today I had a bad day. Woke up with severe gender dysphoria what made my depression worse. A few days ago I had a nightmare about something that happened to me in the past, but for now I can’t talk about this trauma. Well, my life was never easy. I still can’t cope with all the things that happened to me. So today I want to try to write about a trauma from my time in the hospital. This is going to be damn hard for me. Beside that I tried to process it with a poem, I only told my therapists about it.
I was 12 when they discovered my lymphangioma and when the horror began.
Since my disease is quite rarely, they abused me as “testing animal.” Speak, everytime when I was in hospital they sent a bunch of students into my room to “learn” from me. I was there in my hospital bed half-naked, only wearing underwear and had to endure their eyes on me, they hands touching me.
I didn’t feel like a child anymore. I cried so much and no one was listening. They just told me, I “should not act like that” because I was a “big child”. I really wished that I would’ve died.
The worst thing was they haven’t even asked my parents if it would be okay. And they were so helpless…
When I was 14 or 15 I had enough. I remeber this day, when this female doctor came in and asked me for the first time ever(!) if she could send again “a few students”. Immediately I started crying and shaking. She tried to soothe me with saying “just a few students for only a few minutes. They can learn so much from you.” There I freaked out. I yelled at her that I’m a little child and not a fucking testing animal! I think I even throw something at her.
But it worked. She left and I never had to endure this abuse again. Later came out that even the doctor who was treating me over the years, didn’t know what she had done.
So thanks to this doctor that from this time forward I struggle with depression, self-harm, medication abuse and alcohol.(sarcasm) To many demons hurt me in the past. They were real and they are still hurting me in my mind.
I’m hurt, wounded, traumatized and apathetic. After I told this story to one of my therapists, she said that she’s surprised that I’m not on drugs, she would have understood.
I repressed a lot of what happened, and now it all breaks through. A reason why I write, why I need music every minute in my life. Music is my drug. Music is what keeps me alive. Music is what helps me fight against my demons.
I thought it might be good to write about this. I feel sad, exhausted and disgusted by those memories now. I really hope this kind of self-therapy might help me someday.