Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids


Reason #259: Survivor Sleep, again

I am still sick, in pain, nauseated, etc.  The surgeon still needs to remove my gall bladder, which will necessitate a further hospital trip, which is scaring the shit out of me.  I pretty much lay awake thinking about it, and worried that he won’t get it in time.  He refuses to touch me until the pancreatitis heals.  In the meantime, I am scared that another stone will slip into the duct and the whole thing will start all over again.

It is hard to get on the computer due to the pain levels and most of the time it is all I can do to sit there and just be alive.  I am having a stronger moment right now so I decided to get on the computer and visit with you, my blog friends. 

Today is four weeks since I entered the hospital; four weeks of new trauma to work on, compounding the old trauma.  Four weeks of sleeping fitfully, especially since I got home from the hospital.  I am scared of going to sleep.  Laying there awake at night is an exercise in fear. Actually, all of this has been an exercise in fear, frankly. 

I was thinking last night about this physical/emotional trauma, and its similarities/differences to when I was a kid, getting molested by a babysitter, and then a brother, and then a father.  As an adult, the nurses were horrific to me in the hospital, and their lack of empathy absolutely worsened my condition.  As a child, no one even knew what was happening to me, but I knew.  I guess they couldn’t be empathetic if they didn’t know what was wrong in the first place.  I guess. 

When I told my aunt what my brother did to me – I was still a child when I told her – she asked me what his penis looked like.  I guess that was her way of seeing if I was telling the truth.  I told her it looked like an egg roll, which is what it looked like to me.  My brother is uncircumsized, and I hate that I know that through firsthand knowledge.

In the hospital, the nurses were assessing my pain level constantly, trying to see if I was truly in enough pain to warrant medicine to stop the pain.  They, too, were trying to see if I was telling the truth.  Are we just a world that thinks that everyone is a fucking liar? 

When I said that he was hurting me, I wish you would have said “My G-d, what happened to you was wrong, and it wasn’t your fault.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.  But I will be now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you again.  I will help you heal.”

To my mother’s credit, the minute I told her about the abuse with my brother, it stopped and never came back.  She believed me from the first second I uttered the words.  Thank G-d.  I guess the damage was already done.  My brother and I both had fitful sleep and nightmares and bedwetting and all the other signs of abuse after that babysitter came into our life.

I am 37, and I lay in bed awake and afraid every night.  Most nights I just keep escaping through tv shows until I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.  But as soon as I get in bed, I am AWAKE, you know?

I dread the night. I hate survivor sleep.



Reason #258: Silenced in a Hospital
September 16, 2011, 12:40 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

On Tuesday, August 30th, I woke up in a great deal of physical pain.  I told the huz/wife I think I needed to go to the ER.  He took me.  I screamed in pain the whole way there in the car.  G-d bless him for getting me there safely.  They admitted me and gave me a shot of morphine for the pain.

 It turned out I had a gall stone lodged in the common bile duct between my liver and my gall bladder.  They decided to put a stent in to get the stone out.  They put the stent in, surgically.  Apparently, the dye they used caused my pancreas to get an infection called pancreatitis.  Plus, I had a reaction to the stent.  So they put me in the ICU.  Then they decided to take the stent out.  But I already had the pancreatitis, and my lungs were under water already.  They took the stent out. 
 
They gave me a lot of drugs to counter the pain I was in.  The drugs caused my heart to work too hard and they thought my heart stopped.  A lot of men suddenly ran into my room and put an oxygen mask on me.  I was confused and scared and I kept removing the man’s hands off of me and the mask off of me.  They kept yelling at me.  I yelled back at them. They put me back in the ICU, and the nurses there said I was worst patient they had ever seen.  They yelled at me for screaming in pain.  At this point they stopped all the drugs they were giving me for pain, and I was still in a shitload of pain from the pancreatitis.
 
I was in the hospital for a total of 11 days, against my will most of that time, though I do understand it was medically necessary.  I will never understand the medical model of not working WITH a patient to try to save her life though.  I would have liked to have been an ally in my own treatment.  For instance, they could have said “Your heart is showing signs of working too hard, and this is an oxygen mask we are putting on your face to help your heart.”  Instead they yelled “Stop removing the oxygen mask!”  again and again without ever telling me why these men kept putting their hands on my face.
 
I felt powerless and horrible and voiceless and silenced by their reaction to my reaction to physical pain.  By the end of the hospital visit, I was showing signs of being institutionalized.  I was depressed and traumatized by this whole experience.
 
They blamed me for being in pain, blamed me for the heart thing.  One nurse actually said to me “You worked yourself up to having a heart attack!!”  She made me feel like such a piece of shit. It turned out I never had a heart attack, but my heart rate did slow in reaction to the drugs they had given me for pain. 
 
I am barely mobile now.  Every task is Herculean, and today (almost a week since I was released from the hospital) is the first day I feel well enough to sit at my laptop (thank you G-d).  I cry whenever I think about the hospitalization, and I tremble in fear at the thought of having to go back.  It was like being a powerless silenced child all over again.
 
I am sure the nurses and doctors couldn’t have known that I am Butterfly, author of Reasons You Shouldn’t Fuck Kids.  They had no idea that I have had three molesters in my life, at different ages in my childhood, and that I now have strong feelings about choice and control and my body, and that I would have a PTSD reaction to having men suddenly run into the room and put their hands over my mouth, literally silencing me.”
 
They couldn’t have known, but they SHOULD have acted as though every single patient in their care has the possibility of having already been traumatized.  Surely there should be some training in the medical community, something in the Universal Precautions, something that actually allows you people to heal us when we come to you with our physical ailments.  Instead, I was literally left in pain, blamed for my illness, blamed for my pain, blamed for my physical and emotional reactions to my pain, and then given little to no help towards healing. 
 
Any healing that has happened has begun since I got home.  I am grateful to be alive, but I am still too scared to even breathe. 
 
Holy shit.



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