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An HIV diagnosis in 1986 was not my first
brush with the medical profession. Having grown up with a mother
unhelpfully labelled as schizophrenic, I saw first hand the patient as a
toy that psychiatrists could play with. I watched helplessly as my mother
was drugged up to the eyeballs and subjected to ECT as we were told this
would make her better. All I could see was her deterioration. She died in
1979 from liver failure and cancer of the bowel not diagnosed until two
weeks before her death, in my opinion both linked to her many years of
medical treatment. Whilst this was a personal tragedy it has given me an
enormous amount of strength to deal with my own health and a healthy
cynicism towards the men and women in white coats.
When I was diagnosed I was told that I was symptomatic as I had Post
Generalised Lymphadenopathy (PGL), which I accepted but found a little
strange as I had had swollen lymph nodes throughout my life. In an
intuitive fashion I decided that I would not take any long-term medication
and I am proud of the fact that ten years on I have managed to not swallow
one capsule of AZT, which I believe to be a killer.
However, suffering from an upper respiratory chest infection in 1987 and
panicked by a frightened hospital consultant, I was prescribed four weeks
of heavy-duty antibiotics. Every minor illness I had over the ensuing five
years was treated with high doses of antibiotics. This I believe was the
cause of a catalogue of symptoms which were to follow.
First of all I was hit by chronic fatigue in the summer of 1987. I
remember people telling me that everyone gets tired from time to time but
this was unlike anything I had ever experienced. In 1989, at the end of my
tether, I attempted to end my life overwhelmed by the pressure of my
diagnosis. How absurd it felt trying to kill myself because I was afraid
to die.
The periods of fatigue became longer and longer until by 1991 it was
almost a permanent state of affairs. Along with severe constipation, then
diarrhoea, a host of fungal infections, chronic ear infections and night
sweats the symptoms started to pile up leaving me feeling desperate,
frightened and unable to understand what was happening.
My frustration was compounded by doctors telling me that there was nothing
seriously wrong with me and, at worst, I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome, for
which there was no known cure. It was suggested that all my problems were
caused by replicating virus and depression and that I should start
anti-viral treatment and a course of anti-depressants. I did neither. I
now realise that at this point my immune system was starting to fail me.
On August bank holiday 1993 at the Notting Hill Carnival, surrounded by
friends who I suddenly realised could not see what was happening to me, I
came to the realisation that I had to do or die. Too many slushy films had
subconsciously led me to believe that some wonderful human being was going
to come along and make it all better. Perhaps one of those nice men and
women in white coats! Once I really accepted that my health was my responsibility
and that I was bored of being a victim things started to shift.
I had come to the conclusion that most of my problems were caused by an
overload of Candida. I decided that I did not want to live my life half
well and that I would aim high and resolve to rid myself of all the
symptoms that I had. A private dietitian confirmed that I was very ill
with systemic Candida. It was also affecting my brain which I found the
most frightening aspect of all.
I knew in my heart that it had taken me a long time to get in this state
and that it would probably take at least two years to get myself back to
health. Eighteen months down the line this has proved to be true. With a
combination of dietary changes, colon cleansing practices, vitamins and
food supplements I am slowly rebuilding my immune system. Many times I
have cursed the decision to get well as I have experienced severe healing
crises and reached the depths of darkness wondering if I was not making a
big mistake. The path has not been well sign-posted but I have been
inspired by people with other illnesses, not HIV-related, who have managed
to turn their health around and then bothered to write down their
experiences.
Seeing many friends die over the past ten years I have noticed that they
all had severe Candida problems which I am increasingly convinced causes
the fundamental breakdown of the immune system. Candida also, in my
opinion, explains the growing number of so called HIV-related cases of
AIDS. Candia's role in the body is as a decomposing agent when you die.
Activate it before death and you start to rot long before you reach the
cemetary.
I do not have any firm feelings about whether HIV exists or not but I am
firmly convinced that it's not the cause of death. It is difficult
sometimes to hold such an opinion and it is not one that came overnight
but my own experiences don't allow me to draw any other conclusion. I
cannot say an HIV diagnosis is the best thing that ever happened to me. I
would have preferred not to have been an eyewitness to the deaths of so
many beautiful people and perhaps the hardest part of all now is to heal
my heart. I am still angry that medication is prescribed like jelly
babies. Antibiotics have been around for some time now and it is clear
that many people around the world are suffering from their poorly studied
side effects.
I am now involved in setting up the Complementary therapy Information
Group which is a self-help group for people with an HIV diagnosis who use
or are interested in non-toxic therapies. I am convinced that only when
patients get together and demand alternatives and a voice in their
clinics, will this nightmare have a different ending.
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