Wednesday, June 10, 2009

My four-year pregnancy

This past Tuesday:
It's finally here. The day my therapist has been anticipating because of the potential positive outcome it will have for my life. Just think, she says, of the fact that in six months you could recover your health.

I am on a bed, where I am given an endoscopy. A tiny microscope goes down my throat while I sleep, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine. This is to check, with a biopsy, to see if I have Celiac Disease, a condition which would cause me to have trouble aborbing food and medicine, which would explain why the only antipsychotic that really works for me is the kind you get intravenously. So here I am. I fall asleep. After what seems like a minute, I'm awake. "When are you going to start the test?" I ask. "We just finished it," a nurse tells me. "You're just waking up."

Soon the doctor - a gastroenterologist whose wife is a psychiatrist at the community mental health center I go to - comes to talk to me briefly. He says I have gastritis. And when he says those words, I suddenly remember. I've heard them before.

Back to 2004:
I'm in Morton Plant Mease hospital, getting a battery of test that lasts several days. One of them is an endoscopy. When I wake up, they tell me I have gastritis and nothing else wrong with the digestive area. "Did they take it out?" I wonder. "Is the tomb baby finally gone."

I'm floridly psychotic, which is how I ended up in this hospital having all these tests performed. I'm convinced that I'm pregnant. I've been convinced of that for a few year. Yes, I really believed it. I was completely sure that I had been forcibly impregnated at one of the hospitals I was in, and that I was going to have to produce a baby for the New World Order which would then be taken from me, dead, and used as food for humans. This is the kind of thing I thought when I was floridly psychotic. Psychosis and logic don't mix well.

Since the "breeding" I think I'm being forced to do is a conspiracy by the entire country, especially the medical profession, I am convinced that there are procedures women get done, which are actually birthing procedures, and not the medical procedures everyone else believes they are. Words have important meanings to me which would not make sense to you or anyone else. There are clues in words. I am constantly searching for clues.

ENDoscopy. That sounds very final, doesn't it? That sounds like the end of something. I know it is code. I know that the only way for me to get the dead baby taken out of my womb is to have the endoscopy. If that doesn't work there are other medical procedures to get done which will work, I'm sure. (And in that year I had a colonoscopy, a laparoscopy surgery, a gall bladder test, other tests, and nearly had my gall bladder removed to get rid of the baby).

I wake up. The gastro (GAS, as in death chamber) enterologist says to me, "You have gastritis".

I soon forget this obvious lie and get back to the business of baby removal. Since the baby has been inside me for four years, I know it's dead, and I coin the word, "tomb baby", as I believe my womb is a tomb.

I takes a lot of medication, a lot of convincing by other people in hospitals and outside of the hospitals, a lot of thought, careful consideration and time for me to begin to understand there is no baby there. Finally, that particular nightmare ends. But I never forget. I never will forget.

Today I remember every pregnancy center I called or visited, and all the doctors who told me I was not pregnant. I remember the woman from my mom's church who ran the Christian pregnancy center, and how she listened at length to the long lie I invented about how I accidentally got pregnant, because I believe if I tell the right lie, someone will do something about the tomb baby.

I remember the pregnancy clinic I visited to get an abortion, and how they chased me out and locked their door, when I wouldn't stop insisting that they immediately give me an abortion.

I remember the woman at the adoption agency who I was going to meet so she could discuss me giving up my baby.

I remember how the names of medications had special meanings, how I was convinced medications were used to cause pregnancies and abortions, and not for the stated purposes they had. I remember how scared I was. All the time.

2 comments:

Wanderer62 said...

How serious is gastritis? I'm assuming that it is much, much better than Celiac Disease or than believing in a delusion about carrying a dead baby inside of you. I think it is a good sign that you can remember such a painful part of your past. Thanks for writing about it.

I was told by my voices when I first became psychotic that I would have some famous rock star's baby, but I never thought I was pregnant. I'm so sorry that you went through what you did. But the great news is that severe psychosis does NOT have to be permanent. That's one of those myths that I believed in before I became seriously ill. We are both heading in a good direction. So remember and write and see how far you've come in the last four years.

Kate

Jennifer, aka beautiful mind, complex life said...

Hi Kate~

Thanks for your comment and support. I will not know for at least a week whether I have Celiac Disease; the doctor took a couple biopsies that have to be finished. Hopefully, I won't have it, but on the other hand, if I did, it could likely be reversed by a special diet and my body would then, supposedly, be in much better shape.

Who knows. I'll let you know what happens.

Jen

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