Guest Post: Suffering Stream of Consciousness

The following is a stream of consciousness poem by a friend of mine who has been dealing with overwhelming medical negligence for several years, most recently blinded by a doctor ignoring medical protocol for a medication they put her on. These are her thoughts in the midst of trying to process her most recent medical traumas and yet another severe pain flare that has had no help from doctors. 

TW: Discussions of Death, Abuse, Suffering, Suicidal Ideation, Medical Neglect, Troll Brain thoughts. These are unedited troll brain thoughts as well and so not controlled for slurs and internalized prejudices.

written by friend Sophie; after spending 9 hours in an endless sob session and panic attack before being given a clonazepam and sitting down to write this as the clonazepam started to calm her down.

I am dying.

Not now, not today. Perhaps not soon. But I feel it’s presence inside of me.

A dark, black, bubbling pit of angst, anger, rage, locked in a seething tar pit, locked in a void inside of me. And it grows. Always, it grows, expanding inside of me, exposing the monsters that lie within. And it is slowly but surely killing me.

Is it a physical thing? An emotional phenomenon? Or a spiritual death that looms inside my mind and body, feeding off my strength, my will, taking over both body and mind.

And surely, unmistakably, killing me.

I can feel the death inside. And I do no know how to explain it in words that make sense to anyone, myself included. How does one explain a truth that seems so non-nonsensical as to be a plot line for a Shakespearean comedy? The words elude me.

But occasionally, when I lose control of both my mind and body, the madness, nay, the genius, surfaces, and I come to a moment of clarity. It is agonizing for those nearby to witness, and even more horrendous to live through.

In my weakened moments of delusions, the truth comes, stay a while, and then departs in a medicated daze, leaving behind the memory of thoughts, words, and emotions brought forth by madness.

Insight bubbles and bursts it’s way into consciousness, granting me the power to see the truth that lies deep within the cells of my body. The horrors that I dare not admit lest I succumb to them.

I am dying.

Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.

My essence is fading away, and days like today make it possible for me to put a finger on it, and bring words to my mind, my lips, my hands.

And it seriously scares the shit out of me.


Like many days in the past year, today was filled with disappointment, agony, pain, betrayal, and despair.

I want to share these thoughts with the world, and yet how can I describe to people just what came of today’s experiences. They barely make sense to me. And without knowing me, it would be even harder for a stranger to comprehend. So let me introduce myself.

I am a 34 year old girl who has spent her life in and out of hospitals.

From the age of 3, I was subjected to extreme mental abuse, manipulations, and brain washing. All these years later, it still affects me every day, and has resulted in a set of core beliefs that no-one would ever want to possess. And yet, some take sadistic pleasure in instilling these core beliefs into vulnerable minds.

You are useless.
You are Worthless.
You will never amount to anything.
You will never have a good education.
You’ll always be a drain to society.
You won’t be able to keep a job.
No-one will ever love you.
You aren’t worth the effort.
If you do find love, it won’t last, because you’re too much of a burden for anyone to handle.
You are alone.
You will always be alone.
You deserve to be alone.

This is a small sampling of the ever-repeating tape in my mind, the voiceless words that have become so ingrained into me as to be fact. And i believe every last one of these statements.

They aren’t all inclusive. There are more. There are always more. And that damned tape, those endless thoughts in my mind, keep going , again and again. It never stops. With no speakers, no headphones, no batteries to speak of, still the tape repeats, endlessly reaffirming to myself how I am a failure. A burden. Unworthy. Alone.

I tried to extricate myself from the clutches of my abuser, but his tendrils went too far, his reach too great. Anyone who felt their touch turned into an automaton, a megaphone. Even now, all these years later, the tape inside of me plays on as I struggle to find a pause button, an off switch. Sometimes, I almost find a volume knob to lessen the sound. And then those slivers, wrapped around others as a parasite hides in ones body, find their way to me as if by giant magnets, and the megaphone takes over. My abuser’s words not only ring in my mind, but now echo in the halls I walk, bouncing off the walls, assaulting me from unlikely locations when I least suspect it, fulfilling their mission of ensuring that the internal tape never ends, that the volume never dims, only grows stronger at each encounter.

Marking me. Staining my skin with the ink of shame and despair. I fought so long, and hard. And lost.

Again, I am alone. My core beliefs reaffirmed. And hope dies, Again and again. The pattern continues.


When I was 15, life handed me a big red button that stalked my every move, an apple floating in front of my face until it was acknowledged, and flew into my mouth. And in that moment, I gained the knowledge that would doom me. A new log entry surfaced on the endless tape.

I am sick.
I am broken.
I am flawed.

Chronic illness became my life. First Lupus, and arthritis. And the knowledge that I had suffered 2 strokes. I could never go back to the innocence of childhood. If I had thought I’d had enough pain in my life throughout My innocent youth, I was in for a surprise. Ongoing abuse and never-ending repeating tapes that I could not yet hear were my daily companions. Deaf as I was to the voices that were planting themselves into my subconscious, I could not sense the continued building on those core beliefs in a series of subliminal messages that went on day and night.

Pain and illness became my childhood playmates. We sparred back and forth, winning some bouts, loosing others. As my combat skills grew, so did my opponent. Soon, Fibromyalgia joined Lupus and Arthritis, and a pair of strokes on the battlefield.

And while I had gained, through the help of multiple doctors and specialists, the strength and knowledge to repeatedly battle to a draw with my former opponents, there was no medical professional there to hold my hand this time and teach my brain and body how to fight this new opponent. One match after the other, I lost them all, never gaining the knowledge of how to defeat this new foe.

With time, I learned that the use of regular pain killers would allow me to ignore the new bruises, and I realized that the best way to win on the battlefield was to defeat the opponents I could, ignore the new guy, and medicate myself to ignore the pain. The only way to defeat Fibromyalgia, I learned, was to pretend it wasn’t there, let it beat me up, and then drug the pain away, ignoring the bruises it left on my body and soul.

Alone. I fight alone in this arena in a life or death struggle, without resources or allies.
I am alone.
I am weak.
My foe is stronger than I.
I will never win.

The subliminal tape plays faster in my mind, unbeknownst to me.


When did the other opponents join the fray? I honestly couldn’t tell.

Of a surety, depression reared it’s ugly head, another set of arena bouts I was ill equipped to defend against. So did Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, and Anxiety. And of course there was my matrilineal family inheritance, my very persistent IBS. He didn’t come to fight often, but when he did, it was always a quick bout, and I never the victor.

I medicated more. I avoided crowds. I counted steps, ate in pairs, did everything I could to distract from the pain, assisted with medication to dull the pain. I could still come to a draw against my early sparring partner, but they tended to stay on the sidelines, content to watch me get pummeled, alone in a crowd of opponents, the sounds of the never-ending tape becoming audible.

It wasn’t long for the anxiety to become so strong that he gained magical powers, summoning beasts of panic that devastated me with just a glance. Again I tucked my chin, took the punches, and kept on popping those Tylenol.

I could do this. I could fight. Or at least survive.
I would stand up to the bullies and jerks that pulverized me at every turn. I wouldn’t show weakness.

I took the punches. The whips. The chains. The bruises. The knives, and razor-blades. And I pretended I was fine.

“It’s okay. I’m still strong, see?” More Tylenol found their way into my belly, while abusers watched the battle from the sidelines, the crowd cheering loudly at the victories of my opponents, booing me every time I got back in the rink.

And behind the crowd, hidden from my sight, the louded supporters of my ongoing struggles, and losses, were my abuser, the puppets under his control, and my family doctor.

The one I trusted and depended on to teach me the battles. The one who said “The pain isn’t real. Just roll with the punches like a good girl.”

And the subliminal tapes grew audible not just to me, but to al around, the voices poisoned by the tendrils sent by my abuser, poisoning the minds of everyone around me.

Megaphones appeared everywhere I went, and the tape grew louder. The bouts got harder. My strength failed me, and I was mocked for asking for help. And those core beliefs were proven true again.

You are alone.
You fight alone.
You are a looser.
You can’t make it on your own.
You are too weak.
You will always fail.
Everyone will leave you.

You are alone.
You deserve to be alone.
You will always be alone.
It is your punishment for not being worthy.


It grows hard to write.
My tears are overwhelming me, much as the battles did then.
I should consider myself lucky. I didn’t know what was coming.
But now, I know what comes next.
I know where this story goes, and inside, I cry.
Outside, I cry.
But I must get this out, while the madness is fresh in my mind.
Before my memory dies, the way my body is doing.
I do not know how to find the strength to continue.
Yes. Both. I have lost the strength for it.
But somehow, I must continue, so that you may know me, and understand, or help me understand once the madness passes, why it is that I am dying, as air fills my lungs and blood flows through my body.

I must embrace the madness, and keep fighting. Perhaps some good will come of it. Perhaps someone will understand, and be able to pick up the broken pieces that used to be me, and find way to chase the necrosis that fills my cells.

But it only gets harder from here.
Forgive me if I fail. I expect to.
It’s what I’ve always done.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
I don’t know why I try to fight the inevitable, but I do.

One breath.

Time to stumble back to my feet and get back into the ring. What round is it now?

I have lost count.


When was the first time I gave in to public weakness, and sought specific help? I cannot say. But I remember the next opponents that joined the mob against me on the battlefield.

The constant battles, the endless fight, the bleeding, the broken bones, the bruises, the booing of the crowds as I stood up, the insane cheering each and every single time I’d fall… it eventually took it’s toll. I would stand, but was so weakened from all the losses that the throng rarely bothered to come at me all at once.

They all stood back, surrounding me, placing bets on how long I could last against each opponent. The current winner was Anxiety. He barely had to look at me now and I’d start screaming in fear. They never even needed to throw punches anymore. I lost every bout within moments. In a way it was a relief, my body had time to heal, some bruises would fade. It was a game to them.

The moment I was strong enough to stand without falling over, they would once again attack with a hive mind mentality of death and destruction, breaking all the bones in my body, bruising me from head to toe, and then quickly retreating to a taunting distance around me, circling like vultures as I cried from the pain.

Then anxiety would come back to play, showing himself every time I opened my eyes, the panic no longer manageable. He would stand there, scaring me with every moment as my body healed, readying itself for another mosh-pit of agony. Over and over.

I couldn’t break the pattern. I sought help, and found my next opponent, and the unit gained a commander in chief.

When I saw my doctor, I mentioned that I could not cope, and that things were so up and down and the anxiety all consuming. “I think I might be bipolar,” I said. “Is it possible to get some Xanax to help control it a bit or something? It would have been an ideal solution. I could take the medicine, feign fear at the Anxiety in our hourly bouts, (I had grown so adept at screaming that I knew how to act to fool him if I ever had the chance) and spend the days relaxing as I recuperated, my body mending, gaining strength to stand to once again face the war.

It didn’t quite go the way I’d expected. I didn’t get respite.
“Actually, you aren’t Bipolar. You have Borderline Personality Disorder. I refereed you to a group for it 3 years ago. You should be getting a call soon to go for the therapy sessions. Good luck, I’m on your side!”

I had gone seeking an ally, a secret strength to help me fight Mr Anxiety, and instead, I’d gained a new opponent. And confusion. A lot of confusion. Had there really been an invisible foe in the battle field the past 3 years or more, fighting me unseen, draining the life from me without my knowledge?

I could not understand why I hadn’t been told. But then… I hadn’t seen my Doctor hiding in the back of the army supporters, cheering them on. For that’s what they were now. A legion. An army.One with an invisible attacker that has been learning my weaknesses for 3 years, and me defenseless.

I now knew I had a new opponent.
There was no time to dwell on the mystery of his invisibility for 3 years.
I had another battle to fight.
And there in the back she hid, the legion commander. Betrayal.
Standing next to Abuser.
But I didn’t see them, either of them.

There was only me, the field, the battle, the blood, the tears, the broken bones, the bruises, and the tape inside my mind that wouldn’t shut up no matter how much I screamed, no matter how much I hurt.

And the crowd of microphones and speakers grew as tendrils of the abuser swept through the crowd.

I am alone.
I fight alone.
I don’t deserve to know who my opponents are.
I’m not smart enough to figure it out alone.
I can’t do it alone.
I am a failure.
Useless. Worthless.

I will always be alone… and the crowd will always chant the agonizing symphony that is the invisible never ending internal tape.



One opponent I failed to mention that showed up rather early, before the fibromyalgia, but after the lupus and arthritis, were the migraines.

They were debilitating. At least 5 days out of every week was spent living with them. Arrows shot from the troops I battled, hitting me in the head. I never considered them an opponent. They were simply a daily facet of reality. Fight. Pain. Fall. Repeat.

I would not learn this until much much later. but over the years, a few medical professionals had sought to help me, in the only way they knew. In 2005, a neurologist I’d seen about the migraines had written to my doctor about them, and provided information about their causes, and treatment plans that could be attempted to relieve the pain.

The neurologist never came to the arena. She never saw the battles. She never saw the doctor hiding in the back of the crowds. The memo was added to my medical chart, which the doctor then filed away, sealed in an airtight bag. It wouldn’t be until 2017 that I would learn about this treatment plan. The one that could have prevented me from being hospitalized once a month for migraines so bad that I’d throw up every few minutes from the pain.

But hey, they were just pain. They weren’t causing any harm, right? I could ignore them, like I did the others.And my doctor laughed behind the crowds.

I did eventually learn to fight the migraines, but it took a drastic fight, and feats of magic that defied explanation.

I had a stroke. It was my 3rd stroke. The first two in 1998, the third in 2009. I spent 3 weeks in the hospital as they ran every test in the book, and found nothing. There was no reason I should have had that stroke. Except that I had it.

The hospital changed my daily medications, removing some, adding others, in an effort to prevent any further strokes. The notes were sent to my family doctor, who stayed hidden in the crowd. The new medications helped bring my migraines to 2-3 days a week, and a much lower intensity. I went over 7 years without needing to go back to the ER for migraines so extreme that I couldn’t stop vomiting. Something I’d done at least once a month prior to the 3rd stroke.

But they didn’t stop.
And the treatment plan from 2005 was never mentionned.
I went back home, to the battleground that was my faily existence.

No longer a rink, as with adulthood I had moved out of the rink, and into a field of chaos where I fought my never-ending battles.

Pushed to the limits of my endurance, and beyond.

Alone in a crowd of tendrils and microphones echoing the sounds of the blasting tape in my head, an overwhelming cacophony of sounds, slurs, insults, jabs… a crowd of abusers.

The world was my enemy, even moreso than my body.
I could fight my body, but I couldn’t fight the world as the abuse tendrils lept from one person to another, turning friends and loved ones against me, isolating me, mocking me.

Leaving me alone.


The years passed.

I worked full time to afford my medication.
I fought Lupus, Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, IBS, Migraines, the damage of 3 strokes, Depression, Paranoia, Anxiety, OCD, and Borderline Personality Disorder.

I developped a routine that In could survive on. The battlefield was stained red by now, and I was pushed to my limit, and beyond.
I found srtength I didn’t know I had, and kept pushing.

And inside, I felt it.

A black, angry void, a bubbling pit of tar, seething with anger, rage, hatred, and all the negative emotions that had build up from the yeras of mental and physical abuse.

I learned to live with the constant battle-readiness. The pain and the fear. The exhaustion. There was no point in even dodging the blows that came at me. I learned to stand there and take the blows until I fell.
I distanced myself ni an effort to ignore the pain.
I did what I could to distract myself.
I stared at the crowd.
The abusive crowd that always cheered for my opponents, and never for me.
I stood there, alone, taking the blows, too tired to try to avoid them.
And as I kept looking at the crowd, I realised that they all had ghetto-blasters on their shoulders, and each and every one of them was playing the sounds of the hidden tape.
And through it all, I was scared, and alone.
I saw that black bubbling tar pit of anger and rage and I feared it, because I knew monsters lurked within.
New monsters that would overwhelm me, when it was all I could do to stand there and not die under the endless blows of my opponents.

A partner of mine told me I was strong.
That I didn’t have to be afraid.
That there was nothing to be afraid of.
She saw the tape, and took it out, playing it out loud so the words echoed through the room.
I cried.
I pleaded for her to stop.
She told me not to be afraid.
I said I couldn’t do it. It was too much.
As she listened to the words that were now flowing endlessly out of my mouth, the words of the tape, the core beliefs that had played in my mind for three decades… she questionned me.
I tried to answer.
Tried to explain the monsters that lurked beneath.
Tried to explain the voices that wouldn’t shut up.
Begged and pleaded for her to drop the issue.
She pushed.
She was determined to prove that I was strong.
The crowd in my mind cheered louder then ever, the tendrils visible to my mind’s eye, and I knew thqat something bad was going to happen.
She asked the dreadful querstion.
“Where does the tape come from.”
“Stop. Plerase Stop. I can’t, please, I can’t.” I begged.
She didn’t stop.
“Who put that tape there?” she asked.

And I snapped.

From the moment I’d started hearing the tape, I’d suspected. But I couldn’t face it.
But at those words… the crowd parted, and I saw him. My abuser. From back when I was 3.

She was no longer there.
The crowd pressed against me, the army attacked with fervour… and through the bodies, I saw his smirk.
The one I can’t unsee.

The question, the sight of the crowd parting to reveal the amster manipulator, the creator of the tape, seeing him there, laughing at my struggle… the void inside broke loose, and I snapped.

I was right. There were monsters there. Monsters I was right to fear. Monsters I couldn’t deal with.
Beasts I couldn’t control.
And they escaped the tar filled void and lept into my mind, taking control of my body.

For a moment, I was the monster.
And I saw him, teasing, taunting.
I lept.
With fangs and claws, I lept across the cross and straight for his throat, a savage snarl ripping from my mouth.
It was savage.
It was deadly.
It was powerful.
It was beautiful.

Thw crwd moved, blocking the sight of he who taunted me. What had felt like hours of a death battle had actually lasted about a quarter of a second. And I saw myself, a girl, human, the sounds of my snarls echoing against the walls of the room, my fingers gripped into my partner’s shoulders, my teeth going for her neck.

I collapsed against her body, trembling, and we both cried. Well, I think I sobbed. She cried.
Soon after, she was no longer a part of my life.
And I knew that the monsters within were real. That they could, and would, control me. And that I couldn’t face it. That they made me a danger to society.

For the first time in my life, I had allowed myself to trust one person when they said that to them, I was worth it.
I was wrong.
She left me alone.
Broken, scared, a danger to myself.
More certain than ever that I would forever remain so.
No-one with such monsters in them, who would attack their best friend, and partner, would ever deserve love, or affection.
I deserved a straight jacket and apadded cell.

The tape kept playing merrily with it’s sadistic tones in the background, and I went back to the battlefield once more.

And so very, very, alone.


My mind shattered, I sought refuge in distractions. I avoided the monsters that lurked within, and hid from them. I could not trust that they wouldn’t control me if I ever lost my griup on reality again. I played it safe.

I now knew for a fact that I could never win. I would never be able to make any progress on the battlefield. And with the recent eruption of the dark madness within, I was faced with yet another problem. Not only did I have to spend my days battling and fighting for my life, but I had to spend energy I didn’t have to keep those monsters locked away in a fragile cage.

I knew that should they ever be set free again, I would be overwhelmed, and overtaken. The internal void bubble tar pit monsters would win, and between their attacks from the inside, and the chronic illnesses that were kicking my ass every minute of every day, I knew I wouldn’t survive.

I would die.

I gathered what strength I could.
I distracted myself. Made walls to try to keep the madness locked up. I no longer bothered to stand in the arena. I lay there on the ground, in a ball, spending my time trying to shield my body from without, and my mind from within.

I mourned the loss of my childhood. The loss of my health. The loss of my life. The loss of my sanity. I cried a hundred tears for every battle I’d ever lost, unable toforget them, as they’d each been added to the end of the tape, a littany of brainwashing, abuse, core beliefs, and endless reminders of every single failure, every humiliation I’d ever faced.

Day in, day out, I lay there on my sdide, curled up, crying, letting the monsters, the legions, the armies, the crowds… letting the whole world step on me, break me, bruise me, bleed me.

I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t pretend to be strong.

It was all I could do to survive, alone in the darkness, with misery being my sole companion.


In time, it became easier. the constant hiding in a spot brought me the flexibility to make myself smaller, which protected me from a few of the blows. I grew accustommed to them. But there was no-one I could talk to. No-one I could trust. And I wondered what I’d done to deserve the horror that had been my life from as far back as I can remember.

But I knew the answer. I deserved the pain. I deserved the abuse. I was unworthy. I was a failure. I couldn’t take care of myself. I couldn’t cope on my own.

And I knew this to be true. Looking back in the years, I don’t even need to count to tell you how many days I was a single woman. None. From the age of 18, until today, I have never NOT been in a relationship. Mof them were abusive, reinforcing the core beliefs from the abuse and brainwashing. None of them lasted, reinforcing how I am too much trouble. I don’t deserve to be loved. I’ll never find a good man. I’ll always end up alone.

I fought that mindset, and stayed in one abusive relationship after the other, because being abused and with a partner was better than being alone. I don’t think that fact will ever change.

It doesn’t matter what, every day of my life reinforced the point that I am worthless, useless, a burden to society, too much trouble unworthy of being loved. That I will always be alone, because there is no way anyone would ever put up with the horror that is my life. Because no-one deserved to be subjected to that. Only I do. And so I will carry my burden alone.

I curl myself in a ball, and take the blows, crying, battling my inner demons, and I lived in fear.


You are getting close to knowing me, and understanding where I come from. But there is one opponent to add to the army.

In 2015, I started experiencing blurred vision. I got an emergency appointment with an optometrist, who told me I had occular migraines. I couldn’t accept that, and so I went back to my family doctor, and mentionned this. “Well I’m not an optometrist, I can’t do anything about it. Trust what the optometrist said.” and then she gave me refills of my medication, and sent me on my way.

Yes. The same doctor who’d diagnosed me as Borderline, and didn’t tell me till 3 years later.
The same doctor who in 2005 had received a treatment plan from a neurologist to control my migraines, and never told me about it, nor done anything about it.
The same doctor who was provided a treatment plan in 2010 from a Rheumathologist to get my Fibromyalgia under control. A treatment plan that I didn’t learn about until 2017, after she was no longer my family doctor.

I was unsatisfied with her response, and the diagnostic. I distracted myself by buying a brand new car for the first time in my life.
My manager at work was abusive, so I got a new job.
I drove my car to appointments. I had rfreedom, and an accomplishment, small as it may be in the grand scheme of things.
And I continued to spend my days in a ball, fighting off the legions of monsters, inside and out, with no strength to do anything but lie there, shivering, crying, hoping to be rescued.

The blurred vision didn’t go away. I deluded myself into believing it was occular migraines, or fibro fog, or just over exhaustion. It didn’t matter. It’s obviously not important, since both the optometrist and family doctor had dismissed my concerns. Perhaps I was simply too paranoid. Everyone was always telling me to stop being over dramatic or over paranoid.

So I let it slide for 14 months. At that point, a fluke omment from someone about one of my medication that was on back order led to me searching the internet to try to find why I was allergic to the other version of the medication.

I never found that answer, but I found information that scared me.
The  medication I was on since January 1999, which was currently on back order all over canada, was known to cause vision issues in long term use, and guidelines recommend that patients on this medication get checked by ophtamology every 6-12 months so that they notice the toxic buildup in the retina before it causes blindness.

Looking for answers, I drove myself in my brand new 1 year old car with 8000KM on it, to the hospital, where I asked them to check for this random syndrome I found online that no-one could explain to me.

The doctor took one look into my eyes, and revoked my driver’s license. MTO confirmed it. And then he told me the horror. I diodn’t have occular migraines. I was half blind, with no central vision left. I should have stopped the medication long before I ever first noticed symptoms, which was 14 months prior. The condition was permanent. I would never have central vision again.

Because I was on a medication for 17 years known to cause blindness, and my doctor, who prescribed it to me, never sent me for an eye exam, not even when I mentionned I was having problems seeing.

I fired all my doctors. I went and found a whole new set of physicians, especially a new family doctor. And I continued my life of hell, adding being half blind to the list of medical conditions that hounded me day and night.

I looked into legal action, and lawyers jumped at the chance to take my case for free.

I lost my job and career, because there is no way to be an IT Technician when you can’t see.

I lost my new car, and had to have it reposessed because I couldnt’ sell it, and I had no employment.

I got onto Long term disability through work, so at least I get a stipend every month. But with not having the job, I lost my medical benefits. Last week I had to pay 833.99 for 3 months of medications.)

I would qualify for ODSP to get coverage, except I get more from LTD than ODSP would give and so they refuse to let me apply.

And I remember when I was 18, and only dealing with the Lupus, Arthritis, and Depression, when my family doctor, who would diagnose me and not tell me for 3 years, and who made me blind, told me “You qwualify for ODSP but I won’t sign the paperwork for you because I don’t want you to become lazy.”

No. I never got lazy. I just got more and more sick with every ear as I stayed in jobs that were abusive and bad for my health just to be able to afford my medication to stay alive.
And now I can’t apply, while being half blind and won’t have a job the rest of my life, because I “Make too much money from LTD.” So I’m stuck paying 834$ every 3 months until something changes.

I’d like to apply for Trillium, but I can’t do my taxes, because the insurance company won’t send me my merdical receipts.

I got a new family doctor. She looked a bit discomforted at the thought that I was taking legal action against a former doctor. I thought nothing of it, until this week, when I found out that the Doctor who made me half blind, and neglected me, and didn’t give me proper care for all those years, has a twin brother, who works in the same private clinic as my new family doctor…. and the new doctor never told me this.

I’ve ended up in the ER 3 times in the last 2 weeks, and haven’t eaten solids in 19 days because my IBS is too severe.

So all in all… my life is hell.  And now you know who I am.

A broken girl, sufferent from multiple chronic illnesses, made half blind by her doctor who refused to give proper care for 17 years.
A girl who has spent her life fighting, and loosing.
A girl who no longer has the strength to keep the demons away.

And I feel so very, very alone.


So as I started to say earlier, today was a bad day. I lost control of the madness within, and came to the realisation of a truth.

I am dying.

When did I realise this? Sometime in my endless crying and panicking between 12 and 9pm today. Yes. I cried and sobbed and screamed bloody murder for 9n hours straight, with no pause.

I tried to explain to someone the pain I am going through, and that’s when the words just came out.

I am dying.

I can’t explain the logic behind it, or even the how, but I know it’s true. And it isn’t a simple death. My body is dying. My mind is dying. My soul is dying.

I am dying, and I fear that before long there won’t be anything left of me.

Perhaps from one day to the next, there isn’t that much difference. But there is a difference.

I can feel every cell in my body filled with necrosys, the cells dying from the inside out, and I cannot fix them. And I know that they are dying because I am not receiving the proper medical care I need.

I am not on the right medication to control the fibromyalgia, or to control the migraines. Between those, the 3 strokes, the lupus, the arthritis, the out of control IBS that landed me in the ER twice in 3 days last week and has caused me to now go 19 days without food… my body is dying.

Every day that I spend without my health being properly treated, without the medications to keep things under control, popping tylenols as if they were candy just to make it from one hour to the next, I can feel my body dying.

All my illnesses surround me, untreated, out of control, and they are beating the shit out of my body, breaking my bones, bruising my muscles, bleeding me dry. And I cannot fix it. All I can do is curl up in my ball in the middle of the crowd, being stepped on, trampled, and mistreated by medical professionals, because they don’t care.

Time and again, the medical community has proven that they don’t care.
They don’t care to give me the right diagnostics.
They don’t care to tell me what my diagnostics are.
They don’t care to follow treatment plans from experts to help control my conditions.
They don’t care to make sure that the side effects of my medications are properly managed to prevent such things like making me blind.
They don’t care to trust me and tell me the truth.
They don’t care if they accept me as a patient, knowing that I am suing the twin sister of their private practice colleague.
They don’t care to refer me to the specialists In need to manage my condition.

They don’t care to give me the health care I need and deserve.

Because I am worthless.
I am a burden with too many problems.
I am unworthy.

And they know it, as they cheer from the sidelines, watching me get beat to a pulp day after day.

And my body cannot keep going on like this.
My body is dying, slowly but surey, from the lack of nitrients, and medications, that it needs in order to be healthy.
Because the medical world doesn’t care to make me healthy.
They want me to endure the suffering I deserve.
They want my body to be beaten by illness every day, the cells dying off one by one.
They want to watch me die, and are doing everythihng they can to see that happen.

My body is dying. And all Ican do is sit and cry, because I have fought so long, so hard, against such insurmountable odds, and I cannot continue. I have nothing left to give.


I am dying.

My mind is dying.

I have gone through hell and back, fought battles I was ill equipped for, continued on through depression, anxiety, paranoia, obsessive compulsive disorder, and borderline personality disorder. And all of that compounded by years of mental abuse, brainwashing, from the age of 3 forward, the tendrils of the abuser reaching out and infecting everyone around me so that the tape is continually expanded with new materials to denigrate me with.

With new things to hurt me.

And my mind is broken… I spend all my time battling to keep the inner demons at bay while suffering through the pain of chronic illness. I had already reached my limit, the point where I couldn’t even stand anymore, where I just curled up and cried, struggling to keep hold of my sanity.

A worthless endeavour.

I cannot even begin to describe the horrors of going blind, and the betrayals I’ve been subjected to from medical professionals.
Loosing my job. My career. My car. My credit. My independence. My freedom.

I’ll never have a good career.
I’ll never have a worthwhile job.
I’ll always be a useless part of society that doesn’t contribute.
I don’t deserve sanity.
I am broken.
I deserve pain.
My many abusers want to hurt me and bleed me.
I deserve to hurt.
My doctors want to watch me suffer.
I deserve to suffer.
I am alone in this fight.
I deserve to be alone.

And I am scared.


I sit on the floor of the arena, broken, beaten, defeated.

I am dying.
My body is dying. I cannot get the medical care that I need.
My mind is dying. It’s being overwhelmed by the littany of endless abuse that is repeated through the tape, and through all the megaphones in the crowds around me. Once my sanity is gone, my mind will die completely. And I don’t know how long I can hold out.

I am a burden.
I don’t deserve to live.
I am a faulure.
Everything in my life, and the crowds all around me confirm this fact.

Every day, I sense my soul fading. My body fades. My sanity fades. And my soul is dying.

Strangers are taking over my body. Monmsters from within that come out and try to rip out the throats of my loved ones. Demons that make me look at my life, and make me want to die.

Today, I was begging my boyfriend to kill me.
For the first time ever, I seriously considered, and was about to, slicing my forearm from elbow to wrist.

Life and health broke me. And then my doctors betrayed me, and laughed as I struggled, because I already had nothing left to give.

I have become suicidal.
Other times, I am numb, and don’t know who I am.
I have begun dissociating, not knowing who I am, or where I am. One momenty I am me, the next I am a 7 year old child hiding under the blankets, begging her abusers to stop tormenting her.

I see the child and want to hold her, but I cannot. I must stay in my ball, and hide, and fight to keep the monsters locked up inside.
And I am loosing the battle.

More and more they escape, and more and more, the me that is me is pushed out of my body, replaced by feral entities, frightened younglings, or empty hollow shells.

Pretty soon, there won’t be any me left in there, and the numbness will take over, or one of the other monsters from within, and my soul will die, alone and abandonned, useless, too weak to hold me into me.


Every day is a struggle. I do not knopw how much longer I have left.
I am being kept together by makeshift bandages that leak and barely hold my own flesh together.

I look at my arms, and want to see the blood pouring down it in crimson rivulets, forming dark beads as it pools up in my palms. I crave hving an external symbol of the daily beatings that my body is subjected to as it dies, one cell at a time.

To mark my skin in blood, proclaiming to the world that my body has been beaten beyond it’s breaking point.

That my mind has been broken and beaten down, and is vulnerable, constantly fighting to ignore the blaring tape that screams to the world how much of a pathetic freak I am.

To have a symbol to show others who know me, and know that I would never self harm, so that they realise that my body is no longer my own. That I am being controlled by external and internal forces, beings, and monsters that are stronger than I am, and that seek to bury my identity so far into the void pit of nothingness that is inside that I will never surface again, lost to the world, trapped.

Because it’s no less than I deserve.
Because I hurt. Because I want to watch in fascination as blood trickles out of me, giving me pr

oof that it still runs through my veins, and that I have not died yet.
Because I need a relief from the pain. In my earlier fit of insanity, I clearly stated that I would rather my body be covered in 3rd degree burns. Because a 3rd degree burn would hurt less than the normal levels of pain I feel on my “good day” when I don’t need a tylenol.I wonder how the hospital would react to that.
“On a scale of 1 to 10 how is your pain?”
“Well, if a 3rd degree full body burn fresh out of a burning house is a 1, my pain on a good day when I can barely feel is would be a 2.”Yes, you read that right.
The chronic pain of daily existence on a good day when I DON’T need tylenol hurts MORE than 3rd degree burns.And my pain lately is at a constant 7-10 on that scale.

I want to watch my skin part, and feel the soft gentle caress as the blade slides into my skin, because the pain of it would be like a feather in comparison to my everyday physical pain, not to mention my mental and emotional anguish.

So yes, I can sense it. My body is dying, and will do so as long as my medical issues go untreated.

It just brings up the one question…

If I can feel my body, my mind, and my soul dying, each in their own different ways…. if I wish for full body 3rd degree burns instead of my normal daily pain, because it would be a relief to feel so pain free…

Is it any wonder that I want to watch the blood run down my skin the way it does on the battlefield?

Is it so strange that I want the world to see that I have gone above and beyond, and then some, and then after that I was pushed even further, into a land where I do not know myself, and do not know how to escape. To want the world to see on my arms the pain that is has caused a girl who never physically self harmed before all of this started.

Is it any wonder that I want to die?

I’m just too pathetic to do it myself.
I am useless.
Alone in my inner struggle.





I am dying.

In all ways, I am dying… and I have no idea what on earth to do about it.
Guest Post: Suffering Stream of Consciousness

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