Journal 6th Sept

6th September

"Life is a bath. Some sink. Some Swim. - Some Roman Guy

When choosing to swim, there's a lot of splashing and gulping at first, but pretty soon you can find your stroke, so that even when someone dive bombs beside you, you can splutter to breath and then move on. But you have to want to. You have to choose it. To swim.

On Friday night the rear windscreen wiper on my car was twisted right off. The metal curled like a pig's tail and the limb of what was left placed back onto the glass. Had I remembered to fill up the water thingy I would have scraped the rear windscreen glass in a bonnie arc, had I turned it on.
Probably drunks, I won't park up the back lane at the weekend.

"Fat Bitch

That's what was written on the driver's door window of my car Monday morning.

Now bitch I'll own up to, but fat! Moi!

Still, when it's actually personal, it's a horrible feeling. It's not just the Universe that's got it in for me, there's an actual nutter about as well.

After the shock of it, I was angry, but I was scared, and monkey mind reminded me how great it would be to have a man who could thump several bells out of the twat who's done this. Not the answer, but a v. satisfying thought nevertheless. On many counts.

But what the fuck is going on? I feel so sad. All my energy sucked out of me. And I've had enough.

I know that people in New Orleans are dealing with way worse, but at least their flood is over and they can start to clean up. My personal hurricane Katrina keeps coming back.
The fat bitch.

It seems to me that's something a woman would say, not a man.

Last Saturday night I went to ask my neighbour downstairs to turn down music. It was after 11.30. It was shaking my floor. Most annoying of all, it was crap music.

One of her friends opened the door so I asked her would she mind turning down the music please. She was fine, so was I. Perfectly pleasant. They were just going out anyway.
No harm done. The music got turned down.
I went back upstairs and heard someone shouting as I closed my door but I didn't think it was at me so went back to my movie. Then the music got turned back up again. And I twigged that perhaps the neighbour was drunker than her friend and slightly more pissed off.
That's the only thing that's happened. They did go out shortly afterwards, I didn't think of it again.

Then I come out to "Fat Bitch to start my new week. Too much.

With everything else going on. It was like being kicked behind the knee caps. Crashing floorwards again. I felt so low. It's nothing really, in the scheme of things.
Except that I'm sure I can hear cackling.

By the time I got into work I had decided to phone the police. But I wiped the writing off in the car park. I didn't want it left there.

The policewoman was very nice and said an officer would come round tonight or tomorrow and that they will patrol the back lane more often.

Meanwhile my paranoia increased and I surfed the web for how many weeks is a foetus of 12cm, coz maybe slash-happy Indian princess was exaggerating. I do not look 5 months pregnant.

It grosses me out that something so unwanted is measured in foetal size. Something that the medical solution is; leave them when they are small and aren't doing any harm, oh they've grown and started doing harm, hysterectomy for you luv.

It's unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable. To the point of misogynistic negligence. Not that that's my experience, I just found mine and it's too big to do any experimenting with But for younger women who've been diagnosed early enough to take Chinese herbs, or enzymes or use progesterone cream, it's un-bloody-forgivable to be told just leave it for now, come back in 6 months for another scan - without being told it's the single most common reason for hysterectomy, Google for help.

20-50% of women in the West have them. 75% of all female autopsies show fibroid growth.

And that's not all. There is an oestrogen epidemic in the West. Men are growing breasts, having male menopause, are less fertile, baby boys are being born with abnormalities in the genitalia. And it's not because of oral contraceptives being peed into the water supply.

Main culprits for oestrogen imbalance: Meat, Dairy products, pesticides and soft plastics. The sort ready meals come in - and the effect is worse when they are heated up.

You are not only what you eat - you are what you eat is packaged in too.

Rant rave.

20 weeks. 12cm. She's right. I just don't have the other gubbings that would be in there alongside an actual foetus.

But I still have a bump.
Fat bitch.
Bastards.

When we're mean to people, we just don't know the shit they are going through.

Monday evening, I knocked my neighbour's door on the way back from the gym. She was jangling when she saw me. Her voice trembling, her whole body shaking.

It was her. I don't mention car, bitches or fat. I just say that I want to clear the air about Saturday.

So I did.

She's been away for three months nursing her mother who has broken her leg. It was her birthday and her first night out in ages. She never has music on loud. She wasn't shouting (she shouted).
She was so stressed out, defensive and nervous, I shut up and just listened to her, nodding.

I'm positive it was her who wrote it.
I'm glad it was her and not the bogey man.

We left agreeing that neither of us want animosity with neighbours. I wished her happy birthday and we parted smiling and calm.

We just don't know the shit people are going through.
Unless we communicate.
Thank you gardener for that lesson.

Then the policeman phoned, quite different from the policewoman earlier.
"What is it you want us to do?

Just sit on your arse and drink your tea officer.

Which isn't what I said of course, but oh wouldn't it be great if I had.

"Nothing thanks, I've spoken to my neighbour and it's settled I really don't want a visit.

He cheers up enough to get helpful.

"Okay, it's incident 131 quote that if anything else happens.

Yes, when I'm in my bludgeoned pool of blood, 131 will be the first thing on my mind. Thanks.

Indian princess phoned me back about 8. I'm astounded. I ask her if she's heard of using enzyme tablets to shrink fibroids. She can't recommend anything other than actual drugs. Drugs which are so toxic you can't stay on them for long. Drugs which fake menopause. Who the hell wants that?

I'm not happy that I found these enzyme tablets on the internet and the testimonial reads like an IQ in the single figures wrote it. Worse, if I take them, they will stop my blood coagulating so an operation would be out of the question.

She says I can leave it three months but six months max, it'll continue to grow and the operation becomes more risky and of course, a higher chance of hysterectomy.

She says my name often and it's so comforting and I trust that she does see a human being and isn't scalpel-happy afterall. I agree to go for an MRI, and we'll meet 23rd, but the 7th of November is still the date.

Am having the op.

I feel calmer than I've felt in weeks. I know my path. I know the changes I need to make, and the preparation I've to do.

For me, and poor garden.

Am swimming.

But there's no haiku in me today.

And that's okay.