Please, somebody, make it stop

Hello readers.

Disclaimer: I can safely assert – before even writing the damn thing – that this is the most self-pitying blog I have ever written.

So. Do you remember me sharing the delightful details of my stint on the bog a few weeks ago? If not, you must surely be desperate to know about it so I shall share it with you again here.

My news is that I am still ill. It has become clear that I have parasites; what is also becoming clear is that western medicine has f*** all idea how to treat them. Over the last two months – becoming incrementally weaker, as these bastards ravage my insides – I’ve been given a wide range of hardcore drugs which have done nothing to relieve me of the parasites but everything to relieve me of a functional digestive system. An alternative practitioner told me via email that taking these drugs is like exploding a bomb in your insides and then refusing to call the emergency services. Nice! Give me more of those! Er, not.

As a result of taking these pointless and evil concoctions I’ve had colitis for two months and yet the parasites are stronger and happier than ever.

It is hard to put into words the hatred I have for parasites right now. Quite apart from daily cramps, a stomach the shape and size of a beachball, persistent er . . . let me euphemise here . . . ‘digestive issues’ and tiredness so overwhelming that I often can’t even roll over in bed, I have basically gone mental.

Picture how you are during PMT attacks, when if someone so much as compliments your shoes you fly into a tearful rage, screaming, “HOW DARE YOU TELL ME I LOOK LIKE A RHINOCEROS IN LABOUR. I HATE YOU AND HOPE YOU DIE VERY SLOWLY AND PAINFULLY.”

Multiply that by several thousand and you have my state of mind. The Man and I took three days off work last week; we galloped off for a little holiday in a cabin on an almost-deserted beach on the Caribbean coast. You would think that I would be the happiest girl alive. The sun was hot, the sand was white, the water transparent and blue. Amazing food and a wonderful boyfriend. Had I pictured this scenario eighteen months ago I’d have laughed in my own face. “That’s impossible!” I’d have yelled. But here it all was. And what did I do on arrival?

I wept. Copiously, for several hours. I holed myself up in our boiling-hot cabin, when one of the world’s most beautiful beaches lay metres away, and I howled. This is quite normal for me at the moment. It’s exhausting and also fairly humiliating. I don’t want to be this mentalist. I don’t want to feel like the world is ending every other day.

I can only imagine what it must be like trying to live with depression. And I really marvel at the power of these bastard parasites to gift me with such insanity.

So after two months of this hell I put an appeal out on FB asking if any of my friends had any experience with treating parasites. I got several emails and the response was unanimous: ditch pharmaceuticals. Go alternative!

So I’ve gone alternative. Which, in fact, is where I’m happiest these days anyway. I handed my health over to alternative medicine about three years ago and in so doing turned my health – no, scrap that, my life –around. Every health problem I’d ever had suddenly made sense and, thanks to various non-pharmaceutical medicines plus diet and lifestyle changes – all under the guidance of my amazing practitioner – all of these problems slowly but surely disappeared. It’s been a blinking miracle I tell you.

People get very angry about alternative medicine. They set up websites and campaigns and petitions to bring alternative practitioners down. They spend hours poring over articles and websites belonging to homeopaths and suchlike and then they dedicate days, weeks, months of their lives to the process of destroying them.

I understand where they’re coming from, of course, because I used to be one of them. A black-and-white thinker who lacked the humility – or indeed intellectual capacity – to consider the possibility of ‘another way.’ But then, like so many other people, I got to a place where western medicine couldn’t do any more for me, and so – grinding my teeth with embarrassment – I booked myself in to see a woman who ended up sorting my entire body out.

I’m not trying to say Western Medicine is cack. If I break my leg you can be sure I will be going to the nearest hospital, rather than checking myself in for a Gong Shower and cayenne pepper scrub – but for a great many health disorders I believe quite firmly that western medicine is a waste of time. In my experience it can neither diagnose nor treat. And worst of all it sneers at those who can.

There’s hundreds of thousands of us turning to alternative medicine these days. Are we all wrong?

Anyway, having heard from a number of people who spent months trawling through NHS and then Harley Street hell – only to have their parasites cured after one visit to some humble lady in a little natural health clinic somewhere – I’ve begun to assimilate information and indeed hope. A wonderful friend is shipping a kit over by international courier and I am receiving all sorts of support and advice. Until I can get home and poo in a pot I won’t know exactly what type of parasite I have (shock horror! Alternative practitioners ACTUALLY use laboratories!) but there are several things I can do on a general level until then.

And one of them, of course, is start eating anti-parasitic foods.

I’m not going to share my diet with you, because it will make you want to vom, but trust me when I tell you it’s hard. Here’s a little taster: I’m eating two raw garlic cloves three times a day. Have you ever tried eating a raw garlic clove? I mean, really eaten one? I ain’t talking sliced and fried, my friend, I mean raw. Well if you haven’t, don’t. Three times a day the peace and calm of our little apartment courtyard is shattered by screams of horror from Lucy Robinson as another clove goes down.

“F***!!!” She screams. “F***! THE MAN, I HATE EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE! MAKE IT STOP!”

It is a marvel to me that he is still sharing a bed with me. I literally stink. Even I can’t bear to smell me.

Remember that stupid starry-eyed blog I wrote about how travelling was changing my life?

I could punch myself for that now. Really, I could. Travelling is for tougher folk than I.

Yours, clearly suffering a massive victim complex,

Lucy PARASITE Robinson.

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