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.
Friday, September 25, 2009
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.
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