CHRISTMAS CRUCIFIXION

Christmas Hospital – First at a weird Mental

Hospital somewhere in South London, then at St
Georges in faithful dirtville.

No Camera to start with. I ended up getting a

disposable one for a few HOSPITAL pics.

I had spent a nice day with my Nan; we’d got me a

new T.V,

as I’m lonely at home and fancied having a screen

for watching films on. So she’d put the T.V on her
credit card and I was to pay it off after Christmas
as a favour as I hadn’t a lot of spare cash. Sick of
working as an escort. The life was getting me
down, so I declined offers for weeks avoiding the
experience of pleasuring strangers in little hotel
rooms in a very dirty, seedy manner or taking
drugs, drinking and generally being dark and bad.
My opinion of those men is of a lower species being
than some of us. Perhaps someone should get
them an old fashioned box of tissues for
Christmas. But I guess that doesn’t feel as good as
anal penetration with cum in mouth at the last
minute.

I’m stuck in the life. I know I should try to get out

of it,

but I’ve never kept a single job down and the

wages I can earn are too low for me to pay the
rent. I can only get about a £15,000 job, I have no
experience. That’s only £1000 a month, my rent is
£900. So I continue and in the name of Art. For
my future as I chose “to be an artist”.
I needed the money – knew I had the T.V to pay
off. A regular of mine called. “I’ve got some
Coke….someone gave me it at work, do you fancy
coming over and having a few lines and earning a
bit of cash??” My reply went something like “ Erm
no,….erm well maybe…ONLY IF I CAN TRUST YOU
as I don’t want any problems…I can’t take too
much, just a few lines…maybe.”

(Sounds like a FRANK advert – not intentional – it’s

exactly

what happened!!)

I’d been getting BAD PARANOIA from Coke since a

really bad

breakdown after smoking crack. I think it was the

Crack days that has caused these spells of FEAR
and PARANOIA. They are scary and dangerous.

So I went over to this guy’s 10th floor old man’s

flat in Pimlico. I had a small line and was taking it

all very slowly. Then I had another bigger one and
got breathless and boiling HOT. His flat is an old
peoples flat on the top floor of a horrible tower
block. I got fuckin scared about falling from the
balcony. FEAR and PARANOIA. SCARY and
DANGEROUS. I felt very uncomfortable and then
got very SCARED about having another heart
attack as I was on the tenth floor, so felt worried
about ambulances etc…. I am already scared of
ambulances as a result of last time I was taken into
hospital. The police were so angry and hurt me
with the cuffs. Angry coz I called them in a state of
pure paranoia.
So I was scared and felt ill. But it passed in the
end. I had a glass of water and calmed down. The
night went on and the Coke wasn’t making me feel
too bad. I found drinking water instead of wine
was refreshing! I suggested that we go back to my
place as I had music and my T.V and it was more
comfortable than the old man’s flat that he resides
in when staying in London (obviously a TRUE
penny pincher). The guy was Elvis Costello’s
sound engineer for fucks sake! Not short of cash,
but tight, and as I later found out possibly twisted.

So we got in a cab to mine, where I recalled I had

another gram saved up that I hadn’t touched, as I
was cutting down a bit. But I thought oh maybe
we could get more fucked. I was in a high mood
and didn’t imagine the guy would cause problems
in my flat as I’d seen him before, after all he was
Elvis Costello’s sound engineer and Goldfrapps. I
thought he was a nice guy, certainly not twisted,
although his borrowed flat on the 10th floor always
bothered me.

It seemed to be going well, I was ranting in

Cocaine arrogance about everything under the
sun, including Egyptology and Aliens and God. All
paranoid subjects of mine that have got more
indepth with drug use. I’ve always been a bit crazy
and had strange deep thoughts since I was a kid
and a lone. I have been crazy before when I had a
nervous breakdown years ago when I was studying
after my boyfriend dumped me and cause so much
pain that I slashed my wrists right up. My life
changed after that and was never all that happy
again. Love lost hurts like hell.

I was off my head again on the Coke. I can’t

remember most of the night. But I know that he
messed AROUND WITH MY T.V a lot. He fucked all
the speakers up and connected them all
incorrectly. He seemed very agitated, especially
about my T.V. He also spent a lot of time on my
computer. Installing his Skype app. with his name
on. He wouldn’t look at me and seemed nervy. He
was high too. He suggested we watch a film. So
we put the Witches of Eastwick on (my strange
choice), but the speakers weren’t working (the guy
worked as a fuckin sound engineer on gigs to
famous bands). I started to feel awkward and I
asked him what he’d done to the speakers. He
mumbled something like “they come on a different
times.”

I felt jealousy to my flat, my computer and my new

cool t.v as well as pure resentment and an inability
to accept that I was an artist, an intelligent woman,
not just a cocksucker. THE GUYS WAS INSANELY
JEAOUS AND COULDN’T ACCEPT ME. I looked at
him and then not sure what happened. I think he
must have glanced down at the scart lead by the
sofa. And then I just thought “FUCK NO NO NO NO
NO! NO. He’s jealous, he’s gonna kill me with the
scart lead. His face was blank. It had no emotion.
It was a moment of sheet terror. I looked in
disbelief. I picked up the scart lead and threw it
down and said I’m going! I’m going! And then I ‘m
sure he said, “I’d go if I was you.” “Go! Go! Go!”
So I ran out the house into the freezing cold
morning with only my stockings and underwear on
and a big cardigan, as I was cold. I could hear him
shouting Go! As I ran down the streets as fast as I
could with hardly any clothes on. I was scared to
death. I ran into the hospital but were sure
EVERYONE was gonna kill me. I ran a long way
down the street into a housing area where I was
running through gardens and in front of cars too.
Just as before when I got scared and paranoid.
Eventually came a police van. I knew what was
coming. I tried to run away from them and I ran to
the top of a stairwell and tried to get into someone
else’s house. The police asked me what I was
doing as I stood banging on the persons door and
forcing my key into the lock of the strangers flat.
They asked me if it was my house. It wasn’t. So
on went the handcuffs and banged into the cage in
the van. There my paranoia came alive.

Whilst in the cage in the van. I prayed and I felt as

an animal being led to slaughter. I’d been having
visions of a warning of my death a few weeks
before, which had deeply disturbed me. In my
paranoid, drugged up mind, I was lamb going to
slaughter. I felt the handcuffs getting tighter, the
glass in the cage was steaming up as I went into
TOTAL PANIC. I tried to work the handcuffs off;
they felt like they were strangling me. Getting so
tight, the only way I could stay alive was to keep
moving my hands. I was slicing my hands up like
meat. I didn’t know it. They had been quite
severely lacerated by the cuffs and were bleeding.
I had been praying to Jesus to save me. Chanting
to the Lord to spare me. I thought the police were
here to kill me for my sins. In my vision I had
heard Jesus say “The Police Kill Prostitutes”.

I was kissing the floor and needing to see the

sunlight. Needing god, asking for Elijah. It was
harrowing. I was crazy and desperate and SCARED
that this was the moment of death.

The police had captured and harnessed me like an

animal and taken me to my death, like a lamb to
the slaughter. Into the back entrance of the mental
hospital, like a torture chamber. Concrete floor
and dirty mattress, this was to be the setting for
my death.

The police in their big boots and aggression.

Bundled me into the hospital, where they
sectioned me into a room where the windows
couldn’t be smashed. A groups of strangers were
holding my body down in such strength. I felt like I
was being suffocated again. I tried to escape so
many times, but they just got on top of me even
more. I imagined behind me they had a lethal
injection. These strangers starring at me, forcing
me to the mattress, not allowing any movement,
smothering me. A strong policeman who I
recognised from the van. All of them in my mind
conspiracy murders.

They were going to put me down like an animal. I

had earlier proclaimed Jesus as a “Blackman” in
my complete craziness. I also proclaimed my
undying love and that would be united with my
Lord Jesus in Heaven after my crucifixion.

They must have let off me a little and I must have I

flung myself free and locked myself (or someone
locked me in) to a toilet (a regular activity of
mine). Some how I was locked in the toilet. In
there I went CRAZY. It was the first time I’d
noticed the lacerations on my wrists. They were
bleeding and there was blood pouring from them.
There was enough blood to drip into the sink and
toilet and smear over the wall.

Blood smeared over the walls

“MURDER” “ART”.

Murder in the name of ART.

My paranoid beliefs were “MURDER”.

I was to be crucified for my prostitute sins.

“The police kill prostitutes.”

I chanted my love for my Lord Jesus Christ and I

knelt at his feet as Mary Magdalene.

Slamming the heavy steel toilet door behind me in

the “section” room. My wrists leaking a steady
stream of blood into the sink. Blood spayed over
the walls as I hammered on the small toilet
window, climbing onto a ledge, hoping that an
outsider would be witness to my crucifixion.

The third time, I had believed totally and whole-

heartedly that I was to be murdered. I was to be
crucified as “My Lord Jesus in Heaven”. I was
sending messages to the birds to tell God of the
Murder. Pleading to Jesus my salvation. Where did
this faith in Jesus come from?

The toilet was the pool of holy water to bathe my

bloody hands. They had locked me in the toilet to
watch me bleed to death. They were spying on me
through spy holes. I could see them staring at me
from a small window near the floor, they would
switch the light on and doff to make me aware of
their presence; little evil eyes watching me from
the panopticism.

They looked like evil voyeurs; all of them as

Scientists. I hammered so hard on the window, in
such pain with blood and flesh splattering from my
hand. I was leaving D.N.A evidence so they
wouldn’t cover up the death, when I died, someone
somewhere would have witnessed it. My death
would finally be found out. I was bleeding to death
in the toilet.

After the final work of art before the crucifixion was

over, they appeared unconcerned as they awaited
my death. I looked deep into their eyes through
the plastic window and pleaded that they spare my
life.

How many more times will I go through this

paranoia?

Eventually the door of the loo opened. A

policeman ripped off my one remaining stocking.
In retrospect this was perhaps to prevent a suicide
attempt.

It also now takes on an erotic overtone. There is

something so EROTIC about violent madness and
male strength. Call me twisted, I guess I am.

I was pulled out of the toilet and again layed to the

mattress to be made to be still. I was so thirsty.
One of then quickly opened the door and handed
another one a plastic cup of liquid, so as not to
allow me to get out. I’d lost a fair bit of blood and
the Coke had made my mouth bone dry. I had
overdosed again. I felt my mouth sticking together
and it was difficult to breathe. But I couldn’t take a
sip, as I believed it to be deadly poison. Arsenic.
So instead I felt myself sink into the floor, body
limp and giving up and I pissed myself onto the
dirty concrete floor. I then leaned off the mattress
into the pool of piss and licked it up off the filthy
floor to moisten my dry lips and mouth. It was
salty, warm and dirty, but my lips and tongue were
moistened. I did this several times I felt to save
my life. Finally, body limp in a pool of piss,
bleeding had subsided and I was then comforted.

What a display.

This time all my previous angst has fallen at my

feet. I didn’t look at people with an angry heart as
I had very nearly given up my life. A total
surrender. The angry heart cannot rise when
everything else has fallen away.

In my mind for a moment it seemed as though they

were all, we are all in my mental sickness
“servants of the lord.”

They gave me some lentil soup on the floor, like a

dog licks from a bowl and then bathed me to clean
off the piss and blood and dressed me in a huge
oversized old bathrobe. They advised me to go to
A&E to have an x – ray on my hands to check for
fractures from me hammering so hard onto
concrete. My hands were exceptionally swollen
and injured.

The guy from my house turned up, the one

responsible for providing the drugs and causing the
paranoid moment. He had lost his murderous look,
but I still wasn’t entirely convinced. I needed his
help thou, I had no money for a cab home and I
had no idea where the hell I was. We arrived home
to mine and I felt in pain. I had broken my key to
my flat trying to break into the flat at the top of the
stairwell. So I had to use my last bit of money on a
locksmith to get into my place. The guy went
home to take his laptop, which was the reason he
wanted to come to my place. I as in excruciating
pain and I asked him to bring me some strong
painkillers. The pain in my hands was some of the
worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I couldn’t move
my hands. I needed painkillers; I was at the point
of swallowing a whole bottle of paracetemol if I had
it. I took about four as I was in so much pain and
then I ‘d ran out and was going through all my
things the best I could searching for pain killers. I
ended up swallowing a packet of cold and flu
remedy, which made me sick. The pain was
horrendous. I waited and waited for the guy to
arrive with the painkillers, but he didn’t come
back.

I received a phone call from him. He’d arrived

back to his temporary 10th floor flat to discover the
police has broken the door down and raided the
whole flat looking for drugs. I’m guessing after
viewing the toilet, murder, blood installation they
had felt it necessary to investigate. It did look like
a murder scene. There was lots of blood and had
been in almost suicidal distress. I managed to
break down a stainless steel sink with my feet,
which had also injured them in pain. I couldn’t
easily walk; the skin had come off both my big
toes. I was in excruciating pain. I had begged the
guy to bring me the painkillers. The pain was
making me scream as I emptied every drawer and
cupboard in my house searching for painkillers. I
was left in absolutely excruciating pain all night as
I waited for morning to go down to A&E. I couldn’t
afford to get a cab so I had to walk after I managed
to pull some clothes on. It was a very painful
walk. On the way I bought painkillers and
swallowed extra strong Ibuprofen and paramol.
I’d often starred out of my kitchen window up to St.
Georges wondering what it might be like inside. It
always looks cosy with the lights glowing through
the window at night. This Christmas I was too find
out what it was like being resident there. It was
around 9am when I arrived at A&E. I was seen
almost immediately and a kind nurse dressed my
wounds very carefully and I waited to see a Plastics
doctor. The doctor was very concerned about my
hands and noticed infection and marked surgical
looking marks on the infected wounds. He
admitted me immediately and stuck a cannular
needle in my arm and injected various antibiotics
into my body as well as providing strong pain
relief. I was shocked to be admitted. I was also
relieved as I was being looked after by very kind
people who were exceptionally concerned about
me and very caring and professional. My hands
were infected which is why they were in so much
pain. They must have picked up so many germs
from the police van and then in the mental
hospital, and the toilet that I washed my hands in
the “Holy Water”.

I was taken to my ward Keate in the Plastic Surgery

unit. I like being wheeled around in a wheel chair;
it makes me feel important and special. I took my
bed by the window on the fifth floor with a
beautiful sky view and lovely cityscape. I really got
to know that view in the time I was in their,
watching sunrises each morning like a miracle.

I was treated very well on the ward. My wounds

have been dressed daily, until the day for surgery
on them. It had been four days and the doctors
were not happy about the progress of the wounds.
I’d been on intravenous antibiotics for the whole
time and lots of them – three injections four times
a day; they were making me puke up my food
every time I ate. I have a very sensitive stomach.
I was also on a range of nice strong painkillers.
Tremedol was my preferred painkiller, highly
recommended by me. But my real treat came post
– op!

The Doctors told me they were to take me into

theatre to have my hands cleaned up and to take
off old scabs and skin to promote healing. They
didn’t say any thing more than that. I had no idea
that the result would be as horrific as what it was.
I was so nervous about going into theatre, it was so
horrible. I thought that I might die under
anaesthetic. I made them do an ECG and blood
tests before they took me under, incase of
complications. I was concerned about having a
weak heart after an overdose and heart attack in
November. The ECG was normal, which I’m
pleased about, as it means my heart has probably
not been too damaged by its lack of oxygen after
the last overdose.

I eventually went into theatre where I was injected

and fell into a deep unconscious zone. I remember
the anaesthetic room. It was very surgical looking
like an entrance to a crematorium as you go
through a door into the theatre. The next thing I
remember is a blurry awaking where I screamed
“FUCKIN HELL” in so much pain that I’ve ever been
in! About a second after that came three shots of
Morphine in my I.V needle! The real treat! I felt a
warm mist of numbness, which was instantly
tingled away all pain and gave me such a cosy
glow! I carried on swearing though in recovery to
all the staff doing secret Santa exchanges. My
swearing “FUCK ME” didn’t go unnoticed and I
think I was quite offensive to some of the recovery
staff! Oops.

I was oblivious to what was underneath the firm

bandages. I thought they must have just cleaned
up the scabs in a way that caused pain so put me
under anaesthetic. The Morphine kept coming!
Lovely and blissful I felt, completely oblivious to
pain or what lurked beneath. My body sank into
the bed as I melted away into tingling bliss of
nothing much. Christmas hospital is beautiful –
better than being at home all alone.

I’m sure they didn’t need to send me to theatre I

thought. In actual fact they did. They didn’t just
clean my hands up – they operated. I’d had my
hands elevated in slings to try to make the
infection go down, even at night! I really wasn’t
happy about having the operation. A few days
after the operation they took of the bandages to
change them and examine them. They told me
they had found deep infection in my left hand.
From the outset it hadn’t looked badly damaged,
but the problem came as I had put my hand into
the toilet. They had cut out the first layers of
infection and gone deeper and they had found
more. The flesh was slime. It was never going to
heal. It was infected flesh and very dangerous. If
it hadn’t have been cut out I could have lost my
hand. They cut out the infection and sewn my
hands back up, smaller hands with the fleshy part
at the side gone forever.

I cried when I saw my left hand. It was such a

shock to see it changed in shape with stitches
across it. I cried a lot in disbelief. It really gutted
my heart. My looks are important to me and I just
thought now no one will ever love me. No one will
ever marry me. How can a ring go on such a
scarred misshapen hand? All my pictures are going
to reveal my damaged scarred hands and my
escort business is going to suffer. I was also
relieved that I had my hands and the thought of
painting came into my mind and I started thinking
about beginning sets of watercolours at home to
kick it off. I still have my hands. I must be
thankful. The right hand was always going to look
bad, that was my ‘hammering hand’ and I had lost
some flesh already and it had a deep hole in it
from the hammering. I had stitches in my wrists
and again lost the fleshy part from the side of the
hand as infection was removed and hand was sewn
up.

I was gutted and decided to continue with the pain

relief, to take away pain, physical and emotional. I
just took all the painkillers I could to numb it all.
Once I’d gone through the three regular capsule
painkiller limit, came Morphine injections. I didn’t
complain at those, they were very soothing to such
a pained person. I even got a Christmas day
injection, which came as a surprise as I was almost
ready for discharge if I hadn’t been home alone. I
couldn’t believe my Christmas day luck! The nurse
plunged the injection into my leg and then pulled
my Christmas cracker with me! I got a little red
rubber spider! Yippee!!

The Doctor had suggested discharging me on

Christmas Even so I could have a Christmas
celebration on Christmas day. They don’t like
having patients in over Christmas if they can help
it. It was only the day before that I had seen my
postoperative hands. The thought of home alone
filled me with MASSIVE DREAD. I couldn’t imagine
feeling so alone with my hands on such a special
day. I mentioned that I was alone and didn’t have
anyone to help me. It was decided that I shouldn’t
be discharged, as I couldn’t look after my self or
my dressings without the help of someone. I didn’t
have anyone to help me. I didn’t want to be alone
in my pain.

They let us have a lay in on Christmas day.

Breakfast came round late at 9pm! The faithful
workers, including a lovely cleaner worked hard
and honest as usual. The nurses had removed my
I.V needle for Christmas discharge, so I was on oral
antibiotics. I was a little annoyed at this as it
wasn’t necessary to remove the cannular so soon
and I could have continued with the more effective
I.V antibiotics. I wanted to ensure full infection
free recovery. I also felt a little conspicuous and
uncomfortable being in hospital for infected hands
on Christmas day! I didn’t want to go home to face
the empty, lonely life and face up to what
happened the night I went mad. I envisaged lonely
hours of drinking and depression. My life seems
destined for deep loneliness, isolation and
solitude. No – one likes me, gets on with me, cares
about me or loves me. Even the nurses didn’t
have professional love as I expect they would and
should. There was one particularly horrible woman
who didn’t want me in hospital on Christmas day
and got me moved to a side room in isolation
because of my “infected finger”. She hadn’t
bothered to read my notes or speak to me to find
out exactly why I was in hospital and that my state
of mind and life was not ‘normal’. She really upset
me to tears, actually an emotional outburst of
complete sorrow. Then she offered to make me a
cup of tea in comfort of what she had caused and
loaded it with sugar, after I told her no sugar. She
was a super bitch nurse who really shouldn’t have
been working as a nurse because she was cruel
and ignorant and patronising, an embarrassment
to the profession.

On the subject of superbitches, my awful mother,

who sometimes doesn’t mean to be awful left me a
very disturbing message on my phone this
morning, simply saying “keep your pecker up”? I
don’t know what she really means about ‘pecker’, I
think it was such a crude message. She wasn’t
bothered about another lonely Christmas for me
without friends or family on my hospital bed.
There was some weird twisted ulterior motive to
that message. Nothing is ever simple or loving in
my warped family of childish painful games. An
honest heart is a difficult one to find, if indeed one
exists. In my family there always feels like some
shadowy, stabbing motive behind words and
actions. It’s always been that way since we got
older as children. Nothing is ever simple, honest or
loving as one needs when in crisis and illness.

The Doctor working on Christmas day came to see

me. He was a young very English Plastic Surgery
Doctor wearing a Santa hat; he had English rosy
cheeks and such a kind honest face. I think he was
a member of my surgical team. He was
responsible for the cutting up and sewing up of my
handcuff infected hands. He told me with a stiff
upper lip that my hands will heal more and the
injuries will fade eventually. I wish him Merry
Christmas and he bounced off with little flushed
cheeks as if he had a very important, charitable
Christmas. Which he had, working in an NHS
hospital on Christmas day, especially if you’ve got
a nice family is pretty tough going. NHS hospitals
are poor and lack warmth. My spirits were kind
and generous as the Morphine had brought calm to
my irritable, depressed nerves and mellowed into
kindness.

I then had another visit, which I was most surprised

about! At the beginning of the week there was a
very sick Asian lady in the opposite bed. Her
grown – up children would come and visit her and
care for her everyday. They’d massage her whole
body and give real love. I think it looked like an
Islamic family as they wore headscarfs and long
clothes with those trousers underneath. There
Mum was moved eventually into as more intensive
care ward as her health sadly deteriorated. The
ladies were very loving and always asked me how I
was and offered to wash and brush my hair as I
had couldn’t. My hair did get very greasy and I
looked yukky!! I have become so much more a
peaceful and accepting person especially since this
crisis. I was powerless, scarred and hurt and with
this has brought a more peaceful and accepting
self. Such kind ladies and such a kind gesture to
come and visit me at my bed on Christmas day. I
was very touched by this simple love. I’ve been a
cruel, fucked – up woman. But I’ve paid the price
and wear my karmic scars of fucked – up ness.
Peace.

Hospital has been relaxing this time. I’ve felt

powerless in my crisis, flabbergasted and horrified
the same thing that happened a month ago has
happened again. I just felt so absolutely cheesed
off with what’s happened to put it politely. I’m
upset, depressed, astonished that my hands are
scarred for life and I’ve actually had an operation,
aswell as astonished at the chain of events leading
up to the hospitalisation in the plastic surgery
unit. I was dreading going home, dreading going
back to my life that I despise for its danger and
cheapness. I’m sick and tired of prostitution. It’s
not even about sex most of the time, rarely about
sex. Mainly it’s about getting drunk and often
about drugs namely Coke and sometimes crack
and boozing. It’s often about quick blowjobs
lasting no more than ten minutes. Its completely
tedious and I’m sick to the back teeth of it. That’s
one of the reasons why I’m happy to spend
Christmas in hospital.

I’ve tried to think of alternatives and new ideas for

my life, but still have no answers. Its all down to
money which I have relatively very little of. I still
lurk in a huge student overdraft, near to four years
after graduation! I have a £5000 bank loan that I
have to pay off or fall into serious trouble. I just
want to be free from this!! I rely on benefits to live
because I have to. The escort money pays bills,
loans and then I try to save for my art too with
what’s left, which certainly isn’t huge amounts as I
‘work’ less these days, as I’m pretty sick of it and
refuse to do quick blowjobs and sub games, which
means violent blowjobs and quick anal fucking.
SICK and sometimes PAINFUL and very
disrespectful and degrading.

The only answer I can find this time in hospital

after days lying in thought in my bed are to
volunteer my services in order to enter the world of
work and gain experience. I’ve become ‘mentally
ill’ in some respects and I think I need a lifeline into
the ordinary world out of my underground
existence in the adult industry. Prostitution, I
suppose will have to continue in its pathetic cul de
sac. A pathetic industry for pathetic people. Well
that’s if they can stand looking at my scarred
miniature surgical handcuff hands. Oh yearh,
they’re not bothered about my hands, they’re only
interested in getting a good look at my shaved
Cnut. Its so beautiful.

Bravo Kez, your life sucks!

The future means I must accept my scars and carry

on. Reinvention and innovation is the answer. I
shall wear gloves for my sex work and reinvent my
image and persona. I’m feeling rebellious in my
deep disappointment, loneliness and sadness.
Rebellion will bring fresh creativity. In my
harrowing experience I will find fresh hope.

A few words about vegetarianism.

(Slightly unrelated but still written separately in

hospital)

The final decision to become a strict vegetarian

came in hospital this time. I was gutted about my
hands and in pain and made my decision to stop
eating all flesh. I only ate fish occasionally, but it
has always bothered me, as I feel responsible for
the ending of a beautiful life and the cause of pain
and suffering which is unnecessary. In my pain
and suffering I felt it was wrong. Animals must be
in pain and to be killed to eat is such a cruel act.
My hands with the dressing looked a lot like meat
and I honestly don’t think I have the stomach to
even think about eating flesh of any kind ever
again.

I had a lovely waking dream about the beauty of

the vegetable almost like a big sexual organism
with ovaries and seeds and a garden like
appearance like a maze in a peapod. It could have
been about asparagus and it had all green beauty
like a garden.

I also checked the sky that night and asked it if it

was the right thing. A star twinkled at me and told
me yes it was the right way. I used to do strange
things like that as child, talk to the stars. That
night I thought I saw a shooting star at that
moment as I asked for an answer.

St George’s hospital food is really good. It’s

cooked with love. Lots of nice vegetables and
vegetable dishes. It’s all served on plates on a tray
in nice, small, manageable portions, but enough so
no one will starve. Although my appetite was
significantly reduced and has been since I came
out, I think it’s the ‘gutted’ feeling in my stomach
that’s responsible.

The food and care here seems better than the

Queen Elizabeth hospital in Woolwich. The teatime
soup comes in a bowl with a bread roll, unlike the
Queen Elizabeth that gave cuppa soups in cups.
Yuk! Sometimes it was even hot!
 The nurses and assistants here are very nice on
the whole and really do deserve praise. I’m
contemplating sending in a box of Chocolates for
the ward staff when I come out for out patient
treatment (wound dressing clinic and psychiatric
treatment).

I eat better in hospital than at home, but that really

is going to change this time. I’m definitely staying
complete vegetarian and not straying. I’m going to
buy veggie cookbooks and have small portions of
vegetarian foodstuffs to live on. This is to stay
healthy and cleansed.

My cooker at home needs replacing but I daren’t

ask my landlord, so I’ll just carry on until it breaks
completely, when I’ll have to ask for a new one.

I wondered if my injury’s are from karma. I must

do everything I can to purify my existence for my
future. I haven’t achieved my aims or ambitions
yet and I must ensure my life so I can achieve
them in the future. I also cannot see the reason
for inflicting suffering unnecessarily. Especially
now I have experienced pain and suffering and
seriously contemplated my bloody death as my
wrists bled.

No! Slaughter is not the way.

I haven’t eaten meat for many years since I was 10

years old. I once tried a bit and didn’t like it. But I
made the conscious decision to vegetarianism
when I was young, but I am now making it again in
a new light.

In the light of suffering.

My hands looked like meat.

Do you want to eat them?

Neither will I have racial

prejudice. I had less racial prejudice before and

more political angst. But staying now at St.
Georges has changed me and awoken me further.
I was at ultra low ebb. So many different people
coming onto the wards, patients and staff and I
haven’t felt a single bone of discrimination, hate or
angst towards any of them at any moment.

My soul feels clean.

Perhaps my symbolic Christmas

crucifixion has cleansed my soul.

All I feel is grateful for the

love and sympathy of the staff and other patients

and also love and sympathy toward them.

I will wear scars on my hands

forever…quite big ones.

But the changes inside I hope will

bring personal transformations.

Everything comes from the inner spirit and

permeates outwards.

I hope that my lonely, contemplative Christmas in

hospital has brought about inner peace and
acceptance and strength so my life in the future
will be positive.

Peace be.

KEZ

xxxx

Final Note:

The guy who was responsible for providing the

Coke initially and scaring me into thinking he was
going to kill me began stalking me in hospital and
since hospital.

He stole the other gram of Coke out of my house.

He has since been lying about the wherabouts of
the drugs and last time I spoke to him, which is the
last time I will ever speak to him he mentioned the
floor near the sofa where the scart lead had been
sitting as possible murder weapon.

I felt a shiver when he mentioned that area and I

don’t think it was an accident. I still believe that
there was terror in the air that night and in a
shared psychotic mix of coke, jealousy and
bitterness, the possibility of murder may well have
been present between us.