Do you have any idea how angry I’ve been? It started in my mother’s womb, while I was being born. Something stopped my passage out. Was she given some kind of drug or was she just too weak to help me out? This is the scene: I was moving through, everything was fine, well, as fine as the insides of a uterus can feel to a silky skinned, fine boned baby. Eyes clamped shut. No idea what was ahead of me and suddenly, out of the blue, obstruction. It seemed then that the first thoughts of my life flooded my mind. Questions were being asked of me, fear was imprinting itself in every cell. But while I was moving through, sliding and slipping, sighing inside, there were no thoughts, a kind of music relaxing my efforts, softening and paving my way.
Suddenly, a rush of liquid energy, the va-va-va-voom from all around me ceased to exist and no matter how hard I tried to push forward I could not. I was stopped, stuck, fucked.
And now, when I have to face cancer, all the orthodox minded people around me just can’t understand why I don’t, won’t trust doctors. Shall we start with my obstetrician? Rather, my mothers’? The one who told her it was okay to drink beer and smoke cigarettes while I grew inside of her? I know, we’re not supposed to dwell on the past, it was another life right? Nothing to do with who I am now…The fine Egyptian baby medical practitioner who told mum bed care was what was needed, she had to be careful, if she didn’t watch out, she might lose me, or lose her life. Off to a good start I see. Imagine how she must have felt, stuck between the god dammed sheets for all that time, no air conditioning in Egypt in the 1960s. No wonder the beer. And my father probably wasn’t much help, what with his bridge playing, work commitments, the yacht club and the sporting club.
So, there I found myself, with her clammy, bumpy, hot sweaty uterus cramped down on my face and neck, suctioning itself onto my back and bum, and somewhere far away, I could hear crying and loud voices, and I thought it was the end. It was hell in there, no offense mother, but it’s just not meant to go that way. I know now. My girlfriend is a Doula. She’s from Holland, and in that country, the majority of women have their babies naturally, without medical intervention, all those needles and blood samples, the epidural and caesareans. Not for those big boned Dutch women, oh no.
I remember - you probably don’t believe that I can remember but I do - that eventually I just had to move. I started to push myself forward, tried to ignore the flesh pressed against me and squirmed ahead, and my voice opened up and I started to scream and cry and reach for the sky. Somehow the sounds helped, my movement quickened, in stops and starts I approached the exit, I could feel it. Somehow the heat was dispersing and a cool breeze teased at me.
And then, wouldn’t you know it? Without my permission, a steel contraption is shoved in through what I knew was my exit and two cold, hard pieces of metal poked at me, hurt my face, dented my shoulder, and within minutes, the pieces clamped down on either side of my head, I could feel the controls out there, and my movement was interrupted and someone else’s movement took over. I came shooting through, screaming in the biggest rage of my life.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Story of O = being an outlier
Right now, the tumor stinks. There's a groove down the center, and placing a slice of lemon directly on it helps absorb the odor. I can go for hours and not notice anything, until I remove the bandage.
Dissolving a cancerous tumor naturally is the act of an outlier. A person on the edge of mass culture, who came out of that culture, but realized on many occasions throughout her life, that the normal life could never be enough for her. It was full of lies and stupid stories, people being mean and not trusting each other, competition and bullying in school, stress and expectations, unhappy parents, a brother who wanted to be left alone, and her neediness never fulfilled.
My body is taking every ounce of energy to dissolve this rock in my breast. I get breathless after the slightest activity and find myself lying down for a few minutes to relax. My body returns to a balanced state and I can get up and move on.
I have to admit it disturbs me, but I know once the tumor has completely gone, my energy will return, I'll build myself back to being able to climb pinnacle peak here in scottsdale, to dance at people unlimited meetings, to feel free to meet someone to enjoy sex with,.
Right now, with my latest man friend gone, I realized that I had perhaps been unrealistic to expect a stranger to come into my life, accept the tumor, be able to see it on a constant basis, help me out with maggot therapy, bring me bandages when it suddenly starts bleeding, take arty photos of the whole thing with his great camera and be interested in doing that, not feel sick at the sight of it, not wish I was normal and had 2 breasts, be able to not worry about the weird food treatement I've chosen, be able to stay passionate with me, and understand my dark moments, and hold me and tell me it is all going to be all right. Plus, make love with me several times a week, because after all, in my mind, sex and love are two of the healthiest experiences people can share, and I was up for it.
Now he's gone, he ran fast, I knew it would be better to continue on alone, be able to lie about naked and not have to cover up, do all my writing work relaxed, allow my breast to breath, go in the sun for vitamin D, take baths, not have to cover up and try and make it all allright, hide my tears, cry alone, not say too much about my fears and so on,
Still I believe, because I stayed with a man I loved who died of AIDS six years after we met, that it is possible to have such a passion between one another, lover or not, but to have a solid feeling that the person you are with will live, that you see them alive and whole, no matter what is going on, that you will speak up and say the things that will build that person to keep living, with joy and courage, to outlive adversity and doubt, together you see, and with others, everything can be achieved.
So, though we are separated now, I know who I am. I am a person who prefers to stay together with a person I adore, through it all, to change together, even when it gets tough, and one can't change immediately, needs help, but has that feeling of knowing change must occur, then I want to be there, to see and make those changes, to deepen my connection to love more to feel more, to cry with the depth of adoration I feel for that person, when I look at the skin, the face, the shape of the body, tears well up, because when I have made love to that person, I have completely taken them in to me, no separation, and even though habitual patterns of separation come up, I want to end them, to be close.
Thing is, the other person has to want the same thing, and be capable of extending that to you, and be excited by it, and know, that patterns are death, and togetherness is the goal, and we're safe, we're really safe to make these changes, because we have found people who really give a shit, who won't leave.
Like I told him at the start, I wouldn't be the one to leave, he'd have to be the one because I know who I am. I'm here to stay. I'm capable of forgiving and moving, I want to melt, I must.
When you've got a rock of toxic death in your breast, you know you have to move.
Dissolving a cancerous tumor naturally is the act of an outlier. A person on the edge of mass culture, who came out of that culture, but realized on many occasions throughout her life, that the normal life could never be enough for her. It was full of lies and stupid stories, people being mean and not trusting each other, competition and bullying in school, stress and expectations, unhappy parents, a brother who wanted to be left alone, and her neediness never fulfilled.
My body is taking every ounce of energy to dissolve this rock in my breast. I get breathless after the slightest activity and find myself lying down for a few minutes to relax. My body returns to a balanced state and I can get up and move on.
I have to admit it disturbs me, but I know once the tumor has completely gone, my energy will return, I'll build myself back to being able to climb pinnacle peak here in scottsdale, to dance at people unlimited meetings, to feel free to meet someone to enjoy sex with,.
Right now, with my latest man friend gone, I realized that I had perhaps been unrealistic to expect a stranger to come into my life, accept the tumor, be able to see it on a constant basis, help me out with maggot therapy, bring me bandages when it suddenly starts bleeding, take arty photos of the whole thing with his great camera and be interested in doing that, not feel sick at the sight of it, not wish I was normal and had 2 breasts, be able to not worry about the weird food treatement I've chosen, be able to stay passionate with me, and understand my dark moments, and hold me and tell me it is all going to be all right. Plus, make love with me several times a week, because after all, in my mind, sex and love are two of the healthiest experiences people can share, and I was up for it.
Now he's gone, he ran fast, I knew it would be better to continue on alone, be able to lie about naked and not have to cover up, do all my writing work relaxed, allow my breast to breath, go in the sun for vitamin D, take baths, not have to cover up and try and make it all allright, hide my tears, cry alone, not say too much about my fears and so on,
Still I believe, because I stayed with a man I loved who died of AIDS six years after we met, that it is possible to have such a passion between one another, lover or not, but to have a solid feeling that the person you are with will live, that you see them alive and whole, no matter what is going on, that you will speak up and say the things that will build that person to keep living, with joy and courage, to outlive adversity and doubt, together you see, and with others, everything can be achieved.
So, though we are separated now, I know who I am. I am a person who prefers to stay together with a person I adore, through it all, to change together, even when it gets tough, and one can't change immediately, needs help, but has that feeling of knowing change must occur, then I want to be there, to see and make those changes, to deepen my connection to love more to feel more, to cry with the depth of adoration I feel for that person, when I look at the skin, the face, the shape of the body, tears well up, because when I have made love to that person, I have completely taken them in to me, no separation, and even though habitual patterns of separation come up, I want to end them, to be close.
Thing is, the other person has to want the same thing, and be capable of extending that to you, and be excited by it, and know, that patterns are death, and togetherness is the goal, and we're safe, we're really safe to make these changes, because we have found people who really give a shit, who won't leave.
Like I told him at the start, I wouldn't be the one to leave, he'd have to be the one because I know who I am. I'm here to stay. I'm capable of forgiving and moving, I want to melt, I must.
When you've got a rock of toxic death in your breast, you know you have to move.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The ending of a relationship and odors of decay
The odors of decay can get to be overwhelming some days, during periods of tumor deterioration, like these past few weeks, and it being directly under my nose, despite the bandages covering the wound, I am left to smell the mouldy, acidy, rotting smell of flesh being removed slowly, over time.
These days I am emerging out of the shock of another broken relationship. I know I created the break, just as I created the coming together at the start.
I also know, that I was willing to overcome all the obstacles that prevented us from staying close, together, every excited. I have that in me. This characteristic of being a person who can go everywhere and all the way with another person, is a wonderful feeling to have and maintain. I can nurture that feeling, it comes with a dedication to the other and to myself. To not allow separation to be an option, because how easy is it to tear apart and start again? I find it hard on the body, unless I'm 100% in agreement with it. My preference is to let go every minute and start fresh with the person. Speak what is in my heart, be heard and move on.
But you need the other person to want this way of being at the same time. If they don't, then, there is no where to go with them or with yourself, except away, because it's always better to be alone and relaxed than in the presence of a person who is slowly turning off to you, who is led by ego rather than a melted need for you.
Now, I am going to live with myself and take care of the things that need to be taken care of, my health, my joy, my prosperity. I won't be looking around for the next one to fill my time and my mind. It's going to be new for me, and I'm doing it.
These days I am emerging out of the shock of another broken relationship. I know I created the break, just as I created the coming together at the start.
I also know, that I was willing to overcome all the obstacles that prevented us from staying close, together, every excited. I have that in me. This characteristic of being a person who can go everywhere and all the way with another person, is a wonderful feeling to have and maintain. I can nurture that feeling, it comes with a dedication to the other and to myself. To not allow separation to be an option, because how easy is it to tear apart and start again? I find it hard on the body, unless I'm 100% in agreement with it. My preference is to let go every minute and start fresh with the person. Speak what is in my heart, be heard and move on.
But you need the other person to want this way of being at the same time. If they don't, then, there is no where to go with them or with yourself, except away, because it's always better to be alone and relaxed than in the presence of a person who is slowly turning off to you, who is led by ego rather than a melted need for you.
Now, I am going to live with myself and take care of the things that need to be taken care of, my health, my joy, my prosperity. I won't be looking around for the next one to fill my time and my mind. It's going to be new for me, and I'm doing it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Alone Again by Choice
When the man I had grown interested in first discovered my messed up breast, and heard me talk to him about it, I had to bring it all out at the start, it's only fair to inform an interested party of what he may be getting himself into, he told me that he would heal me he would be instrumental in healing me.
I liked the sound of his words and the certain feeling he conveyed through them. He surprised me with the confidence he seemed to feel, and I relaxed as I kissed him, straggled across the top of him, legs everywhere, his hair in his eyes and mine drooping across his cheeks. I pressed against his chest, the heat was heavy and wet, I hadn't been with a man for a very long time and I liked this one.
Suddenly, I noticed the blood on his chest, under my breast. It had streaked down across his ribs and onto his stomach. My breast was bleeding through the bandage and the lingerie. I'd pressed too hard into him, passionately, and jumped up and ran to the shower. I took everything off, and had a quick wash, blotting the breast with wet bandage and waiting for the blood to stop.
I could see his face as he slunk into the bathroom to be closer to me and get himself a towel. His face was white and his focus was clear. The towel moist, he checked himself out in the mirror and cleared his body of my blood as orderly and quickly as he could.
I kept my smile on, inside I felt everything collapse. This was going to be too much, I'd be lucky if he stuck around, I had no right to get myself involved with someone else, have them have to deal with this cancer, have them have to feel and think all the emotions and thoughts they would have to experience being with and liking me.
Well, once we were all washed off, we got back into bed and slunk into a friendly embrace. The passion had no place, we were starting over again, as though it were the first night, circling each other feeling what could be going on.
After that, I had to be very careful not to rub myself against his chest, an activity I used to love with all my lovers, the freedom to press against the other, to feel their body, their strength, to let them feel my excitement at being so close to them, caressing with my breasts the skin of their chest.
I made sure the right breast was always lifted away from him. I never again pressed, or made contact in more than the lightest way. I had to make sure he could be comfortable, he had to know I was considering him, and it came out, he admitted he was squeamish at the sight of blood.
But this breast this tumor bleeds, I thought. It has to. It's an open wound and often, contact jars the edges, and the skin breaks and at other times, usually when i remove a dried bandage that's been on it all day, too quickly, a thin spurt of blood, like a fountain, bursts into the air, hitting my skin and anything in its way. The shower wall gets painted with my blood, mixing with the water, running down onto the ground and into the drain, getting paler and paler as it disappears.
Gushing out of me, hitting the wall, the plastic glass divider, spurting like it's never going to stop. I put my finger on it to plug it up. I remove my finger and the thin powerhouse streak shoots out again. Somehow, it's fascinating to me. People would think I was touched to feel this way, some would rush me to hospital, to have it all fixed up, cut off, bandaged up, sanitized. But it just isn't going to go that way for me. I feel it. I'm seeing it all, I'm experiencing the natural removal of the tumor, day after day, year in and year out. Knowing, that the body takes care of it all, wanting to keep me whole because I am whole.
As the months progress, I notice he stops paying any attention to my good breast, something he had done at the start. It's as though it doesn't exist for him. When I ask him about it he doesn't want to talk about it. This disturbs me, because where can you go with a person who won't talk?
And then, I'm required to keep the area covered up more often, so that he doesn't have to see the tumor in its many incarnations. If I bleed at night in the shower, I keep quiet about it, and eventually, he stops showering there himself and begins to use the second bathroom as his own.
Conflict increases, mostly around sex. I want it more often and more exploratory than he does. I'd like him to open his eyes more while we're fucking, and keep his clothes off when we sleep together, but he doesn't want or need to make those changes. Not even for me. Not even once in a while. He feels I'm trying to control. I feel he's moving away, he's chilling up under me, he's leaving.
And then something awful happens, he tells me he's changed his mind about doing something for me that he'd offered to do way back, something that would make me more stable in America, and I had trusted his word and now I saw how foolish I'd been. How it's so much better to wait and be certain, not to allow romance and all the good feelings of 'love' lead the way.
I tell him he has to move out. It's been too mean between us for a while. The recession had hit our souls despite us knowing it was all up to us. My money is me, it springs out of my body, my actions, my focus in this world.
He leaves and takes just about everything he owned.
And I'm living here alone.
One week later I realize something I'd been running from my whole adult life.
This knowing that I can no longer look to anyone to make me feel good, whole, happy, real.
It's me only, I'm here alive with myself and this fact was what I had been avoiding always, what with the sugars, cakes, breads, cigarettes, clove cigarettes, drugs, joints, sex.
I finally faced the facts. Until I can accept that I am my best bet, I am all I have, I must enjoy every minute of myself, while knowing I could never be enough, yet its where I must start.
It sounds like a cliche, but yes, I do like who I am. And the person I am makes me laugh, and helps me sleep, knows how to eat, wants to end all death in me, can change on a dime and will move on continuously.
I am out to settle it once and for all, that I do not need a man. I do not need to cover myself up anymore with negativity, control, bitchiness, fear, disease, aging and death.
I have everything I need to live, make money, and draw people to me. I have decided to relax into me and get going with all the things I have to create, achieve, enjoy and prosper from.
Those sad sack thoughts 'oh, no one will want me, look at my breast', 'people hate cancer and don't know what to do with it,' 'it's easier to stay alone until this is all over, but what if it takes another few years, do i really have to stay away from intimacy for that long?'
Can you see how death is endless? And how switching it off is simple?
I'm saying no to such thoughts and hard feelings. I'm nourishing myself with rest and joy and connections with others in my life.
Meeting a man to be intimate with will be the icing on the cake.
I liked the sound of his words and the certain feeling he conveyed through them. He surprised me with the confidence he seemed to feel, and I relaxed as I kissed him, straggled across the top of him, legs everywhere, his hair in his eyes and mine drooping across his cheeks. I pressed against his chest, the heat was heavy and wet, I hadn't been with a man for a very long time and I liked this one.
Suddenly, I noticed the blood on his chest, under my breast. It had streaked down across his ribs and onto his stomach. My breast was bleeding through the bandage and the lingerie. I'd pressed too hard into him, passionately, and jumped up and ran to the shower. I took everything off, and had a quick wash, blotting the breast with wet bandage and waiting for the blood to stop.
I could see his face as he slunk into the bathroom to be closer to me and get himself a towel. His face was white and his focus was clear. The towel moist, he checked himself out in the mirror and cleared his body of my blood as orderly and quickly as he could.
I kept my smile on, inside I felt everything collapse. This was going to be too much, I'd be lucky if he stuck around, I had no right to get myself involved with someone else, have them have to deal with this cancer, have them have to feel and think all the emotions and thoughts they would have to experience being with and liking me.
Well, once we were all washed off, we got back into bed and slunk into a friendly embrace. The passion had no place, we were starting over again, as though it were the first night, circling each other feeling what could be going on.
After that, I had to be very careful not to rub myself against his chest, an activity I used to love with all my lovers, the freedom to press against the other, to feel their body, their strength, to let them feel my excitement at being so close to them, caressing with my breasts the skin of their chest.
I made sure the right breast was always lifted away from him. I never again pressed, or made contact in more than the lightest way. I had to make sure he could be comfortable, he had to know I was considering him, and it came out, he admitted he was squeamish at the sight of blood.
But this breast this tumor bleeds, I thought. It has to. It's an open wound and often, contact jars the edges, and the skin breaks and at other times, usually when i remove a dried bandage that's been on it all day, too quickly, a thin spurt of blood, like a fountain, bursts into the air, hitting my skin and anything in its way. The shower wall gets painted with my blood, mixing with the water, running down onto the ground and into the drain, getting paler and paler as it disappears.
Gushing out of me, hitting the wall, the plastic glass divider, spurting like it's never going to stop. I put my finger on it to plug it up. I remove my finger and the thin powerhouse streak shoots out again. Somehow, it's fascinating to me. People would think I was touched to feel this way, some would rush me to hospital, to have it all fixed up, cut off, bandaged up, sanitized. But it just isn't going to go that way for me. I feel it. I'm seeing it all, I'm experiencing the natural removal of the tumor, day after day, year in and year out. Knowing, that the body takes care of it all, wanting to keep me whole because I am whole.
As the months progress, I notice he stops paying any attention to my good breast, something he had done at the start. It's as though it doesn't exist for him. When I ask him about it he doesn't want to talk about it. This disturbs me, because where can you go with a person who won't talk?
And then, I'm required to keep the area covered up more often, so that he doesn't have to see the tumor in its many incarnations. If I bleed at night in the shower, I keep quiet about it, and eventually, he stops showering there himself and begins to use the second bathroom as his own.
Conflict increases, mostly around sex. I want it more often and more exploratory than he does. I'd like him to open his eyes more while we're fucking, and keep his clothes off when we sleep together, but he doesn't want or need to make those changes. Not even for me. Not even once in a while. He feels I'm trying to control. I feel he's moving away, he's chilling up under me, he's leaving.
And then something awful happens, he tells me he's changed his mind about doing something for me that he'd offered to do way back, something that would make me more stable in America, and I had trusted his word and now I saw how foolish I'd been. How it's so much better to wait and be certain, not to allow romance and all the good feelings of 'love' lead the way.
I tell him he has to move out. It's been too mean between us for a while. The recession had hit our souls despite us knowing it was all up to us. My money is me, it springs out of my body, my actions, my focus in this world.
He leaves and takes just about everything he owned.
And I'm living here alone.
One week later I realize something I'd been running from my whole adult life.
This knowing that I can no longer look to anyone to make me feel good, whole, happy, real.
It's me only, I'm here alive with myself and this fact was what I had been avoiding always, what with the sugars, cakes, breads, cigarettes, clove cigarettes, drugs, joints, sex.
I finally faced the facts. Until I can accept that I am my best bet, I am all I have, I must enjoy every minute of myself, while knowing I could never be enough, yet its where I must start.
It sounds like a cliche, but yes, I do like who I am. And the person I am makes me laugh, and helps me sleep, knows how to eat, wants to end all death in me, can change on a dime and will move on continuously.
I am out to settle it once and for all, that I do not need a man. I do not need to cover myself up anymore with negativity, control, bitchiness, fear, disease, aging and death.
I have everything I need to live, make money, and draw people to me. I have decided to relax into me and get going with all the things I have to create, achieve, enjoy and prosper from.
Those sad sack thoughts 'oh, no one will want me, look at my breast', 'people hate cancer and don't know what to do with it,' 'it's easier to stay alone until this is all over, but what if it takes another few years, do i really have to stay away from intimacy for that long?'
Can you see how death is endless? And how switching it off is simple?
I'm saying no to such thoughts and hard feelings. I'm nourishing myself with rest and joy and connections with others in my life.
Meeting a man to be intimate with will be the icing on the cake.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Reflecting on Anger
I was feeling the anger I still experience. I want to end that reaction that goes to anger when things happen I have no control over, people don't respond to me in ways I would like.
What is this anger I have carried until now?
Angry that my uncle fiddled around with me sexually when I was a child. I like the word 'fiddled' because that is what the memory I have tells me.
Angry that my mother and father were not a happy couple and made each other sad.
Angry that the move they made from Egypt to Australia really didn't work out for them.
Angry that my family was introverted, isolated, and suspicious of the local Australians, a classic case of migrancy.
Angry that I drugged myself for so long and created this breast cancer.
Angry that I am losing my right breast and have to face the scar that will be left.
Angry that my interactions with men in intimate relationships do not seem to flow well.
Angry that I carry anger.
Angry that this world is full of death, cruelty, cheating, loneliness and poverty.
Angry that the man I loved from 2002 to 2007 died of HIV, a 'virus' that has been shown to have been manufactured and injected into the population as a means of biological warfare. I don't care if you think I'm a conspiricist theorist. I've read three large books on the topic with proof from government records.
Angry that I am fat and fat is just not in for women.
Angry that I have not yet beat the bread thing.
Angry that I have not yet overcome decades of poverty in my body, I am excited about changing that pattern and making lots of money in a flowing consistent manner.
Angry that so few people respond to physical immortality and that I have to work at not feeling weird around people when I talk about it and get the usual blank response.
Angry that I still have trust issues with people but happy that I am seeing the foolishness of living this way.
I think that's about covered it.
What is this anger I have carried until now?
Angry that my uncle fiddled around with me sexually when I was a child. I like the word 'fiddled' because that is what the memory I have tells me.
Angry that my mother and father were not a happy couple and made each other sad.
Angry that the move they made from Egypt to Australia really didn't work out for them.
Angry that my family was introverted, isolated, and suspicious of the local Australians, a classic case of migrancy.
Angry that I drugged myself for so long and created this breast cancer.
Angry that I am losing my right breast and have to face the scar that will be left.
Angry that my interactions with men in intimate relationships do not seem to flow well.
Angry that I carry anger.
Angry that this world is full of death, cruelty, cheating, loneliness and poverty.
Angry that the man I loved from 2002 to 2007 died of HIV, a 'virus' that has been shown to have been manufactured and injected into the population as a means of biological warfare. I don't care if you think I'm a conspiricist theorist. I've read three large books on the topic with proof from government records.
Angry that I am fat and fat is just not in for women.
Angry that I have not yet beat the bread thing.
Angry that I have not yet overcome decades of poverty in my body, I am excited about changing that pattern and making lots of money in a flowing consistent manner.
Angry that so few people respond to physical immortality and that I have to work at not feeling weird around people when I talk about it and get the usual blank response.
Angry that I still have trust issues with people but happy that I am seeing the foolishness of living this way.
I think that's about covered it.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Joyful Skin
Make it okay to live and outlive any physical issues that arise. You have the right to overcome these things. I've taken my right, my place in this world. I've spoken words that have led me through something known as breast cancer, a disease of the whole body that manifests itself in a collected mass of waste and toxins. If I were to have the tumor analysed, what would the laboratory find?
Decades of self destructive thoughts, thoughts that made it cool to hurt myself in a myriad of ways, on a daily basis.
Overcooked food from take away bars and restaurants, double dead meat and vegetables and all that bread, a lifetime of raisin toast and grilled cheese. Imagine my gut trying to deal with it all, day in and day out.
A tendency to melancholia, mild or constant depression and cynicism being a natural part of my family's character. Yes the world positions some of us this way, while others keep the optimistic eye on the horizon.
Living in a highly polluted city for a very long time.
Smoking tars and cigarettes for over 20 years.
Using pharmaceuticals and antibiotics and being vaccinated as a baby and child and having vaccines injected into me before my travels to Asia.
I think that covers it.
And now, I am a joyful body, alive and full of threat. I'm here to threaten the dominant paradigm that sees and feels death is inevitable. The mindset that hears the word 'cancer' and understands that to equal death.
I'm here to show you how joy is the natural condition of every cell, how I can decide to live this way, when sadness comes I will feel it and then move on to the knowing of my skin and bones, they're strong and waiting to move and stretch and conquer this terrible, negative, death oriented world full of separation and cruelty. It's a glamorous world too, creative, colorful, sweet smelling, with oceans to throw myself in, and people to amaze myself with.
i'm choosing physical immortality. An environment of people based in Scottsdale Arizona, focused with People Unlimited, a business that makes it their business to motivate people to end death in all its sneaky ways. It's so much fun to shine a light on the sneak. Watch it duck for cover as we unveil the deadliness of its form and actions. I love the irritation on its face, the glare of our glory. We have only to speak the words to end it all, in ourselves and each other.
Watch disease retreat, misery explode to nothing, intimacy envelop our bodies with annointed inspiration.
All of this is how I feel and what I think, in the midst of a rotting breast, fungus smelling tumor being reduced to nothing by millions of years of bodily intelligence. How else can I explain how and why this body is dissolving the tumor by the presence of yeast cells, covering the dead lump and eating away at it day by day.
Its a miracle its a true heaven right here alive and physical walking on two feet eyes wide open lauging crying ouliving forgiving, myself and all others too.
Decades of self destructive thoughts, thoughts that made it cool to hurt myself in a myriad of ways, on a daily basis.
Overcooked food from take away bars and restaurants, double dead meat and vegetables and all that bread, a lifetime of raisin toast and grilled cheese. Imagine my gut trying to deal with it all, day in and day out.
A tendency to melancholia, mild or constant depression and cynicism being a natural part of my family's character. Yes the world positions some of us this way, while others keep the optimistic eye on the horizon.
Living in a highly polluted city for a very long time.
Smoking tars and cigarettes for over 20 years.
Using pharmaceuticals and antibiotics and being vaccinated as a baby and child and having vaccines injected into me before my travels to Asia.
I think that covers it.
And now, I am a joyful body, alive and full of threat. I'm here to threaten the dominant paradigm that sees and feels death is inevitable. The mindset that hears the word 'cancer' and understands that to equal death.
I'm here to show you how joy is the natural condition of every cell, how I can decide to live this way, when sadness comes I will feel it and then move on to the knowing of my skin and bones, they're strong and waiting to move and stretch and conquer this terrible, negative, death oriented world full of separation and cruelty. It's a glamorous world too, creative, colorful, sweet smelling, with oceans to throw myself in, and people to amaze myself with.
i'm choosing physical immortality. An environment of people based in Scottsdale Arizona, focused with People Unlimited, a business that makes it their business to motivate people to end death in all its sneaky ways. It's so much fun to shine a light on the sneak. Watch it duck for cover as we unveil the deadliness of its form and actions. I love the irritation on its face, the glare of our glory. We have only to speak the words to end it all, in ourselves and each other.
Watch disease retreat, misery explode to nothing, intimacy envelop our bodies with annointed inspiration.
All of this is how I feel and what I think, in the midst of a rotting breast, fungus smelling tumor being reduced to nothing by millions of years of bodily intelligence. How else can I explain how and why this body is dissolving the tumor by the presence of yeast cells, covering the dead lump and eating away at it day by day.
Its a miracle its a true heaven right here alive and physical walking on two feet eyes wide open lauging crying ouliving forgiving, myself and all others too.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Baby its a new day
It's a new day baby, it's a monsoon morning. The desert marsupials are scratching wildly across the roof and the sun is bright and i'm just waking up.
I can smell the breast I can see the dried up blood and the sheets need a wash and I'm hungry for a change. Come on, quicken the movement of disintegration. Keep my thoughts clean and focused. I'm ready for the reversal of cancer to be reversed. It's over and I can take it. I can take the visual of an empty right side chest. I can take the wound healing up and the scar tightening all the skin. I know I will supersede the fear and melancholia of that sight.
Melancholia, a disease in itself. What's there to be so fucking sad about when you know you are living on and on and that nothing, absolutely nothing can or will take your life? Imagine the rest there. The joy. The strength and capacity to direct how and where to go.
Being a person ready to never die is a huge experience. It means going against the grain of the world as we know it. The world that says, death is inevitable, don't get too alive, don't expect too much, people always let you down, stay independent, don't trust, get what you can, hope you can make a few friends and when your time comes, well, just accept it.
But I've already faced death don't you see? It's nothing to me.
And my body and your body is everything. My streets of gold, my endless, cloudless heaven. Physical and moving, playing and working, sleeping and exercising, laughing.
This breast that was ruined shocked me. I finally see the results of all that self abuse. That attitude of couldn't care less. Yeah, smoke those indonesian cigarettes, let the clove oil drip into my lungs, yeah roll another joint let that tar seep into my blood stream. Yeah go on, work in the sex industry selling your body for money, yeah so, the men love groping your breasts and you hate it? Forget it, just live through it, you know there's a joint waiting for you at the end of the session and if you can just bring yourself to smile a bit and look into his eyes, you never know, he may even tip you.
Yeah, yell and scream at that man who loves you, yeah go on, stay with him even though you know you shouldn't, keep on working in the industry even though it hurts him, keep lying to your family about what you really do for money, keep turning up at your mum's house stoned out of your brain because you haven't got the guts to face what you're really feeling.
It's all that shit that past that way of deadly life.
And I'm through with it, I have the guts now, I care who touches me, I want to live and be healthy, I don't think I'm not worth it, and I don't think it's cool to risk everything of myself on shallow, dangerous things.
I have people who feel the same way, people who want to live and outsmart death, and together, we're doing it.
What chance does 'cancer' have in this environment?
I can smell the breast I can see the dried up blood and the sheets need a wash and I'm hungry for a change. Come on, quicken the movement of disintegration. Keep my thoughts clean and focused. I'm ready for the reversal of cancer to be reversed. It's over and I can take it. I can take the visual of an empty right side chest. I can take the wound healing up and the scar tightening all the skin. I know I will supersede the fear and melancholia of that sight.
Melancholia, a disease in itself. What's there to be so fucking sad about when you know you are living on and on and that nothing, absolutely nothing can or will take your life? Imagine the rest there. The joy. The strength and capacity to direct how and where to go.
Being a person ready to never die is a huge experience. It means going against the grain of the world as we know it. The world that says, death is inevitable, don't get too alive, don't expect too much, people always let you down, stay independent, don't trust, get what you can, hope you can make a few friends and when your time comes, well, just accept it.
But I've already faced death don't you see? It's nothing to me.
And my body and your body is everything. My streets of gold, my endless, cloudless heaven. Physical and moving, playing and working, sleeping and exercising, laughing.
This breast that was ruined shocked me. I finally see the results of all that self abuse. That attitude of couldn't care less. Yeah, smoke those indonesian cigarettes, let the clove oil drip into my lungs, yeah roll another joint let that tar seep into my blood stream. Yeah go on, work in the sex industry selling your body for money, yeah so, the men love groping your breasts and you hate it? Forget it, just live through it, you know there's a joint waiting for you at the end of the session and if you can just bring yourself to smile a bit and look into his eyes, you never know, he may even tip you.
Yeah, yell and scream at that man who loves you, yeah go on, stay with him even though you know you shouldn't, keep on working in the industry even though it hurts him, keep lying to your family about what you really do for money, keep turning up at your mum's house stoned out of your brain because you haven't got the guts to face what you're really feeling.
It's all that shit that past that way of deadly life.
And I'm through with it, I have the guts now, I care who touches me, I want to live and be healthy, I don't think I'm not worth it, and I don't think it's cool to risk everything of myself on shallow, dangerous things.
I have people who feel the same way, people who want to live and outsmart death, and together, we're doing it.
What chance does 'cancer' have in this environment?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Joy Supersedes Disease
The joy of being physical, alive, your body walking on two feet with every intention of getting better and better, no matter what the 'odds' might look like.
Joy, the most natural feeling, that which is most suited to your human body: it lights up your shadowy face with a smile on your lips while the whites of your eyes clarify, and your pupils exude all the energy and warmth your body produces every moment.
Your hands reach out and touch. Belly, chest and legs meet body to body with another person for a hug. On contact, your body sighs with satisfaction, your mind races with innovation, and every cell exhales with deep relaxation.
Joy superseded disease. I refuse to sink into the hole of depression. I'm in charge. It's not something I'm fighting against, I'm not 'battling' cancer. I'm living, and keeping my connection with other people who feel that living free of, and outliving death, is the supreme way of life. No one has done it yet. No one has lived past 200 years, standing on the planet declaring to the world, 'Look, I have beaten death!"
Let me be the one, along with all others who feel the same, who speaks the words of physical immortality, ending death row, no matter how silly it may sound to some, or even the majority.
Cancer and death are silly. Ludicrous. Disease, aging and death are ruthless. 100% success rate so far on planet earth. They take individuals one at a time, no matter how healthy, no matter how strong.
This joy I'm speaking about is aligned with a purity of heart and action, with integrity of movement with oneself and others. Cancer, this lost breast you see in the photographs is the end of my corrupt life, my corrupt personalities that led me down the slimey, litter strewn alleys of Sydney, searching for drugs, and for the games people play.
Time was just a measuring stick imposed on my life, the hours months years-endless, and all the unhappiness I felt, stagnating moment by moment as I ignored change and freedom of my flesh. I was ignorant, and the stagnation built into a rock hard breast.
Now that I know what it is to feel soft and melted and trusting with the deep knowing that I have no end, no reason to exit, am focused on living with greater health and prosperity and love, I understand how corrupt my life has been. My words, thoughts and deeds. Tainted with the wasting disease of not giving a shit, a shit about myself, playing roulette with every LSD trip, hash oil joint, and sick human relationships.
Skin and bones and organs, all in decline with every snort of cocaine, every joint rolled, every sex act consumated with mind and body split, every hated job worked at, the suppression of my creative talents and capacity for joy and life.
It's a different story now. I'm outliving that past, that girl child died while I kept walking. She died because she had to and because I decided she would die alone, and not take me with her.
Joy, the most natural feeling, that which is most suited to your human body: it lights up your shadowy face with a smile on your lips while the whites of your eyes clarify, and your pupils exude all the energy and warmth your body produces every moment.
Your hands reach out and touch. Belly, chest and legs meet body to body with another person for a hug. On contact, your body sighs with satisfaction, your mind races with innovation, and every cell exhales with deep relaxation.
Joy superseded disease. I refuse to sink into the hole of depression. I'm in charge. It's not something I'm fighting against, I'm not 'battling' cancer. I'm living, and keeping my connection with other people who feel that living free of, and outliving death, is the supreme way of life. No one has done it yet. No one has lived past 200 years, standing on the planet declaring to the world, 'Look, I have beaten death!"
Let me be the one, along with all others who feel the same, who speaks the words of physical immortality, ending death row, no matter how silly it may sound to some, or even the majority.
Cancer and death are silly. Ludicrous. Disease, aging and death are ruthless. 100% success rate so far on planet earth. They take individuals one at a time, no matter how healthy, no matter how strong.
This joy I'm speaking about is aligned with a purity of heart and action, with integrity of movement with oneself and others. Cancer, this lost breast you see in the photographs is the end of my corrupt life, my corrupt personalities that led me down the slimey, litter strewn alleys of Sydney, searching for drugs, and for the games people play.
Time was just a measuring stick imposed on my life, the hours months years-endless, and all the unhappiness I felt, stagnating moment by moment as I ignored change and freedom of my flesh. I was ignorant, and the stagnation built into a rock hard breast.
Now that I know what it is to feel soft and melted and trusting with the deep knowing that I have no end, no reason to exit, am focused on living with greater health and prosperity and love, I understand how corrupt my life has been. My words, thoughts and deeds. Tainted with the wasting disease of not giving a shit, a shit about myself, playing roulette with every LSD trip, hash oil joint, and sick human relationships.
Skin and bones and organs, all in decline with every snort of cocaine, every joint rolled, every sex act consumated with mind and body split, every hated job worked at, the suppression of my creative talents and capacity for joy and life.
It's a different story now. I'm outliving that past, that girl child died while I kept walking. She died because she had to and because I decided she would die alone, and not take me with her.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Origins of Disease
Aside from toxicity, environmental or personally administered, it was important to self reflect and find answers to why cancer and why my breast?
18 months before diagnosis, I had left the man I'd lived with for 13 years.
I didn't make a clean break, honest and respectful of both him and myself.
I slunk around having a love affair with the man I was to be with for a while after.
Then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I blurted it out. We were in a hotel room, attempting to have a romantic evening together. It was heartbreaking, because he had paid for this room to please me, he knew I liked anonymous rooms, the crisp white sheets, the silence all around.
And he was so sweet, considerate, and wanting to make love.
But I could not. I had given my heart to another man and the thought of going through with making love with my husband was impossible. So, I blurted it out.
The shock in his face, the hurt. My fear and guilt. I knew it was so wrong, that he didn't deserve it, I knew he was responsible too, in his way, but he'd have to face that himself, it wasn't mine to deal with. We stopped touching each other and somehow eventually slept.
In the morning, it was that awful empty feeling separation brings. Knowing its over, and the Chandler desert air seemed full of that emptiness, that mean cruel isolation.
We had a business together and I didn't see how it was going to work out.
I had fears, he would try to kick me out, he would get violent, despite never having been violent in all those years.
I knew I had broken his heart.
The drama of lost love but I paid for it with a tumor 18 months later.
He went through so much and so did I. He hated me and wanted me out of his sight and I insisted on staying in the business and working it out so we could be friends and run it and succeed.
I remember feeling I would die, that he wanted me to die, that I wouldn't be able to stand on my own two feet without him. He'd been my caretaker, paying my way, dressing and feeding me, driving me everywhere. And at night, right up until the end, he was ready to give himself to me, he had it in him, that passion and desire.
That feeling of dying stayed for a while, because I had to do things for myself I had never done. I had to borrow money buy a car (my first car ever at the age of 41) pay my own rent stand my ground and get myself to the wine store to face him and work all day be nice stand my ground tell him no when he shot his venom at me and then, alternated that with wanting us to get back together, telling me no one would ever love me the way he loves me that i was being a fool that the bisexual man I was in love with would die of AIDS didn't I know that 70% of men who frequent sex clubs catch HIV and die of AIDs?
All these words and emotions, changes unexpected, and then going home to my lover, and his guilt and anger, and his passion and outrageously abandoned sexuality that made me so happy, his humor and intelligence, his skinny tall glamor.
It was stress I could not afford, tension I had no clue what to do with, and inside the lump grew.
It festered and fermented and you can give me all your knowledgeable reasons about 'cancer personality' and 'toxicity' and this and that and you should do this and do that, I know that I had taken a bad bad turn, not in leaving him, but the manner in which I had done it.
And now, it's six years later and the cancer has not spread and I'm faced with half a flat chest and I'm going to manage my feelings this time, I'm going to take the responsibility and make my choices, I'm going to say HERE I AM THIS IS WHAT IM DOING I HEAR THE PUBLIC OPINION AND THANK YOU FOR CARING AND IM FOLLOWING THE RUTHLESS YES INSIDE THE YES TO LIVING AND OUTLIVING THIS.
This cancer, this remnant of a past life, this consequence of bad choices and mistreating myself and others, this conscience that has matured is taking me with it to health and a physically immortal soul and cellular structure.
I'm planning on living forever and its happening right now as I speak.
18 months before diagnosis, I had left the man I'd lived with for 13 years.
I didn't make a clean break, honest and respectful of both him and myself.
I slunk around having a love affair with the man I was to be with for a while after.
Then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I blurted it out. We were in a hotel room, attempting to have a romantic evening together. It was heartbreaking, because he had paid for this room to please me, he knew I liked anonymous rooms, the crisp white sheets, the silence all around.
And he was so sweet, considerate, and wanting to make love.
But I could not. I had given my heart to another man and the thought of going through with making love with my husband was impossible. So, I blurted it out.
The shock in his face, the hurt. My fear and guilt. I knew it was so wrong, that he didn't deserve it, I knew he was responsible too, in his way, but he'd have to face that himself, it wasn't mine to deal with. We stopped touching each other and somehow eventually slept.
In the morning, it was that awful empty feeling separation brings. Knowing its over, and the Chandler desert air seemed full of that emptiness, that mean cruel isolation.
We had a business together and I didn't see how it was going to work out.
I had fears, he would try to kick me out, he would get violent, despite never having been violent in all those years.
I knew I had broken his heart.
The drama of lost love but I paid for it with a tumor 18 months later.
He went through so much and so did I. He hated me and wanted me out of his sight and I insisted on staying in the business and working it out so we could be friends and run it and succeed.
I remember feeling I would die, that he wanted me to die, that I wouldn't be able to stand on my own two feet without him. He'd been my caretaker, paying my way, dressing and feeding me, driving me everywhere. And at night, right up until the end, he was ready to give himself to me, he had it in him, that passion and desire.
That feeling of dying stayed for a while, because I had to do things for myself I had never done. I had to borrow money buy a car (my first car ever at the age of 41) pay my own rent stand my ground and get myself to the wine store to face him and work all day be nice stand my ground tell him no when he shot his venom at me and then, alternated that with wanting us to get back together, telling me no one would ever love me the way he loves me that i was being a fool that the bisexual man I was in love with would die of AIDS didn't I know that 70% of men who frequent sex clubs catch HIV and die of AIDs?
All these words and emotions, changes unexpected, and then going home to my lover, and his guilt and anger, and his passion and outrageously abandoned sexuality that made me so happy, his humor and intelligence, his skinny tall glamor.
It was stress I could not afford, tension I had no clue what to do with, and inside the lump grew.
It festered and fermented and you can give me all your knowledgeable reasons about 'cancer personality' and 'toxicity' and this and that and you should do this and do that, I know that I had taken a bad bad turn, not in leaving him, but the manner in which I had done it.
And now, it's six years later and the cancer has not spread and I'm faced with half a flat chest and I'm going to manage my feelings this time, I'm going to take the responsibility and make my choices, I'm going to say HERE I AM THIS IS WHAT IM DOING I HEAR THE PUBLIC OPINION AND THANK YOU FOR CARING AND IM FOLLOWING THE RUTHLESS YES INSIDE THE YES TO LIVING AND OUTLIVING THIS.
This cancer, this remnant of a past life, this consequence of bad choices and mistreating myself and others, this conscience that has matured is taking me with it to health and a physically immortal soul and cellular structure.
I'm planning on living forever and its happening right now as I speak.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Bacteria and Cancer
According to certain science, cancer and many other diseases arise in the human body because internal levels of bacteria have declined drastically. This dearth of the little critters is due to several factors, not least, the overwhelming use of antibiotics prescribed by doctors at the drop of a hat.
In my childhood and then in my early twenties, I swallowed copious strains of antibiotics for many infections, bugs, whatevers. I worked in the sex industry for a year at 22 years of age. In the brothels not the street, I was too chicken for that, besides its cold out there, and I didn't want to be on show. Every two weeks, we were required to visit the sexually transmitted diseases clinic in Macquarie St. for checkups, and to obtain a note from the doctor that said we were clean. If we had caught something, we were not allowed back to work and had to take the treatments and wait for word when we could return. Usually it was 3 days to a week for the drugs to do the deed.
In that year, I contracted clamydia, gonnoreah, various yeast infections, sometimes more than once. I never forced a condom on a client, if he asked for it I would offer it, sometimes, if I didn't like the look of him, I'd bring it out and tear it open, some would acquiece, others would cajole to not have to wear it. It was Sydney, a few years before the letters HIV were slapped across every second Sydney bus hurtling down main city streets. We were ignorant and alive and I preferred to have the least conflict possible in the rooms. I wanted them to like me because I'd had such insecurity growing up about my attractiveness to men, sometimes I feel it still, even though I know intellectually that I have a beauty no one could deny.
So, I would take the antibiotics and more often than not, knowing I was a sex worker and chomping at the bit to go back to work as soon as possible, because somehow, the profession does that to you, it makes you want to keep going, night after night, collecting the dollars, right up until dawn, when at the end of shift, the receptionist opens the safe behind the counter and counts out your cut of the evening.
I loved that money. Cash. I would take cabs home even though I only lived a fifteen minute walk away, but by 5 am I'd be dead tired, it was sometimes hard to walk, after climbing the Pink Flamingo's three flights of stairs 8 - 10 times a night. It was a busy place, in a charming street, in Kings Cross.
The doctor at the STD clinic knew that working girls just wanted to work, so he'd make sure to hand over the latest, greatest strain of antibiotics that was assured to kill the issue in 2 - 3 days. It was thrilling to know these serious conditions could be dealt with so quickly. The only problem was, 3 days without work found me spending, spending, spending. Grams of hash, the most expensive cheese in the most expensive supermarket in town, clothes, taxis everywhere, packets of Indonesian cigarettes, breakfast lunch and dinner out, gifts for my housemates and by the time the fourth day would arrive, I'd be broke.
In just one year of this, I managed to kill all the good bacteria in my stomach, and all my digestive problems started after that.
As part of my cancer treatment, and according to studies done on mice in a Canadian university (email me for the citation) e-coli when fed to these mice would result in the dissolution of their brain tumors.
I was advised to buy buffalo shit. Not just any old buffalo shit. I had to find the intestines of a buffalo that was 'organic', clean, living in a non-toxic environment. A woman helped me and some others with cancer obtain what we needed. Over the course of two years, I bought intestines three to four times a year. $60 bucks a pop, including shipping. It would arrive overnight delivery to my place of work. I could smell the shit seeping out from the box, and from her clever attempts at wrapping it well. Did the delivery man notice? How did the package manage to arrive without the authorities invervening?
Back home, I removed all the plastic, cut the intestines into smaller pieces and stored them in two glass jars. Then, I put them in a cooler an left them outside. When I summoned the courage, I would pull the intestines out, onto a bread board and slice through the thick, cartilige like tissue until the grasslike excrement revealed itself. Then, I would take one to two tablespoons down my throat, first holding my nose, then later, just holding my breath. As I gained experience, I saw that the fresher the intestines were the easier the shit was to swallow, because it still looked like moist grass and didn't taste or smell like shit. If I left them out there for a week, two or three, the grassy texture would meld down into a wet mass of slime with some substance and it was harder to get down.
The results were astounding. Within ten minutes, I felt high, a light-headed, joyful feeling. Surprise, surprise, this remedy was also prescribed for paranoid schizophrenia. I read the testimony of a man who had been a severe schizo for years, and when he started eating jars full of buffalo or cow shit, he found his illness stopped completely and normality returned. Whenever he stopped eating the shit, symptoms would return and he'd have to eat it again.
This isn't a joke, it's about the lack of bacteria throughout the body. Bacteria that is needed to clean up mutant tissue, scar tissue, damaged cells and so on. Without these critters, the damaged tissue collects and builds up and all kinds of problems arise. Believe me or not.
Within a few days, I noticed the ease with which I could shit. Elimination became a 2 second experience, and I really emptied out fast and completely. This reversed twenty something years of constipation. I thought that would never change, I thought I was wired that way.
Another problem when a person has cancer is that, the body is overloaded with toxins. Bacteria cannot live around toxins too long because these chemicals poison them and they die. When a person is relatively healthy, bacteria can live and do its work. This is why, I had to introduce it into my system intermittenly. This e-coli was needed to help break down the cancer cells, break down the tumor.
People I knew thought I was crazy, but to me, it seemed okay. I still felt it was a better alternative to chemo, radiation and surgery. That's just me.
In my childhood and then in my early twenties, I swallowed copious strains of antibiotics for many infections, bugs, whatevers. I worked in the sex industry for a year at 22 years of age. In the brothels not the street, I was too chicken for that, besides its cold out there, and I didn't want to be on show. Every two weeks, we were required to visit the sexually transmitted diseases clinic in Macquarie St. for checkups, and to obtain a note from the doctor that said we were clean. If we had caught something, we were not allowed back to work and had to take the treatments and wait for word when we could return. Usually it was 3 days to a week for the drugs to do the deed.
In that year, I contracted clamydia, gonnoreah, various yeast infections, sometimes more than once. I never forced a condom on a client, if he asked for it I would offer it, sometimes, if I didn't like the look of him, I'd bring it out and tear it open, some would acquiece, others would cajole to not have to wear it. It was Sydney, a few years before the letters HIV were slapped across every second Sydney bus hurtling down main city streets. We were ignorant and alive and I preferred to have the least conflict possible in the rooms. I wanted them to like me because I'd had such insecurity growing up about my attractiveness to men, sometimes I feel it still, even though I know intellectually that I have a beauty no one could deny.
So, I would take the antibiotics and more often than not, knowing I was a sex worker and chomping at the bit to go back to work as soon as possible, because somehow, the profession does that to you, it makes you want to keep going, night after night, collecting the dollars, right up until dawn, when at the end of shift, the receptionist opens the safe behind the counter and counts out your cut of the evening.
I loved that money. Cash. I would take cabs home even though I only lived a fifteen minute walk away, but by 5 am I'd be dead tired, it was sometimes hard to walk, after climbing the Pink Flamingo's three flights of stairs 8 - 10 times a night. It was a busy place, in a charming street, in Kings Cross.
The doctor at the STD clinic knew that working girls just wanted to work, so he'd make sure to hand over the latest, greatest strain of antibiotics that was assured to kill the issue in 2 - 3 days. It was thrilling to know these serious conditions could be dealt with so quickly. The only problem was, 3 days without work found me spending, spending, spending. Grams of hash, the most expensive cheese in the most expensive supermarket in town, clothes, taxis everywhere, packets of Indonesian cigarettes, breakfast lunch and dinner out, gifts for my housemates and by the time the fourth day would arrive, I'd be broke.
In just one year of this, I managed to kill all the good bacteria in my stomach, and all my digestive problems started after that.
As part of my cancer treatment, and according to studies done on mice in a Canadian university (email me for the citation) e-coli when fed to these mice would result in the dissolution of their brain tumors.
I was advised to buy buffalo shit. Not just any old buffalo shit. I had to find the intestines of a buffalo that was 'organic', clean, living in a non-toxic environment. A woman helped me and some others with cancer obtain what we needed. Over the course of two years, I bought intestines three to four times a year. $60 bucks a pop, including shipping. It would arrive overnight delivery to my place of work. I could smell the shit seeping out from the box, and from her clever attempts at wrapping it well. Did the delivery man notice? How did the package manage to arrive without the authorities invervening?
Back home, I removed all the plastic, cut the intestines into smaller pieces and stored them in two glass jars. Then, I put them in a cooler an left them outside. When I summoned the courage, I would pull the intestines out, onto a bread board and slice through the thick, cartilige like tissue until the grasslike excrement revealed itself. Then, I would take one to two tablespoons down my throat, first holding my nose, then later, just holding my breath. As I gained experience, I saw that the fresher the intestines were the easier the shit was to swallow, because it still looked like moist grass and didn't taste or smell like shit. If I left them out there for a week, two or three, the grassy texture would meld down into a wet mass of slime with some substance and it was harder to get down.
The results were astounding. Within ten minutes, I felt high, a light-headed, joyful feeling. Surprise, surprise, this remedy was also prescribed for paranoid schizophrenia. I read the testimony of a man who had been a severe schizo for years, and when he started eating jars full of buffalo or cow shit, he found his illness stopped completely and normality returned. Whenever he stopped eating the shit, symptoms would return and he'd have to eat it again.
This isn't a joke, it's about the lack of bacteria throughout the body. Bacteria that is needed to clean up mutant tissue, scar tissue, damaged cells and so on. Without these critters, the damaged tissue collects and builds up and all kinds of problems arise. Believe me or not.
Within a few days, I noticed the ease with which I could shit. Elimination became a 2 second experience, and I really emptied out fast and completely. This reversed twenty something years of constipation. I thought that would never change, I thought I was wired that way.
Another problem when a person has cancer is that, the body is overloaded with toxins. Bacteria cannot live around toxins too long because these chemicals poison them and they die. When a person is relatively healthy, bacteria can live and do its work. This is why, I had to introduce it into my system intermittenly. This e-coli was needed to help break down the cancer cells, break down the tumor.
People I knew thought I was crazy, but to me, it seemed okay. I still felt it was a better alternative to chemo, radiation and surgery. That's just me.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I Was Not Breast Fed
I was not breast fed my mother had trouble the milk never came how could it in those days, in Egypt, whiskey and cigarettes were all the go.
Amazing isn't it how breasts are so fetishized in white, western culture. Look at African tribal women, they just walk around with them both exposed, and decorated with beads and wood and silver and gold. Not like in India, where the Rajasthani women are completely covered up from head to toe, silver rings on the feet, thick bangles around their ankles. The cloth their wraps are made of are full of color and design, music to my eye.
And here, in America, where the great porn industry thrives, the women are surgically altering their chests at a fast rate. Kind of makes me desperate all these weird huge shapes jutting out and leading the way. It's the opposite of anorexia. You stare in the mirror and think you're fat but your skeletal system is pushing up through your sagging aged skin. With fake boobs because hello? can I really call them breasts?, you stare in the mirror and turn from side to side, and think, wow i look so good, i'm so sexy, i'm ready to deal, every guy will be checking these out, I'm the most gorgeous woman, the most woman woman in the whole world. But your boobs don't fit and they sit straight up and out and the nipples seem permanently erect and when you go to hug people they prevent you from really feeling their hearts. Though saline is better right? Those ones are soft and almost real. And I watch as men watch them, they can't seem to help themselves looking over at the woman with the brilliant cleavage and the clothes placed just so.
Now, with my one breast left, the desperate feeling feeds a lowered esteem instead of a righteous attitude. Either way, I can't win.
These days, I'm interested in forgiving, losing my critical mind, stopping the crucifixion of other people and myself, being soft and melted with people who want to be around me, smiling more, laughing and enjoying every moment because to be alive is all I have, and my body is that heaven, the promised land I've been hearing about forever.
Amazing isn't it how breasts are so fetishized in white, western culture. Look at African tribal women, they just walk around with them both exposed, and decorated with beads and wood and silver and gold. Not like in India, where the Rajasthani women are completely covered up from head to toe, silver rings on the feet, thick bangles around their ankles. The cloth their wraps are made of are full of color and design, music to my eye.
And here, in America, where the great porn industry thrives, the women are surgically altering their chests at a fast rate. Kind of makes me desperate all these weird huge shapes jutting out and leading the way. It's the opposite of anorexia. You stare in the mirror and think you're fat but your skeletal system is pushing up through your sagging aged skin. With fake boobs because hello? can I really call them breasts?, you stare in the mirror and turn from side to side, and think, wow i look so good, i'm so sexy, i'm ready to deal, every guy will be checking these out, I'm the most gorgeous woman, the most woman woman in the whole world. But your boobs don't fit and they sit straight up and out and the nipples seem permanently erect and when you go to hug people they prevent you from really feeling their hearts. Though saline is better right? Those ones are soft and almost real. And I watch as men watch them, they can't seem to help themselves looking over at the woman with the brilliant cleavage and the clothes placed just so.
Now, with my one breast left, the desperate feeling feeds a lowered esteem instead of a righteous attitude. Either way, I can't win.
These days, I'm interested in forgiving, losing my critical mind, stopping the crucifixion of other people and myself, being soft and melted with people who want to be around me, smiling more, laughing and enjoying every moment because to be alive is all I have, and my body is that heaven, the promised land I've been hearing about forever.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Making Love with an Open Tumor in my Breast
Making love with the man I am attracted to and enjoy living with can be complicated with an open, festering wound on my chest. Some anxiety arises before he enters the room. Will he be able to smell what I can smell? If so, will he be brave enough to tell me?I make sure I'm straight out of the shower, scrubbed and clean. Wife beater over a bra over the bandage with raw coconut cream to keep the wound moist.I can easily feel it's just not worth it. How much more relaxing it would be to simply live alone, not have to worry about the odors and sight of this breast mess. To be able to wander around the house naked without making sure I am covered up and fine about it, to be un selfconscious of the physical deformity that is so visible when I am naked.And the bandage and bra and the wife beater...they press against the tumor and at times, pain shoots back up from within the breast. It would be so much better to release the area from all the cover up.But then, we start kissing, and his thick healthy head of hair falls into his blue eyes, and his smile dimples his cheek, and we kiss. He lies back so relaxed. He lies back as though he's giving himself to me. I stare at his face, so restful, his lids closed, his sweet brows arched over them.I run my hand up underneath his tee shirt and feel his smooth satin skin. His bellybutton hides under a charming fold of fat, I caress it and softly let him know how sweet he is to me.He keeps his shorts and shirt on because he feels vulnerable without them. He even sleeps in them. Do you realize, does he realize, I have only slept with his naked body twice in the past year? It was hard at first, because the most beautiful aspect of sleeping with a lover is feeling their skin, the hair on his legs, his wide shoulders, the spinal link.Something bad happened a long time ago, when he was a kid. I can't fix it and he says he's fine with it.So then, we move on and we're interlocked and I feel him and give myself over, and he takes some time to feel us and feel his torso throbbing, until he liquidates into me and when we are finished we're breathing hard and laying back and the candle light comes into full focus, the coyotes are howling beyond the window, it's Arizona, and the soul music continues on the portable stereo.I'm smiling, the tears of an hour earlier have disappeared, our fingertips brush against each other, and I'm done with the merging. I'm into Vanity Fair now, this month they've recorded all the dead celebrities and I read it crazily, wanting to know them, their lives, and why it all ended the way they particularly ended.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Breast Tumor and Blood
Today the smell of blood is everpresent. I managed to remove a dark, dead part of the tumor a couple of days ago in the shower, it just came away without any bother, and since then, the rotting smell of I don't know what has gone, I am just returning to the yeasty smell of the fungus that's dissolving the lump.
Mineral-like scent of blood. At times, mingled with old memories of cooked food, as though the flesh of the tumor is old cooked food that never did get digested and just got lumped into my breast.
I have to say, the various off odors I am dealing with on a daily basis are really overwhelming at times, and even render my stomach slightly nauseous. I know I'm doing wonderfully despite this because my appetite never disappears, I'm eating all day.
Raw kefir shakes with organic milk, frozen organic berries, raw honey, walnuts ground up, ground up beef bones for protein and some kind of supplemental powder full of bacteria (though I'm suspicious of processed bacteria in a vitamin tub), I agreed to take these for a while on a friend's recommendation.
Then I ate raw feta cheese shipped in from Amish farmers with sprouted flat bread and tons of raw butter, then shared some sushi pieces with a friend, came home and ate a fresh salad with some raw salmon and later will gorge on raw cream and fresh figs.
It's a really tough cancer treatment don't you think?
Mineral-like scent of blood. At times, mingled with old memories of cooked food, as though the flesh of the tumor is old cooked food that never did get digested and just got lumped into my breast.
I have to say, the various off odors I am dealing with on a daily basis are really overwhelming at times, and even render my stomach slightly nauseous. I know I'm doing wonderfully despite this because my appetite never disappears, I'm eating all day.
Raw kefir shakes with organic milk, frozen organic berries, raw honey, walnuts ground up, ground up beef bones for protein and some kind of supplemental powder full of bacteria (though I'm suspicious of processed bacteria in a vitamin tub), I agreed to take these for a while on a friend's recommendation.
Then I ate raw feta cheese shipped in from Amish farmers with sprouted flat bread and tons of raw butter, then shared some sushi pieces with a friend, came home and ate a fresh salad with some raw salmon and later will gorge on raw cream and fresh figs.
It's a really tough cancer treatment don't you think?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Physically Immortal Living Makes Tumor into one big Nothing
Being physically immortal means outliving disease and death and that's what I am doing.
The experience is more than words, more than a declaration. It's a feeling, a ruthless decision made with my whole body: mind, soul, heart, that I refuse to die and no tumor, cancer, malignancy, doctor's fear, can intimidate me out of this ruthlessness.
The tumor is serious, I'm losing my breast. However, my life has been saved. I cannot lose my life, no matter what I may experience. Like, right now, and for the past 6 months or so, I have felt less energy and slight dizziness when bending or squatting over and getting up suddenly. I have to sit down at times after some exertion that really wasn't much of an exertion a year ago. It has troubled me, because I am a high energy person, going all day from one thing to the next.
Yet, when I spoke to my nutritionist about it, he told me that because the tumor is such a large wound, my body has to use every nutrient and every bit of energy available to deal with its dissolution. He advised me to accept it, and to rest more and keep the exercise up but do less of the strenous exercise and more of the gentle sort.
He told me that when the tumor was gone, and the area was healed, that my energy would return. He knows this because he has experienced it himself. That to me is the greatest benefit of being under the care of a practitioner who has actually cured himself of the problem I have to face. This person knows it can be beaten because he did it. And he did it through his own, long term experimentation with food until he arrived at raw foods and discovered an improvement in his body's response.
I'm getting away from the initial point of today's blog. I was with my girlfriend tonight, Susanna, she's a living doll, beautiful, focused, warm, fun, sexy and smart. She has a horse and rides it, even in the Arizona summer nights. And she told me to write about how bright and happy I am living our physically immmortal life, and how this daily experiencing of joy reduces the tumor experience to nothing.
I always felt, from the very beginning, that a lump, no matter how dangerous, cannot take over my body. I am a huge person, not only tall and chunky, from all the raw fat I've consumed over the years, and the raw meat, feel those muscles baby!, but how small that tumor is.
It's a collection of environmental and other polluntant toxins and inner chemicals I've produced over the years with my over emotionality and inauthentic living. The stuff formed together into a mutant flesh-rock, and damaged my breast tissue, and probably quite a few nerves and muscles too. Nevertheless, it's now dissolving, disappearing, taking all that rot with it, and I will be left with the rest of me, the rest of me that is whole. Yes, something will be missing, until the day I regenerate the area and I believe that day will come.
I am whole, and this sensation of unity is real, perhaps for the first time ever, following all those years of duality, drug addiction, drama repetition and melancholia.
This is the greatest day of my life because I am trembling with joy with the aliveness I feel.
With this attitude, this heart and mind, this flesh, nothing will take me away from myself or from you.
The experience is more than words, more than a declaration. It's a feeling, a ruthless decision made with my whole body: mind, soul, heart, that I refuse to die and no tumor, cancer, malignancy, doctor's fear, can intimidate me out of this ruthlessness.
The tumor is serious, I'm losing my breast. However, my life has been saved. I cannot lose my life, no matter what I may experience. Like, right now, and for the past 6 months or so, I have felt less energy and slight dizziness when bending or squatting over and getting up suddenly. I have to sit down at times after some exertion that really wasn't much of an exertion a year ago. It has troubled me, because I am a high energy person, going all day from one thing to the next.
Yet, when I spoke to my nutritionist about it, he told me that because the tumor is such a large wound, my body has to use every nutrient and every bit of energy available to deal with its dissolution. He advised me to accept it, and to rest more and keep the exercise up but do less of the strenous exercise and more of the gentle sort.
He told me that when the tumor was gone, and the area was healed, that my energy would return. He knows this because he has experienced it himself. That to me is the greatest benefit of being under the care of a practitioner who has actually cured himself of the problem I have to face. This person knows it can be beaten because he did it. And he did it through his own, long term experimentation with food until he arrived at raw foods and discovered an improvement in his body's response.
I'm getting away from the initial point of today's blog. I was with my girlfriend tonight, Susanna, she's a living doll, beautiful, focused, warm, fun, sexy and smart. She has a horse and rides it, even in the Arizona summer nights. And she told me to write about how bright and happy I am living our physically immmortal life, and how this daily experiencing of joy reduces the tumor experience to nothing.
I always felt, from the very beginning, that a lump, no matter how dangerous, cannot take over my body. I am a huge person, not only tall and chunky, from all the raw fat I've consumed over the years, and the raw meat, feel those muscles baby!, but how small that tumor is.
It's a collection of environmental and other polluntant toxins and inner chemicals I've produced over the years with my over emotionality and inauthentic living. The stuff formed together into a mutant flesh-rock, and damaged my breast tissue, and probably quite a few nerves and muscles too. Nevertheless, it's now dissolving, disappearing, taking all that rot with it, and I will be left with the rest of me, the rest of me that is whole. Yes, something will be missing, until the day I regenerate the area and I believe that day will come.
I am whole, and this sensation of unity is real, perhaps for the first time ever, following all those years of duality, drug addiction, drama repetition and melancholia.
This is the greatest day of my life because I am trembling with joy with the aliveness I feel.
With this attitude, this heart and mind, this flesh, nothing will take me away from myself or from you.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Reverse Breast Tumor through the power of the human body
Facing myself in the mirror has never been a langorous activity. It's always been a matter of checking myself out fast, do the clothes look good, is my face alive, does my hair work? And if it doesn't oh well.
That's how it's been and now, I'm looking at this open wound on right side of my chest and it's red with all kinds of textures, white spots, yellow film, blood clots, sometimes scabbing when I haven't paid attention and allowed the wound to start drying.
One of my breasts is now a wound.
And my heart is right there in between them, and I have occasion to cry and I wonder how my guy handles it, he rarely looks at it, I have been asked to cover it up so I wear sports bras and tee shirts, he admitted the lingerie wasn't really such a big thing for him, so I make sure when I come to bed, that it's covered up.
In the beginning of our coming together, he would touch my good breast now and then, sometimes put his mouth on it, but as time went on, he has stopped approaching my good breast, and we focus more on intercourse. I have been told it is completely understandable, and I know it is, yet I have to feel the sadness I feel, because I like my breasts being touched and kissed and this is one of the consequences of the choice I made. Reversing cancer through diet and not having surgery has led to this, a longterm cure that takes time, patience, and committment.
I bury the desire I have for my breast to be welcomed and acknowledged and leave it for me to do. I will say hi to her, I will touch her now and then, I will feel her fullness in comparison to the one that's dissolving, like a crumbling heritage house in detroit, like the sandstone rotting against the slapping salt water of the ocean, all the images i've held so dear, and my lover's eyes when he does open them when i am on top of him, smiling at me, holding my hips and breathing, closing his eyes again, his hair across his lashes, I want to kiss him and kiss him, and he has a wariness a protection that has nothing to do with me and my breast, that has to do with his past and people in it that hurt him in ways that cannot be undone.
My breast has become a tumor that is dissolving through the power of my human body. Though there are feelings to feel and sights and odors to digest on a daily moment by moment basis, that I would not wish on anyone, the experience of the body activated towards healing and wholeness is a miracle to my eyes and my heart rises up and swallows it whole, every milestone photographed and etched in digital memory.
That's how it's been and now, I'm looking at this open wound on right side of my chest and it's red with all kinds of textures, white spots, yellow film, blood clots, sometimes scabbing when I haven't paid attention and allowed the wound to start drying.
One of my breasts is now a wound.
And my heart is right there in between them, and I have occasion to cry and I wonder how my guy handles it, he rarely looks at it, I have been asked to cover it up so I wear sports bras and tee shirts, he admitted the lingerie wasn't really such a big thing for him, so I make sure when I come to bed, that it's covered up.
In the beginning of our coming together, he would touch my good breast now and then, sometimes put his mouth on it, but as time went on, he has stopped approaching my good breast, and we focus more on intercourse. I have been told it is completely understandable, and I know it is, yet I have to feel the sadness I feel, because I like my breasts being touched and kissed and this is one of the consequences of the choice I made. Reversing cancer through diet and not having surgery has led to this, a longterm cure that takes time, patience, and committment.
I bury the desire I have for my breast to be welcomed and acknowledged and leave it for me to do. I will say hi to her, I will touch her now and then, I will feel her fullness in comparison to the one that's dissolving, like a crumbling heritage house in detroit, like the sandstone rotting against the slapping salt water of the ocean, all the images i've held so dear, and my lover's eyes when he does open them when i am on top of him, smiling at me, holding my hips and breathing, closing his eyes again, his hair across his lashes, I want to kiss him and kiss him, and he has a wariness a protection that has nothing to do with me and my breast, that has to do with his past and people in it that hurt him in ways that cannot be undone.
My breast has become a tumor that is dissolving through the power of my human body. Though there are feelings to feel and sights and odors to digest on a daily moment by moment basis, that I would not wish on anyone, the experience of the body activated towards healing and wholeness is a miracle to my eyes and my heart rises up and swallows it whole, every milestone photographed and etched in digital memory.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Losing my breast means...
Cancer didn't take my life though it's taking my breast. I let it go somehow. I created this. No one else did. Well, apart from environmental and medical pollution that interacted with my breathing and living and visits to doctors as a child for vaccines riddled with mercury, the same mercury that now seeps out from the tumor onto the bandages i wear, bandages soaked with raw coconut cream in order to keep the tumor moist, so that it doesn't scab and drop off, and while it stays moist, toxins are eliminated from the wound and my body is cleaning itself.
Losing my breast means....
I'm experiencing a slow, progressive dissolution of a part of my body. The body's own processes are causing fungi to rise up to dissolve it, hence, the film of yellow across parts of the wound, If I want to focus on it, I can smell the odor of yeast so I assume this fungus is candida but I'm not sure as I haven't had the film removed and tested in a lab. But I don't give that much credence to labs. I did some research and a few doctors have said the same thing, that the body produces bacteria, fungus to clean mutated, toxic areas of the body.
A natural mastectomy is quiet and slow and stinks and at times, when I remove the bandage carelessly, pulling bits of skin with it, it splits open and bleeds. Some days lightly, other days, it shoots out of a tiny hole in the tumor, a gushing thin streak full of power, up over my head, hitting the walls of the shower, slithering down the clear door, slapping against my chest, thighs, wrist.
Losing my breast means....
I'm experiencing a slow, progressive dissolution of a part of my body. The body's own processes are causing fungi to rise up to dissolve it, hence, the film of yellow across parts of the wound, If I want to focus on it, I can smell the odor of yeast so I assume this fungus is candida but I'm not sure as I haven't had the film removed and tested in a lab. But I don't give that much credence to labs. I did some research and a few doctors have said the same thing, that the body produces bacteria, fungus to clean mutated, toxic areas of the body.
A natural mastectomy is quiet and slow and stinks and at times, when I remove the bandage carelessly, pulling bits of skin with it, it splits open and bleeds. Some days lightly, other days, it shoots out of a tiny hole in the tumor, a gushing thin streak full of power, up over my head, hitting the walls of the shower, slithering down the clear door, slapping against my chest, thighs, wrist.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Breast cancer blog experience a Natural Mastectomy
I didn't like the way the radiologist spoke to me over the phone when she called with the results of my biopsy. I didn't like the biopsy, the needle slicing into my skin, tears pummelling down my face, her distress at my distress, the fact that she was moving so fast to find out what the lump was made of. It didn't look good she told me after the mammogram. Gee thanks, just what I need, radiation when I might have cancer.
Two days later, over the phone, she tells me the news aint good. It's cancer, she says, its a fast growing, high grade, eostregen positive lump and you had better get it cut off soon, within three weeks.
I'm at work in the Australian wine store in Chandler Arizona, having left Sydney two years before to come and live in America. To be with a group of people called People Unlimited, who were dedicated to ending physical death for the human body. And I have cancer? And this woman sounds like if I don't do what she says I might die tommorrow.
Strangely, I didn't feel sick. Nothing was wrong with me other than this huge lump in my body that I had completely overlooked. I was suspicious of the tone of her voice. She seemed more worried than I was. Don't get me wrong, I was completely shocked and freaked, but I didn't feel bad. I felt normal.
Now began the process of having to tell people who loved me about my situation.
I decided not to go with her advice, though everybody I knew freaked when they heard the big 'c' and wanted me, oh how they wanted me to go get it cut out. I kept telling them, but its not going to be a lumpectomy with these tiny breasts, it's going to have to be a mastectomy, and I'm not willing to have some surgeon slice into my chest and take whatever the hell she or he thinks should be sliced off my body. We all know and they know, that they can never be sure they 'got it all.'
Just to make everybody feel better, and in America, everybody thinks the doctors have the cure, I did go to a surgeon who had showed some willingness to operate and bill me on a monthly basis, I didn't have health insurance, I know, bad bad bad.
She was about 20 years of age and very enthusiastic about mastectomizing my body. Oh, and she would recommend removing lymph nodes from my armpits, even though there was no sign of cancer in my lymph, still she thought it would be smart. And then, you could wear this elastic brace for the rest of your life to keep your arm tight because without your nodes, you're going to be fucked. No, of course, she didn't use such language in her clinic. No, but she did try to show me that there was a hard node under my arm by pressing deep into the pit and going, see, see, can you feel that lump? But I couldn't feel that lump and I took my new boyfriend and closest girlfriend by their hands and got out of there.
I just couldn't buy into the whole fear thing. Kindalike when AIDS first came to public attention, and all the buses in Sydney were splattered with long large posters warning us all to use condoms and have safe sex because if we didn't , look, we might die of the sex disease.
I denied the cancer to myself. I knew it was there and real and dangerous, but I denied it. I was not going to rush into mutilation and posioning myself at the hands of medical 'practitioners." Let them practice on women who want them to slice their breasts off, they didn't need me with my contempt and resistance.
I was scared, yes, but deep down I knew I was not born to die, and every cell and inch of me wanted to live and keep living and be the kind of person that outlives all of death and depression, I wanted to be an example to the world, that it was really true, human beings really could be physically immortal.
Two days later, over the phone, she tells me the news aint good. It's cancer, she says, its a fast growing, high grade, eostregen positive lump and you had better get it cut off soon, within three weeks.
I'm at work in the Australian wine store in Chandler Arizona, having left Sydney two years before to come and live in America. To be with a group of people called People Unlimited, who were dedicated to ending physical death for the human body. And I have cancer? And this woman sounds like if I don't do what she says I might die tommorrow.
Strangely, I didn't feel sick. Nothing was wrong with me other than this huge lump in my body that I had completely overlooked. I was suspicious of the tone of her voice. She seemed more worried than I was. Don't get me wrong, I was completely shocked and freaked, but I didn't feel bad. I felt normal.
Now began the process of having to tell people who loved me about my situation.
I decided not to go with her advice, though everybody I knew freaked when they heard the big 'c' and wanted me, oh how they wanted me to go get it cut out. I kept telling them, but its not going to be a lumpectomy with these tiny breasts, it's going to have to be a mastectomy, and I'm not willing to have some surgeon slice into my chest and take whatever the hell she or he thinks should be sliced off my body. We all know and they know, that they can never be sure they 'got it all.'
Just to make everybody feel better, and in America, everybody thinks the doctors have the cure, I did go to a surgeon who had showed some willingness to operate and bill me on a monthly basis, I didn't have health insurance, I know, bad bad bad.
She was about 20 years of age and very enthusiastic about mastectomizing my body. Oh, and she would recommend removing lymph nodes from my armpits, even though there was no sign of cancer in my lymph, still she thought it would be smart. And then, you could wear this elastic brace for the rest of your life to keep your arm tight because without your nodes, you're going to be fucked. No, of course, she didn't use such language in her clinic. No, but she did try to show me that there was a hard node under my arm by pressing deep into the pit and going, see, see, can you feel that lump? But I couldn't feel that lump and I took my new boyfriend and closest girlfriend by their hands and got out of there.
I just couldn't buy into the whole fear thing. Kindalike when AIDS first came to public attention, and all the buses in Sydney were splattered with long large posters warning us all to use condoms and have safe sex because if we didn't , look, we might die of the sex disease.
I denied the cancer to myself. I knew it was there and real and dangerous, but I denied it. I was not going to rush into mutilation and posioning myself at the hands of medical 'practitioners." Let them practice on women who want them to slice their breasts off, they didn't need me with my contempt and resistance.
I was scared, yes, but deep down I knew I was not born to die, and every cell and inch of me wanted to live and keep living and be the kind of person that outlives all of death and depression, I wanted to be an example to the world, that it was really true, human beings really could be physically immortal.
Tumor breaks the skin
Don't be afraid when viewing this first picture.
I'm healthy and have been told by my nutritionist, a cancer specialist, who cured himself of blood, bone and stomach cancer through diet only, that he assures me that the worst thing that will happen is that I will lose my breast.
I exercise, laugh, work all day, sleep great, eat lots of raw fats such as unpasteurized cream, butter, cheese and milk - yes, they are illegal everywhere, but I manage to get my hands on them. Raw fats are soothing to cancer conditions and assist the body to protect itself from the huge levels of toxicity that exist when a person has cancer. The toxins store in the fat, the fatty foods calm the nervous system, and have made me fat and dare I say it, happy.
Yes, my grim moments of desperation are short and to the point. Some tears, loud outcries of rage, sadness and horror at what I have made of my breast.
Taking the responsibility that is mine. Smoking for twenty years, living in polluted cities, staying up late and eating crap for years, living in relationships that were not authentic, taking on responsibilities that were not mine to carry, for years, too gutless to stand up and say, hey, that's yours, and this is mine. Working in the sex industry for reasons that weren't justifiable. Sacrificing my one body, having to split my mind from my emotions from my body as I sold my skin and my services to paying men. Some women actually like the job, but I wasn't one of them.
That was a long time ago but still, they say, a tumor this big takes decades to formulate.
I'm healthy and have been told by my nutritionist, a cancer specialist, who cured himself of blood, bone and stomach cancer through diet only, that he assures me that the worst thing that will happen is that I will lose my breast.
I exercise, laugh, work all day, sleep great, eat lots of raw fats such as unpasteurized cream, butter, cheese and milk - yes, they are illegal everywhere, but I manage to get my hands on them. Raw fats are soothing to cancer conditions and assist the body to protect itself from the huge levels of toxicity that exist when a person has cancer. The toxins store in the fat, the fatty foods calm the nervous system, and have made me fat and dare I say it, happy.
Yes, my grim moments of desperation are short and to the point. Some tears, loud outcries of rage, sadness and horror at what I have made of my breast.
Taking the responsibility that is mine. Smoking for twenty years, living in polluted cities, staying up late and eating crap for years, living in relationships that were not authentic, taking on responsibilities that were not mine to carry, for years, too gutless to stand up and say, hey, that's yours, and this is mine. Working in the sex industry for reasons that weren't justifiable. Sacrificing my one body, having to split my mind from my emotions from my body as I sold my skin and my services to paying men. Some women actually like the job, but I wasn't one of them.
That was a long time ago but still, they say, a tumor this big takes decades to formulate.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Breast Tumor Breaks Skin and Dissolves Naturally
This blog is for anyone interested in knowing how brilliant the human body is and how I am reversing a rather serious breast cancer through a raw diet and involvement in an environment of people who feel that physical death is no longer inevitable.
This is the story of a high grade, fast growing, malignant tumor that breaks the skin and turns my right breast into a rock of toxic flesh that bleeds, stinks, scabs and rots, dissolves and eventually, after several years of a natural masectomy, heals and leaves a disturbing scar behind.
In 2003 I noticed the color around my nipple was fading to pink. Born in Egypt with skin that can change from pale olive to dark brown, I had always been proud of my dark aereolas.
A few months passed and I noticed that the pink patch was getting larger and my brown coloring was fading fast. I started a search on the web and suddenly found myself on cancer sites and before I knew it I was following some instructions to press against my breast to see if there was a lump.
Strangely, I wasn't in the habit of stroking or squeezing my own breasts, not even during sex with my lover, and he wasn't that much into breasts either, though he loved mine and thought they were beautiful. I was pretty pleased with them myself.
As I pressed towards my chest I felt it. A big lump. The shock of realization heated up my face and brought my circulation to a standstill. I couldn't wrap my brain around how a rock that hard could have grown inside the soft tissue of my breast. It was so fucking hard I had trouble understanding its connection to my body. Where had I been all this time to not be aware of its growth?
This is the story of a high grade, fast growing, malignant tumor that breaks the skin and turns my right breast into a rock of toxic flesh that bleeds, stinks, scabs and rots, dissolves and eventually, after several years of a natural masectomy, heals and leaves a disturbing scar behind.
In 2003 I noticed the color around my nipple was fading to pink. Born in Egypt with skin that can change from pale olive to dark brown, I had always been proud of my dark aereolas.
A few months passed and I noticed that the pink patch was getting larger and my brown coloring was fading fast. I started a search on the web and suddenly found myself on cancer sites and before I knew it I was following some instructions to press against my breast to see if there was a lump.
Strangely, I wasn't in the habit of stroking or squeezing my own breasts, not even during sex with my lover, and he wasn't that much into breasts either, though he loved mine and thought they were beautiful. I was pretty pleased with them myself.
As I pressed towards my chest I felt it. A big lump. The shock of realization heated up my face and brought my circulation to a standstill. I couldn't wrap my brain around how a rock that hard could have grown inside the soft tissue of my breast. It was so fucking hard I had trouble understanding its connection to my body. Where had I been all this time to not be aware of its growth?
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