pushing me down the same path.
I'm tired of being raped, physically and emotionally. This is my body. Here is the line. Only cross if you have the proper respect.
That's how it should be, at least...
Maya
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