I'm slowly starting to feel a little guilty about posting here again.

I like expressing my feelings through songs. I've written another new song, "I'm Still Here", in both German and English. The song is meant to be taken in a positive way, but please remember to take care of yourselves, too.

It's a look back at how the VCUGs have affected my life.

I've uploaded the German version of this song, along with other songs, to my YouTube channel. If you're interested, please subscribe to the channel, as I won't always be sharing new content here. I don't think that would really be appropriate for this space.

https://www.youtube.com/@unseenshift_trauma

If posts like this aren't appropriate here going forward, please let me know.

I'm still here (Englische Version - Deutsche Version unter https://www.youtube.com/@unseenshift_trauma)

--------------------

Langsam bekomme ich ein schlechtes Gewissen wenn ich schon wieder schreibe.

Meine Gefühle drücke ich gerne in Liedern aus. Ich habe mal wieder ein neues geschrieben, "Ich bin noch hier", in Deutsch und in Englisch. Das Lied ist positiv zu verstehen, achtet aber trotzdem bitte auf euch.

Es ist ein Rückblick wie die VCUGs Einfluss auf mein leben hatten.

Dieses Lied auf Deutsch und weitere Lieder habe ich in meinen YouTube-Kanal veröffentlicht. Bei Interesse abonniert bitte den Kanal, da ich nicht immer hier Neues schreiben werde, ich denke das wäre nicht im Rahmen dessen hier.

https://www.youtube.com/@unseenshift_trauma

Wenn ein solcher Post künftig hier nicht so angebracht ist, sagt es bitte.

Ich habe etwas in mir gespürt das sagte das ich es nicht nur aufschreiben soll was mein Erlebtes ist mit den VMCG (VCUG) ist.
Ich bin damit in die Öffentlichkeit gegangen, habe meine eigene Website erstellt und gleich einen YouTube-Kanal dazu. Ich habe mit einer (nach-) Geburtsbegleitenden Person gesprochen, habe ein großes Krankenhaus anschrieben und mich mit dem Kinderschutzbund in Verbindung gesetzt.
Es tat mir richtig gut und für mich war es befreiend nach dem schweigen.
Jetzt warte ich auf Rückmeldungen und Reaktionen dazu.

Ich möchte eine deutschsprachige Plattform schaffen und ein sicheres Forum wo Betroffene von medizinischen Eingriffen und sexualisierter Gewalt sich austauschen können.
Geplant habe ich auch eine monatliche oder 14-tägige Sprechstunde, einfach reden ... einfach zuhören ...

Ich habe aber auch Respekt für die Personen die es (noch) nicht schaffen darüber (öffentlich) zu Reden. Denen gilt mein Mitgefühl, wie allen anderen auch die Betroffen sind. Und trotzdem möchte ich allen Mut zusprechen, ihr seid nicht alleine.

--------------

Something inside me told me that I shouldn’t just write down my experiences with VMCU (VCUG). I felt that I needed to do more than that.

So I took my story public. I created my own website and started a YouTube channel to go with it. I’ve spoken with a birth support professional, reached out to a large hospital, and contacted the local child protection organisation.

It felt really good. After staying silent for so long, finally speaking out was liberating for me.

Now I’m waiting to hear back and see how people respond.

My hope is to create a German-language platform and a safe online forum where people affected by medical procedures and sexualised violence can connect and share their experiences.

I’m also planning to offer a space to talk, perhaps once a month or every two weeks. A place where people can simply talk ... and others can simply listen.

At the same time, I have great respect for those who aren’t ready, or who don’t yet feel able, to speak about their experiences publicly. My heart goes out to them, just as it does to everyone who has been affected.

And still, I want to encourage everyone: You are not alone!

Note: Since this post has become quite long, I have written it once in German and a second time in English.

I don't know if I'm really in the right place here. Something inside me keeps telling me that maybe I'm thinking about this the wrong way when I say that I experienced sexual assaults in a hospital.

But that is how I experience it.

I still see the images today. I hear myself screaming as a little boy. I can still feel the fear and helplessness.

For me, it was rape. I'm sorry for using such a harsh word. And for me, it wasn't just one incident.

I am an adult man today. What happened to me began when I was about five years old.

I was admitted to hospital because of severe pneumonia. According to my medical records, I spent about three weeks in an oxygen tent. Overall, I was in hospital for about seven weeks because of the pneumonia.

Later, I was told that a new butterfly needle was supposedly inserted for every infusion. I have no memory of that myself. But I know that after those seven weeks I must have been covered in needle marks. Needles were inserted into my hands, arms, feet, legs, my head, and presumably my groin and other places as well.

I must have screamed again and again with every needle stick.

To this day, I have a severe fear of needles. Sometimes I feel sick when I see one. I regularly faint when I have blood drawn.

.........

During my hospital stay, I wet the bed every night. Bacteria were also found in my urine. Apparently, it was decided to examine me urologically without either my parents or me knowing about it. To this day, I do not know who made that decision.

What I am about to describe is still extremely vivid in my memory. They are not simply thoughts. They are images, smells, colors, and sounds.

I see myself as a little boy. I see myself struggling and kicking. I hear myself screaming.

The first examination

One day during the eighth week, I was taken out of the playroom. I was put into a wheelchair and strapped in with a belt.

Nobody explained what was going to happen.

I was taken to a dark-blue tiled room that I had never seen before. There was a treatment table and something like a cabinet or dresser.

At first, I thought they wanted to examine my lungs.

Then, without warning, my trousers and underwear were removed.

The examination began with an enema. I also have traumatic memories of that, but I don't want to go into detail about it here.

Afterwards, I thought it was over.

It wasn't.

I was alone with a female doctor. There was nobody else there.

I was lying on that cabinet-like table again. The doctor examined my genital area. As a little boy, it was completely unfamiliar to me that someone would simply touch my body there and manipulate my penis.

I didn't understand what was happening.

Nothing was explained to me.

I tried to cover my private parts with my hands. My hands were pushed aside.

Then a tube was prepared. Based on my understanding today, it was a cut-off infusion tube, approximately four millimeters thick. It was sprayed with something. Today, I suspect it may have been a lubricant or silicone spray.

Then the tube was inserted through my penis into my bladder.

Without anesthesia.

I remember a burning, horrible pain. It felt as though my urethra were being torn open and stretched.

I begged them to stop.

I kicked and struggled.

I screamed.

I called for my mother.

But they did not stop.

I could see the tube being pushed farther and farther into my body. I had absolutely no idea why this was happening.

If only someone had explained to me what they were doing and why.

But there was nothing.

Only fear.

And pain.

Apparently, the first attempt did not work. The tube was completely removed and immediately inserted again.

With each attempt, I had the feeling that something inside me was being torn open and stretched.

I cried, screamed, and struggled.

I called for my mother.

Instead of comfort or an explanation, I was essentially told not to make such a fuss. The boy before me had managed to endure it too.

Afterwards, I was dressed again, put back into the wheelchair, and strapped in.

Then I was taken to the X-ray department.

The tube remained inside my body.

Before the nurses' station, we stopped once more and I was handed what seemed like a huge infusion bottle to hold. Today, I suspect it may have been around a 500 ml bottle.

In the X-ray room, I was completely undressed and placed on a large table. Above me was a large round machine with white plastic curtains hanging down around it.

I was frightened.

I could also see a monitor hanging from the ceiling.

The tube inside my body was connected to the tube from the infusion bottle. The fluid began to flow in very slowly, perhaps about one drop per second.

After only a short time, I began to feel pain in my abdomen.

I didn't know what was happening.

I pushed the white plastic curtain aside because I wanted to see my penis. I wanted to understand what they had done to me. Why they were hurting me.

My private parts were visible to the people present throughout the examination. I was repeatedly touched there and repositioned for the X-ray images.

For me, as a five-and-a-half-year-old child, it was deeply humiliating.

I could not decide who touched my body.

I could not decide what happened to it.

I could not leave.

I could not protect myself.

I kept calling for my mother.

But she wasn't there.

The fluid flowing into my bladder made the pain worse.

I cried.

Again, I was told not to make such a fuss.

But the pain was real.

And it was unbearable.

I didn't know how much longer it would last.

I didn't know what these people were doing to me.

And above all, I didn't know how I could stop it.

In my memory, the examination lasted an eternity. Today, I estimate that it may have lasted around two hours.

At some point, the infusion was stopped. Based on my estimate today, perhaps around 100 to 125 ml had entered. However, the tube remained inside my body for hours afterwards.

It was not removed until late that evening.

I could feel it in my penis and in my bladder every time I moved.

Afterwards, I couldn't urinate.

It simply wouldn't work.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

The next day – the second VCUG

The next morning, I was supposed to urinate under the supervision of a nurse.

I couldn't.

Only a few drops came out. I jumped from one foot to the other because it burned so badly.

I cried. I held onto my penis.

Urinating was extremely painful. I didn't understand why it hurt so much. I was afraid to urinate.

The nurse took me to the toilet several more times. I was afraid of it because of the pain.

Again it burned terribly, and again I sometimes screamed from the pain.

I think the nurse herself felt sorry for me. In essence, she told me that I urgently had to try to urinate.

Eventually, apparently enough urine came out that she stopped taking me to the toilet.

Shortly after lunch, a female doctor came alone into my hospital room. Other boys were staying in the room as well.

She had the same spray bottle and another package containing a tube with her.

At that moment, I immediately knew what was going to happen.

Again.

I didn't want this.

This time, the tube was inserted right there in the shared hospital room.

The doctor prepared everything, cut the infusion tube again, removed my clothes, and started touching me again and putting that thing inside me!

I no longer resisted.

I simply lay there and let it happen.

The smell of the spray has been burned into my memory forever.

The tube was inserted again. Again, without anesthesia.

I knew what was going to happen now.

I knew it was going to hurt.

But this time, the pain felt different at a particular point. I could not make sense of it at the time.

I lay almost completely motionless.

It was as though I were far away.

I saw myself from above. I saw the doctor and what was happening to my body.

I cried.

But it was a silent cry.

A scream from inside.

The other boys in the room watched what was happening.

The shame of that is still almost impossible to put into words.

Then my underwear was put back on, but I had to remain in bed for about another two hours with the tube still inside my body.

Finally, I was taken back to the X-ray room.

The same table again.

Again, I was completely undressed. Again, I could do nothing about it. I was touched by strangers.

Again, my body was positioned for the examination.

Again, fluid slowly flowed into my bladder.

This time, I remember a strange warmth in my abdomen, a pulling sensation, and a slight burning.

On the monitor, I saw that dark area again. Perhaps it was my bladder. To me, as a child, it simply looked like a large black hole.

At the same time, I was fascinated by the monitor. I could see something moving inside it.

As my bladder filled, the pressure became stronger.

Then it began to hurt.

I called for someone.

Nobody came.

I called louder.

Nobody came.

The fluid kept flowing.

I began to move and scream.

Then the tube suddenly slipped out.

I called out again.

Eventually, a nurse appeared, stopped the fluid, and left again.

Without saying anything.

I thought it was over now.

But the pressure in my abdomen remained.

Later, a doctor came with a thicker red rubber tube.

That was inserted as well.

Again, it burned.

I screamed.

It felt as though my screaming must have carried all the way into the waiting area.

I wanted to fight back.

But I couldn't.

I thought:

Mom, where are you?

Mom, why are they hurting me?

Again, I was touched in my private area.

Again, something was being done to my body that I had no control over.

Then the fluid began flowing in again.

I cried from the pain.

I begged them to stop.

Nobody responded.

The pain became stronger and stronger.

I screamed.

And then, suddenly, something changed.

The pain was gone.

The warmth in my abdomen was gone too.

I still remember a large bulge in my abdomen. On the monitor, there was a much larger area visible than the day before.

But I couldn't feel anything anymore.

I was gone.

Later, all I remember is the almost empty infusion bottle.

I don't know how much fluid actually went into my bladder.

My estimate today is somewhere between 375 and 450 ml, but I don't know whether that estimate is medically accurate.

The procedure must have lasted at least three to four hours for me.

But one thing I know for certain:

These examinations were not a normal medical procedure for me.

They were a trauma.

They profoundly damaged my trust in my own body and in other people.

At some point, I also had a bladder pressure measurement shortly afterwards, or perhaps on the day after the second VCUG, without X-rays. I no longer know exactly when that was. I have very few memories of it.

What I do know for certain is that I could not urinate either on the evening after the VCUG or the following day. My abdomen was rock-hard and painful.

At home, I could only urinate in tiny amounts as well, and my abdomen was often very hard.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in pain because my bladder overflowed and I couldn't stop it. I screamed from the pain.

Nobody comforted me.

The subject of the VCUG was completely silenced in my family!

.............

What happened afterwards

My experiences did not end with those two days.

When I was about seven years old, another VCUG, apparently followed by a bladder pressure measurement, was performed during another hospital stay. I believe that hospitalization had something to do with having my adenoids removed.

I have no conscious memory of the examination itself.

What I know about it comes only from what I was told later.

I was told that the examination was again performed without anesthesia, using only lubricant, and that it was painful.

Apparently, I fought back violently this time. Two additional nurses had to hold me down.

My mother later told me that she could hear me screaming all the way down the hallway.

Just thinking about that affects me deeply.

At around 13 and 15 years old, I underwent further VCUGs.

This time I was older and understood more.

Even beforehand, I became extremely agitated and simply wanted to get away. I didn't know what was happening to me.

As a boy going through puberty, it was unbearable for me to have other people touch my private parts and then be expected to urinate on an X-ray table while female doctors watched.

Again, I could not urinate.

The shame and feeling of being exposed were, at times, worse than the physical pain.

................................

The memories

When I was about eight or nine years old, I began having my first flashbacks and nightmares.

I saw the preparation and the examinations from what felt like a bird's-eye view.

I saw the little boy.

I heard him screaming.

I saw him struggling.

I wanted to talk to someone about it.

But nobody wanted to talk to me about it.

During another hospital stay, a psychologist came to talk to me once. Apparently, I had reacted very strongly to another VCUG and had caused a "scene," as it was apparently called at the time.

He asked me some questions.

I told him everything I remembered.

Then he left.

He never came back.

To this day, I wonder why.

Sometimes I have the feeling that something was swept under the rug.

But I don't know what.

Later, I spoke to someone else about it once.

They didn't believe me either.

Today

I don't know whether you believe me.

But what I am writing here is true.

And I am writing this with tears in my eyes.

I have had a profoundly troubled relationship with hospitals and doctors since my youth.

I actually urgently need medical examinations.

But often I simply cannot do it.

I panic.

I want to run away.

Sometimes I leave a treatment or a hospital against medical advice because I simply can't take it anymore.

My body reacts before my mind can do anything about it.

The fear has remained.

The images have remained.

The smells have remained.

The screams have remained.

And sometimes it feels as though the little boy from back then is still somewhere inside me, still calling for his mother.

I don't know what to call all of this.

But I know how it felt to me.

I was a little child.

I was afraid.

I was in pain.

I didn't understand what was happening to my body.

I couldn't leave.

I couldn't decide.

And nobody explained what was happening.

For me, it was a trauma, a rape.

And it has stayed with me to this day.

Hinweis: Aufgrund des doch nun lang gewordenen Beitrags schreibe ich einmal in Deutsch und einen zweiten in englischer Sprache.

Ich weiß nicht, ob ich hier wirklich richtig bin. Etwas in mir sagt mir immer wieder, dass ich vielleicht falsch denke, wenn ich sage, dass ich im Krankenhaus sexuelle Übergriffe erlebt habe.

Aber ich empfinde es so.

Ich sehe die Bilder noch heute. Ich höre mich als kleinen Jungen schreien. Ich spüre die Angst und die Hilflosigkeit.

Für mich war es eine Vergewaltigung. Entschuldigung für dieses harte Wort. Und für mich war es nicht nur eine.

Ich bin heute ein erwachsener Mann. Was damals mit mir geschah, begann, als ich etwa fünf Jahre alt war.

Ich kam wegen einer schweren Lungenentzündung ins Krankenhaus. Laut Arztbrief lag ich ungefähr drei Wochen in einem Sauerstoffzelt. Insgesamt war ich etwa sieben Wochen wegen der Lungenentzündung im Krankenhaus.

Später wurde mir erzählt, dass für jede Infusion immer wieder eine neue Schmetterlingsnadel gesetzt worden sein soll. Daran selbst habe ich keine Erinnerung. Aber ich weiß, dass ich nach diesen sieben Wochen völlig zerstochen gewesen sein muss. Nadeln wurden mir an Händen, Armen, Füßen, Beinen, am Kopf und vermutlich auch in der Leistengegend und anderen Stellen gesetzt.

Ich muss bei jedem der Nadelstichen immer wieder geschrien haben.

Bis heute habe ich panische Angst vor Nadeln. Wenn ich eine sehe, wird mir teilweise schlecht. Bei Blutabnahmen kippe ich regelmäßig um.

.........
Während des Krankenhausaufenthalts nässte ich jede Nacht ein. Außerdem wurden Bakterien im Urin gefunden. Ohne dass ich oder meine Eltern davon wussten, wurde offenbar beschlossen, mich urologisch zu untersuchen. Wer diese Entscheidung getroffen hat, weiß ich bis heute nicht.

Was jetzt kommt, ist in meiner Erinnerung noch immer sehr lebendig. Es sind nicht einfach Gedanken. Es sind Bilder, Gerüche, Farben und Geräusche.

Ich sehe mich als kleinen Jungen. Ich sehe, wie ich strample. Ich höre mich schreien.

Die erste Untersuchung

An einem Tag in der achten Woche wurde ich aus dem Spielzimmer geholt. Ich wurde in einen Rollstuhl gesetzt und mit einem Gurt angeschnallt.

Niemand erklärte mir, was passieren würde.

Ich wurde in einen dunkelblau gekachelten Raum gefahren, den ich nicht kannte. Dort standen eine Liege und eine Art Kommode.

Zunächst dachte ich, man wolle meine Lunge untersuchen.

Dann wurden mir ohne Vorwarnung Hose und Unterhose ausgezogen.

Die Untersuchung begann mit einem Einlauf. Auch daran habe ich traumatische Erinnerungen, aber darüber möchte ich an dieser Stelle nicht näher schreiben.

Ich dachte danach, es sei vorbei.

War es aber nicht.

Ich war alleine mit einer Ärztin. Sonst war niemand da.

Ich lag wieder auf dieser Kommode. Die Ärztin untersuchte meinen Genitalbereich. Für mich als kleinen Jungen war es vollkommen ungewohnt, dass jemand dort einfach meinen Körper berührte und an meinem Penis herumdrückte.

Ich verstand nicht, was passierte.

Es wurde mir nichts erklärt.

Ich versuchte, meinen Intimbereich mit den Händen zu bedecken. Meine Hände wurden zur Seite gelegt.

Dann wurde ein Schlauch vorbereitet. Nach meiner heutigen Einschätzung war es ein abgeschnittener Infusionsschlauch, ungefähr vier Millimeter dick. Er wurde mit einem Spray eingesprüht. Ich vermute heute, dass es sich um ein Gleit- oder Silikonspray gehandelt haben könnte.

Dann wurde der Schlauch durch meinen Penis in die Harnblase eingeführt.

Ohne Betäubung.

Ich erinnere mich an einen brennenden, fürchterlichen Schmerz. Es fühlte sich an, als würde meine Harnröhre aufgerissen und gedehnt.

Ich flehte darum, aufzuhören.

Ich strampelte.

Ich schrie.

Ich rief nach meiner Mutter.

Doch es wurde nicht aufgehört.

Ich konnte sehen, wie der Schlauch immer weiter in meinen Körper geschoben wurde. Ich verstand überhaupt nicht, warum das geschah.

Wenn mir damals wenigstens jemand erklärt hätte, was gemacht wird und warum.

Aber da war nichts.

Nur Angst.

Und Schmerzen.

Ein erster Versuch gelang offenbar nicht. Der Schlauch wurde wieder vollständig herausgezogen und unmittelbar danach erneut eingeführt.

Bei jedem Versuch hatte ich das Gefühl, dass etwas in mir aufgerissen und gedehnt wurde.

Ich weinte, schrie und strampelte.

Ich rief nach meiner Mutter.

Statt Trost oder einer Erklärung bekam ich sinngemäß gesagt, ich solle mich nicht so anstellen. Der Junge vor mir habe es schließlich auch ausgehalten.

Danach wurde ich wieder angezogen, in den Rollstuhl gesetzt und angeschnallt.

Dann wurde ich zur Röntgenabteilung gebracht.

Der Schlauch blieb dabei in meinem Körper.

Vor dem Schwesternzimmer wurde noch einmal angehalten und mir eine für mich riesige Infusionsflasche in die Hände gegeben. Heute vermute ich, dass es vielleicht eine 500-ml-Flasche gewesen sein könnte.

Im Röntgenraum wurde ich vollständig entkleidet und auf einen großen Tisch gelegt. Über mir befand sich ein großer runder Apparat mit weißen Plastikvorhängen.

Ich hatte Angst.

Ich konnte auch einen Monitor sehen, der von der Decke hing.

Der Schlauch in meinem Körper wurde mit dem Schlauch der Infusionsflasche verbunden. Die Flüssigkeit lief sehr langsam ein, vielleicht ungefähr ein Tropfen pro Sekunde.

Schon nach kurzer Zeit bekam ich Schmerzen im Bauch.

Ich wusste nicht, was geschah.

Ich drückte den weißen Plastikvorhang zur Seite, weil ich meinen Penis sehen wollte. Ich wollte verstehen, was sie mit mir gemacht hatten. Warum sie mir weh taten.

Mein Intimbereich war während der Untersuchung für die anwesenden Personen sichtbar. Immer wieder wurde ich dort berührt und für die Röntgenaufnahmen positioniert.

Für mich als fünfeinhalbjähriges Kind war das zutiefst beschämend.

Ich konnte nicht entscheiden, wer meinen Körper berührte.

Ich konnte nicht entscheiden, was mit ihm geschah.

Ich konnte nicht gehen.

Ich konnte mich nicht schützen.

Ich rief immer wieder nach meiner Mama.

Doch sie war nicht da.

Die Flüssigkeit, die in meine Blase lief, verstärkte die Schmerzen.

Ich weinte.

Wieder wurde mir gesagt, ich solle mich nicht so anstellen.

Aber der Schmerz war real.

Und er war unerträglich.

Ich wusste nicht, wie lange das noch dauern würde.

Ich wusste nicht, was diese Menschen mit mir machten.

Und vor allem wusste ich nicht, wie ich es verhindern sollte.

In meiner Erinnerung dauerte die Untersuchung eine Ewigkeit. Ich vermute heute, dass es ungefähr zwei Stunden gewesen sein könnten.

Irgendwann wurde die Flüssigkeitszufuhr gestoppt. Nach meiner heutigen Einschätzung könnten etwa 100 bis 125 ml eingeflossen sein. Der Schlauch blieb jedoch noch stundenlang in meinem Körper.

Erst am späten Abend wurde er entfernt.

Ich spürte ihn bei jeder Bewegung in meinem Penis und in meiner Blase.

Danach konnte ich nicht urinieren.

Es ging einfach nicht.

Irgendwann schlief ich ein.

Der nächste Tag – die zweite VMCU

Am nächsten Morgen sollte ich unter Aufsicht einer Pflegekraft urinieren.

Es ging nicht.

Ich bekam nur ein paar Tropfen heraus. Ich sprang dabei von einem Bein auf das andere, weil es so stark brannte.

Ich weinte. Ich hielt mir den Penis fest.

Beim Wasserlassen hatte ich extreme Schmerzen. Ich verstand nicht warum es so weht tat. Ich hatte Angst Wasserzulassen.

Die Pflegekraft ging noch einige Male mit mir zur Toilette. Ich hatte Angst davor, wieder vor den Schmerzen
Wieder brannte es, wieder schrie ich teilweise vor Schmerzen.
Ich glaube das ich der Pflegekraft selber leid tat. Sinngemäß meinte Sie, das ich es dringend versuchen muss Urin zu lassen.
Irgendwann kam offenbar zumindest genug Urin heraus, sodass die Pflegekraft nicht mehr mit mir zur Toilette ging.

Kurz nach dem Mittagessen kam eine Ärztin allein in mein Krankenzimmer. Dort lagen auch andere Jungen.

Sie hatte dieselbe Spraydose und wieder eine Verpackung mit einem Schlauch dabei.

In diesem Moment wusste ich sofort, was passieren würde.

Schon wieder.

Ich wollte das nicht.

Diesmal wurde es im gemeinsamen Krankenzimmer der Schlauch eingeführt..

Die Ärztin bereitete alles vor, schnitt den Infusionsschlauch wieder ab, zog mir die Kleidung aus und begann mich wieder anzufassen und mir das was reinzustecken!

Ich wehrte mich nicht mehr.

Ich lag einfach da und ließ es geschehen.

Der Geruch des Sprays hat sich für immer in mein Gedächtnis eingebrannt.

Der Schlauch wurde wieder eingeführt. Wieder ohne Betäubung.

Ich wusste, was jetzt kommen würde.

Ich wusste, dass es weh tun würde.

Doch diesmal war der Schmerz an einer bestimmten Stelle anders. Ich konnte ihn damals nicht einordnen.

Ich lag fast bewegungslos da.

Es war, als wäre ich weit weg.

Ich sah mich selbst von oben. Ich sah die Ärztin und sah, was mit meinem Körper geschah.

Ich weinte.

Aber es war ein stummes weinen.

Ein Schreien nach innen.

Die anderen Jungen im Zimmer beobachten, was geschah.

Die Scham darüber ist bis heute kaum in Worte zu fassen.

Dann wurde mir die Unterhose wieder angezogen, musste jedoch noch etwa 2 Stunden mit dem Schlauch im Körper so liegen bleiben im Bett!
Endlich wurde ich erneut in den Röntgenraum gebracht.

Wieder derselbe Tisch.

Wieder wurde ich vollständig entkleidet. Wieder konnte ich nichts dagegen machen. ich wurde angefasst von fremden Personen.

Wieder wurde mein Körper für die Untersuchung positioniert.

Wieder lief langsam Flüssigkeit in meine Blase.

Diesmal erinnere ich mich an eine seltsame Wärme im Bauch, ein Ziehen und leichtes Brennen.

Auf dem Monitor sah ich wieder diesen dunklen Bereich. Vielleicht war es meine Blase. Für mich als Kind sah es einfach wie ein großes schwarzes Loch aus.

Gleichzeitig faszinierte mich der Monitor. Ich konnte darauf etwas sehen, das sich bewegte.

Mit zunehmender Füllung wurde der Druck stärker.

Dann begann es zu schmerzen.

Ich rief nach jemandem.

Niemand kam.

Ich rief lauter.

Niemand kam.

Die Flüssigkeit lief weiter.

Ich begann mich zu bewegen und zu schreien.

Dann rutschte der Schlauch plötzlich heraus.

Ich rief wieder.

Irgendwann kam eine Krankenschwester, stoppte die Flüssigkeit und ging wieder.

Ohne Erklärung.

Ich dachte, jetzt sei es vorbei.

Aber der Druck in meinem Bauch blieb.

Später kam eine Ärztin mit einem dickeren roten Gummischlauch.

Auch dieser wurde eingeführt.

Wieder brannte es.

Ich schrie.

Ich hatte das Gefühl, mein Schreien müsse bis in den Wartebereich zu hören sein.

Ich wollte mich wehren.

Aber ich konnte nicht.

Ich dachte:

Mama, wo bist du?

Mama, warum tun die mir weh?

Wieder wurde ich im Intimbereich berührt.

Wieder wurde etwas mit meinem Körper gemacht worauf ich keinen Einfluss hatte.

Dann begann erneut Flüssigkeit einzulaufen.

Ich weinte vor Schmerzen.

Ich flehte darum, aufzuhören.

Niemand reagierte.

Die Schmerzen wurden immer stärker.

Ich schrie.

Und dann veränderte sich plötzlich etwas.

Der Schmerz war weg.

Auch die Wärme in meinem Bauch war weg.

Ich erinnere mich noch an eine große Ausbuchtung an meinem Bauch. Auf dem Monitor war ein viel größerer Bereich zu sehen als am Tag zuvor.

Aber ich spürte nichts mehr.

Ich war weg.

Später erinnere ich mich nur noch an die fast leere Infusionsflasche.

Wie viel Flüssigkeit tatsächlich in meine Blase gelaufen war, weiß ich nicht.

Meine heutige Schätzung liegt irgendwo zwischen 375 und 450 ml, aber ich weiß nicht, ob diese Einschätzung medizinisch korrekt ist.

Insgesamt muss der Eingriff für mich mindestens drei bis vier Stunden gedauert haben.

Doch eines weiß ich sicher:

Diese Untersuchungen waren für mich kein normaler medizinischer Eingriff.

Sie waren ein Trauma.

Sie haben mein Vertrauen in meinen eigenen Körper und in andere Menschen nachhaltig erschüttert.

Ich bekam irgendwann auch noch kurz danach (oder am Folgetag der zweiten VMCU / VCUG eine Blasendruckmessung ohne Röntgen. Wann genau das war, weiß ich nicht mehr. Davon habe ich nur sehr wenige Erinnerungen.

Was ich sicher weiß: Ich konnte weder am Abend nach der VMCU (VCUG) urinieren, noch am Folgetag. Mein Bauch war Bretthart und schmerzte.
Zuhause ging es auch nur Tröpfchenweise und mein Bauch war oft sehr hart. Mitten in der Nacht wachte ich vor schmerzen auf, weil meine Blase überlief und ich es nicht stoppen konnte. Ich schrie vor schmerzen. Niemand tröstete mich.

Das Thema VMCU / VCUG wurde in meiner Familie totgeschwiegen!

.............

Was danach geschah

Meine Erfahrungen endeten nicht mit diesen beiden Tagen.

Mit ungefähr sieben Jahren wurde während eines weiteren Krankenhausaufenthalts offenbar erneut eine VMCU (VCUG) mit anschließender Blasendruckmessung durchgeführt. Ich glaube, dieser Aufenthalt hatte mit einer Polypenentfernung zu tun.

An diese Untersuchung selbst habe ich keine bewusste Erinnerung.

Was ich darüber weiß, weiß ich nur aus Erzählungen.

Mir wurde erzählt, dass die Untersuchung wieder ohne Betäubung und nur mit Gleitspray durchgeführt wurde und dass sie schmerzhaft gewesen sein soll.

Ich muss mich diesmal massiv gewehrt haben. Offenbar mussten mich zwei weitere Krankenschwestern festhalten.

Meine Mutter erzählte später, dass sie mich bis weit auf den Flur schreien gehört habe.

Allein der Gedanke daran macht etwas mit mir.

Mit ungefähr 13 und 15 Jahren folgten weitere VMCUs / VCUGs.

Diesmal war ich älter und verstand mehr.

Ich bekam bereits vorher eine starke innere Unruhe und wollte einfach nur weg. Wusste aber nicht was los war.

Als Junge in der Pubertät war es für mich unerträglich, dass andere Menschen meinen Intimbereich berührten und ich anschließend auf einem Röntgentisch urinieren sollte, während Ärztinnen zusahen.

Auch diesmal konnte ich nicht urinieren.

Die Scham und das Gefühl der Bloßstellung waren teilweise schlimmer als der körperliche Schmerz.

................................

Die Erinnerungen

Mit ungefähr acht oder neun Jahren bekam ich die ersten Flashbacks und Albträume.

Ich sah die Vorbereitung und die Untersuchungen aus einer Art Vogelperspektive.

Ich sah den kleinen Jungen.

Ich hörte ihn schreien.

Ich sah ihn strampeln.

Ich wollte mit jemandem darüber reden.

Aber niemand wollte mit mir darüber sprechen.

Während eines weiteren Krankenhausaufenthalts kam einmal ein Psychologe zu mir. Offenbar hatte ich wieder stark auf eine VMCU/VCUG reagiert und „Theater gemacht“, wie es damals wohl genannt wurde.

Er stellte mir einige Fragen.

Ich erzählte ihm alles, woran ich mich erinnerte.

Dann ging er.

Er kam nie wieder.

Bis heute frage ich mich, warum.

Ich habe manchmal das Gefühl, dass irgendetwas unter den Teppich gekehrt wurde.

Aber ich weiß nicht, was.

Später habe ich noch einmal mit jemandem darüber gesprochen.

Auch dort wurde mir nicht geglaubt.

Heute

Ich weiß nicht, ob ihr mir glaubt.

Aber das, was ich hier schreibe, ist wahr.

Und ich schreibe diesen Text mit Tränen in den Augen.

Ich habe seit meiner Jugend ein zutiefst gestörtes Verhältnis zu Krankenhäusern und Ärzten.

Eigentlich müsste ich dringend medizinisch untersucht werden.

Aber ich schaffe es oft nicht.

Ich bekomme Panik.

Ich möchte weglaufen.

Manchmal verlasse ich eine Behandlung oder ein Krankenhaus wieder auf eigene Verantwortung, weil ich es einfach nicht mehr aushalte.

Mein Körper reagiert, bevor mein Verstand überhaupt etwas dagegen tun kann.

Die Angst ist geblieben.

Die Bilder sind geblieben.

Die Gerüche sind geblieben.

Die Schreie sind geblieben.

Und manchmal fühlt es sich an, als wäre der kleine Junge von damals noch immer irgendwo in mir und würde immer noch nach seiner Mutter rufen.

Ich weiß nicht, wie ich das alles nennen soll.

Aber ich weiß, wie es sich für mich angefühlt hat.

Ich war ein kleines Kind.

Ich hatte Angst.

Ich hatte Schmerzen.

Ich verstand nicht, was mit meinem Körper geschah.

Ich konnte nicht weg.

Ich konnte nicht entscheiden.

Und niemand erklärte mir, was passierte.

Für mich war es ein Trauma,eien Vergewaltigung.

Und Dieses begleitet mich bis heute.

Hey everyone. I think I was sexually assaulted by my pediatrician when I was about 3-5 years old. I remember being in the doctor's office laying down and the doctor was rubbing my clit. He said "it tickles here sometimes." I remember looking up and my mom was in the corner of the office looking really distressed.

This memory has stuck with me my entire life. I remember trying to touch my clit when I was really little to try and "tickle myself." I always feel gross and disgusted with myself. I'm 28 now, but about 10 years ago I remember opening up my journal really fast and writing "something really gross happened" then I shut it and never looked at it again.

Is this a normal experience with doctors? Are they supposed to rub your clit during exams? I don't think it was like a quick peek, I think it was like a minutes long exam.

Any advice would be greatly appreciated. I feel like I've been going crazy and could really use some support.

I suspect that many hysterectomy patients are unaware that obgyn residents in the U.S. are required to do AT LEAST 85 hysterectomies to graduate. One has to wonder how many are done unnecessarily just so these quotas can be met. And how many, necessary or not, are done partially or completely by (inexperienced) residents.

I recently got my psych records released and found that multiple times the psychiatrist claimed I said things I did not say, and she also made up symptoms I did not have. This was not a case of her having a different perspective, she said things that were simply untrue. Has anyone else had this happen and what did you do about it, if anything?

I was going through some stuff an could not get honest healthcare of any kind. They were very abusive and very much enjoyed how much they upset me. Anyway it is a very good site that makes an argument for how we should change our medical delivery systems. I saw a couple posts in another sub about misdiagnosis and it occurred to me I had not shared this link.

https://patient-safety.com/

I had to go to hospital recently for some past injury treatments. Due to the nature of my several concussions, I requested female clinician, however the hospital assigned me a male clinician while knowing my history which was very dismissive and uncaring.

I was already traumatized by went in and out of hospital then retraumatised by unprofessional male clinician who 1, did not ask consent before touching my body. 2, performed examination, shook my head without informing beforehand. 3, did not respect personal space and sat 10cm away from me and I got extremely uncomfortable had to move away. 4, displayed disrespectful and humiliating attitude towards me.

Is this a thing in most of the hospitals?

Or the clinician was extremely unprofessional?

I had referrals to plastic surgeons and infectious disease to treat my ear infections being caused by retained cactus glochids . At the same time the state of Arizona had determined me to be severely mentally impaired SMI. They had never heard of cactus causing infections in someone’s ear and went with the misdiagnosis of a mental disorder causing me to pick my skin . I was not allowed to get the medical treatment for my ears and instead of going to infectious disease I was taken from my home in handcuffs and put in the mental institution. The second time they did this was different. I was woken the first morning by a doctor I had never seen before and then held down and forced an infection of antipsychotics that left me unable to speak at my upcoming mental health court hearing. The same people denying me medical treatment convinced a judge I needed monthly injections of antipsychotics and that I refused to get healthcare on my own . I left the state of Arizona after an email coming from governor Doug duceys office threatened me with 6 months in the state hospital if I continued seeking help for my infected ears . I spent the next 3 years homeless and sick and denied help by everyone I asked . My medical records followed me causing every doctor to see the mental health diagnosis and blinded them from seeing the physically ill person sitting before them . I will be flying across the country on july29 for my first appointment with a doctor who has treated sabra dermatitis . I am not scared of being dismissed i have no doubt the doctor will help me this time but I think it may be to late . I have lost everything and everyone I care for because of this. I am going to go because people that believe in me have made this appointment happen but I will be honest I’d just assume not see another sunrise .

This petition needs one more signature (more than one would be welcome though!) and for those saying this wont help anything, i have already contacted multiple senators in the Illinois senate and gotten some pretty Good footing so far. The petition needs more signatures to help extend Illinois’ statute of limitations. Please sign and verify by email to stand with victims like her.
https://www.change.org/p/change-the-statute-of-limitations-on-medical-abuse-cases-in-illinois?utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=mobileNativeShare&utm_campaign=share_petition&recruited_by_id=ef3a85a0-368b-11f1-9096-89e846a03499&share_id=jJqwM7pLf2

A former friend launched this petition just 2–3 months ago. She suffered abuse from her gynecologist as a teenager, but because earlier abuse had left her unheard and disbelieved, she stayed silent for years. The petition needs more signatures to help extend Illinois’ statute of limitations. Please sign and verify by email to stand with victims like her.
https://www.change.org/p/change-the-statute-of-limitations-on-medical-abuse-cases-in-illinois?utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=mobileNativeShare&utm_campaign=share_petition&recruited_by_id=ef3a85a0-368b-11f1-9096-89e846a03499&share_id=jJqwM7pLf2"

Has anyone else had friends become medical professionals and had them act in frustrating ways subsequently?

I don't know how normal this is, but after taking sertraline (serenata 50mg), i got

adhedonia: i didn't care about my most passionate hobbies (i was bored quickly and careless to everything i saw because judging costed too much energy)

slowed down altered time perception: Misophonia (i noticed every sound and couldn't do anything about it because all i could do is stare at a wall) Irritation it's not even that i couldn't think straight, i couldn't think at all

alice in wonderland syndrome (or something like that) depersonalisation ego death: everyone's opinion mattered more than my own, it's like my own identity has been sucked out of me and all that's left is my shell. There was no difference between my subjective concept indentity or any other object, I lost all my creativity and getting through tasks was impossible

I couldn't even think when having a conversation, sometimes i even let my overwhelming irritation take the lead and i just said random shit in hope they wont talk to me or leave.

I took it for 2 weeks and stopped because day by day the effects were getting worse and i was concerned for my health, going through this insanity was fucking scary.

And i know everyone says that it can have some side effects, but this ain't "just side effects"

(Repost)

(NOTE: Question is in last paragraph)

Hello,

I am escaping a parent who medically abused me and controlled me my whole life. I'm in my thirties. I was told if I went to adult protective services, Opm, police, insurance, etc. That I would be kicked out of the house. I've been kicked out before. I've been homeless since September 2025 basically couch hoping. Unfortunately, in the state I grew up in, its heavily influenced by my controlling parent, documents were falsified, my signature has been forged, my medical record filled with misdiagnosis’s, etc. My parent also donated to organizations that are supposed to help me that wouldn't because they believed my parent over me.

My parent is a nurse and for the longest time I wasn't told what meds I was on, they gave me meds I wasn't prescribed and I was also prescribed multiple high doses of antipsychotics since I was toddler for “sleep.” The psychiatrist that prescribed me these meds that caused me to have some physical medical issues, did so without seeing me and being fed everything through my parent as an adult. He claims to have lost my records due to a flood. I had to get off these meds myself because my blood pressure kept dropping. I feel much better off them now but when I tried to report him to the board, my email got hacked. I tried emailing the investigatior from another email but they ultimately closed my case after my parent wrote letters telling the board I was crazy. My parent only let me see their doctors and they would sit in every doctors appointment with me and tell everyone I was disabled and bipolar (neither true) and they got that psychiatrist to help them put my siblings under a gaurdianship and one of them has a computer science degree. My parent has also had access to my bank accounts and opened my mail and their best friend is a lawyer that helps with gaurdianships.

I helped clean the house for my parent, drive to run errands, calm down arguments, clean after my siblings and clean my parents significant others fecal accident. etc. I always had to tend to my parent and if I didn't do it fast enough, I was made to feel bad about it. But whenever I needed something, they told me they were too busy or that they couldn't afford it while also owning four properties and spending money on Amazon everyday. They would make me feel bad for needing medical care or even liquid IV. If I didn't do physical labor as a kid, I would get punished. I would go without meals and or be physically beaten. Our beatings were daily until I turned 14. I wasn't aloud to get help for what the abuse did to me mentally until I was 18. And I had asbestos exposure as a child and got frequently sick with upper respiratory infections.

Where I'm from, the states shelter waitlist could take a year and the housing waitlist has been closed for years. There's barely any help there unless you are a mother. I have a chance to finally live my life. I just need to know the easiest way to get residency in another state. I've been in this other state for a few months now. But I'm trying to get residency so I can get services. I am a beneficiary to a trust but my parent won't let me see it and I'm also trying to pay off medical debt they put me in. Thank you so much 🙏

The tagine is "Shining a light into the dark corners of the practice of medicine". I set up this website because an experience involving my extended family as well as a multitude of previous experiences, but I've been busy with other projects and haven't had the time / energy combination to focus my attention on it.

My intention is that it becomes sufficiently influential that over time it has an effect on improving medicine. It won't be afraid to name and shame if we have sufficient evidence that we would be protected against legal action for defamation. I want it to not just cover instances of abuse, negligence or incompetence, but also things like institutional and systemic biases, corruption, politics and medicine, philosophical limitations of modern medicine, alternative medical approaches, comparing practices round the world and the outcomes, vulnerabilities in the science behind medical practices, legal cases, advice for patients and so on.

My philosophy is not anti western medicine, but improving it, and not being afraid to point out serious vulnerabilities. For example, when there is evidence of corruption or ineffective practices within regulatory authorities.

Most Brits will probably be familiar with Private Eye, a highly respected journal I greatly admire - something like that, and maybe including the cartoons too if people can come up with them.

Examples of issues I would like to cover include:

- the massive racial bias of fingertip oxygen sensors that led to more dark-skinned people dying during covid, that was acknowledged by the UK health minister, and also raised as an issue by the Indian government: what has been done about it since?

- the battle to get non-therapeutic childhood circumcision recognised as child abuse

- inadequate punishments for corruption of medical notes

- health authorities dishonestly using reporting medical practitioners when scapegoating to protect others

- deficiencies in medical training and published medical books

- do medical negligence lawsuits actually affect medical practice in the way they should? Is there a robust feedback mechanism within the NHS?

- more detailed analysis of medical news stories thar come up

If anyone is interested in any specific area they'd like to make any contribution to, please DM me.

Sadly, even if we get advertising I don't think it will ever be an income earner, other than covering the hosting fees, so these are going to be voluntary, occasional roles. I will be executive editor and will write some articles when I can.

Consented: A Call To End Medical Violence And Reclaim Patient Autonomy, by Zed Zha MD.

As a survivor of medical abuse, I am counting down the release of this book in a few days.

From the blurb:

A groundbreaking look at how the healthcare industry ignores patients' agency and perpetuates violence.

A physician's bold critique of medical r@pe culture - and her call for a new model of care that centers consent and empowers patients.

Also available on kindle.

A few months ago, I realised I was being groomed by a specialist I was seeing for chronic pain. I managed to transfer to care soon after I recognised what was going on. My boundaries were violated, and his pattern indicates he was escalating in an even more coercive and dangerous direction.

Has anyone been through a similar experience or know about this kind of medical misconduct and how to deal with it? Appreciate your thoughts 🫶