Wednesday, 1 November 2017


On Friday, at the insistence of my GP, I'll be going to meet a new psychologist. I've told her time and time again that I don't want to see anybody. After cycling through so many different mental health professionals for over half of my life, I don't believe they can help me, and at this point, I just don't want to talk anymore. No one's ever managed to improve my mental health at all. It's just been a steady decline over the years.

As much as I don't want to, I'm not being given much of a choice. My GP can't continue to see me without psychological support, which is fair enough. Just like when I started seeing my dietician, I had to find a GP to cover the medical side of things.

But at this point, I just don't want to talk.

I've had a hard time trying to work myself up to posting about the past few weeks. Even things as usual as my appointments, I haven't been able to find words for. There have been some rough times, and at the moment, all I do is medicate, drink, exercise, and sleep.

When I saw my GP a couple of weeks ago, she told me she'd be making an appointment with this new psychologist and would text me the details. She's forewarned me about it for the last couple of appointments, so I knew it was coming. She'll walk me there and be present for the first few appointments. It's just a few blocks down the street, about halfway between my house and my GP and dietician's offices.

It was our third or fourth appointment where she's walked me to and from for appointments with herself and my dietician. Usually we weave through the back lanes to avoid the busyness of the main streets. This time, she took me along the main streets, which was loud and stressful. On the way back, she agreed to go back to using the lanes.

She asked me which would be less stressful if I was walking alone, but I still don't know. The solitude of the lanes makes it easier, but by the same token, makes me anxious because I worry I would be an easy target and no one would be able to see if something happened.

As always, it was really good to see the dietician. I miss our weekly appointments so much, as I now only see her every month or so due to the transport issue.

At the moment, her focus is to try to reduce the calories I drink in alcohol and replace them with food, so I'll be getting actual nutrients. But if I cut back on drinking, I'll take the weight loss over more food any day. I've had four or five days off drinking in the last two weeks, and without alcohol, my intakes were between 400-700.

She also wants me to try to at least have one supplement each day. Whenever I consider it, my first thought is always "I could have this, or five vodkas". I did try for about a week and a half. Some days I was even having two. On sober days, it was tolerable, but when I eat, drink, and have a supplement, it freaks me out. After my weight started creeping up, I cut them back this week, and have only been having them every other day (which is still a lot). 

I spoke with both her and my GP about how to cut back on the drinking. To my credit, I am now having a day or two off each week, and try to keep my drinks around 6-8, instead of struggling to stay under 10. All that really helps is medicating excessively or smoking (and it's been a few months since I last smoked). Both agreed that neither is an ideal replacement. But basically all of my sober days in recent weeks have been because I've knocked myself out with extra meds around the time I would usually start drinking.

For now, I'm just going to try to relax and ignore the fact that in 48 hours I'm going to be sitting down with yet another stranger. I didn't drink yesterday, so tonight I'm going to have my Halloween movie marathon, then try not to drink tomorrow to make sure I'm not hungover for the psych appointment. This time, I think I'm going to ask my GP to give me a copy of the mysterious letters she always hands to new psychs (one of which is from my first psychiatrist at age 12 who I never really talked with, and I'm really curious to see what he said that was so very important).

Wish me luck.


Friday, 6 October 2017

This House is Haunted. Not by Ghosts, but Memories.

Two weeks ago, I spent the first night in my bedroom for years.

It mightn't sound like much, but it's a big step for me. After an abusive relationship as a teenager, I stopped sleeping in there. I would spend my nights on the couch, viewing my bedroom as little more than a crime scene. Despite getting a new bed and replacing furniture shortly after, it doesn't change the room and the memories the walls contain.

I did sleep in there for a while, when my ex moved in. But when we broke up, it didn't take long for me to land back on the couch.

It's been difficult. The first night had me so on edge, I drank 500ml of vodka, plus a few glasses of wine. I still have to have had a few drinks, and/or a few extra oxazepam, to be in there, and I have to keep myself distracted. There is constantly something playing on the TV, and I try to forget where I am.

As hard as it is, it's nice to have somewhere to hide away again. If I can isolate and get away, maybe the threats to kick me out will lessen. One of the conditions of being allowed to come home after my last hospital trip was that I stop sleeping on the couch. If I can spend more time in there, you wouldn't even know I'm here.

It took a few weeks to try to get everything organised. On days I had the energy, I'd spend a few hours a day shuffling furniture, cleaning from ceiling to floor, moving boxes to and from the study, unpacking and sorting, organising my clothes, putting up hooks for belts and bags and coats, and just trying to find places for everything. I even got a new cheap table to give me more display space.

It still hasn't changed the room or the memories, but in a way, it's helped.

Misty is loving it. She stays at the foot of the bed all day. Billy is getting older, and can't jump up on the bed any more, or even jump down, but he will wake me up to get a hand.

One bonus is that, being able to isolate myself, it makes it easier to avoid dinner. Even though I cook my own safe dinners 99% of the time, and rarely join in on family meals, I can just forget about routine and meal times, just like when I'm home alone.

I have also been working on the study, mostly just stacking boxes until I can get the storage furniture I need, but hopefully my little sewing room will be completed in not too long.

I've also been trying to get some actual sewing done, although it's difficult with my machines currently inaccessible. I've been working on repairing a couple of corsets – one that I wore daily for a long time, and the last one I made before I took a long hiatus some 7 years ago but didn't get the chance to wear much before I misplaced it for a long time. It's all by hand – replacing grommets and the bias binding – just fixing things that I could've done better. But it's something.

Just a short update for today. For now, here are a few photos from around my room.


Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Long Days, Longer Nights

First of all, I just want to say a huge thank you to those of you who reached out to me after my last post. I never forget how supportive and amazing this community is, but sometimes, I still find myself in awe at just how much support is out there.

As you probably know, I don't have many friends in real life, friends outside the blogosphere. I can count a grand total of three who I've seen in the past five years, and one of them I'm no longer friends with. It's just so comforting to know that, in the darkest hours, when I feel so alone, there are still people there for me, even if we're oceans apart. You guys are seriously all amazing, and I don't know what I'd do without this community.

The week before last, I had my first appointment with my dietician and GP in 11 weeks, after my GP missed the last one.

As I waited for my GP to get here to walk me to the medical center (part because I can't get to appointments by myself, part as exposure therapy), she texted and asked me to meet her at the corner, instead of at the front door. This had been discussed as the next step, but I didn't know it'd be happening that day, especially after so long since I last went out.

The idea is for me to start walking little bits by myself, and eventually be able to walk there myself. Even though it's not even 100m to the corner of my block, it made me very uncomfortable. But as she was already on the way, and the text came through the medical center's no-reply notification system, I felt stuck, and had no way of cancelling.

I slowly made my way down the path until I could see her at the corner. She routed a way going through the laneways, so I don't feel as exposed as on the main roads. While it's worked okay so far, I don't know how I'd do it alone. The main roads are busy and full of cars and people. The laneways are secluded and I fear something bad could happen. I don't know which is more terrifying.

Despite so much having happened, especially with the ambulance call-outs and police drama, I had surprisingly little to say. I felt a tad sour toward her after not finding an appointment for me in a month – and appointment that mum had actually agreed to drive me to – after the police first turned up and tried to arrange an appointment for me.

It was really good to see my dietician though. I miss her weekly appointments so much.

I gave her the list I've been keeping of what I eat. Some days, it's dinner and a snack, usually fruit or yoghurt, or sometimes a small lunch. If I'm not drinking, sometime's there'll be a second snack. But some days, I'll just have dinner and save the rest of my calories for the alcohol.

Most of my calories come from alcohol – usually around 500-800 a day, or more. Some days, if I don't drink much (under ~200 cal), my intake struggles to reach 500-600. In a way, I use this as a backwards way of justifying my drinking to others. On the days I don't drink (which are sadly few and far between at the moment), my intake is usually around 300-600, sometimes up to 800 if I indulge in something like chocolate or baked goods. Although I still drink wine, most of the time it's cheap vodka mixed with diet orange soda. While the wine does have some carbs, when I just stick with vodka, I get nothing from it nutritionally but pure alcohol.

The only reason for me to stop drinking is for the calories and the weight loss that would come with it. But, as strong as that desire is, I struggle. When I stopped smoking all day every day, it immediately became my new crutch, my way to escape. At least weed and synthetics were kinder to my intake and weight.

I didn't tell my GP, but I did speak to the dietician about the police drama. After telling her about not being able to get an appointment with my GP, she said to always feel free to go in to see her, even if it's short notice. She really is a sweetheart. I had thought about it when the police asked if there was anyone I wanted them to call, but it didn't seem right. Sometimes I wish she was a therapist – she's the only one outside the blogosphere that I can really talk to.

Back with my GP, she asked about the overdoses. The information she received from the hospital didn't specify beyond 'overdose', and she was concerned it was the meds she prescribes me – mainly the oxaezpam – and was wondering if she needed to stop them. But it was my over-the-counter sedatives, which I keep mainly in case I overdose. If I take too many of the meds she gives me, not only could they be ceased, but could also get her in trouble as I've overdosed on them so many times in the past.

She's got no idea what's going on with the Clinic either, but I told her I don't care anymore, that it was pointless and I no longer want to go.

She then brought up the dreaded topic of meeting a new psychologist. There's a few in an office about halfway between me and the medical center. I told her I didn't want to see one, but she's insisting.
  "I understand that you're anxious and afraid --"
  "It's not fear or anxiety. I just don't see the point."

And it's not like I can get there anyway. She said she'd walk me and come to the first few appointments, but what then? I'm a long way off being able to walk there alone. She said she was going to arrange an appointment and text me the details, but thankfully she hasn't, buying me another month or so before I have to meet them.

On the walk home, she wanted to leave me at the end of the last laneway, nearly doubling the time I'd walked alone to the corner. I panicked, and when she tried to reassure me, I snapped
  "I haven't been for a walk in nearly three months – it's too much."
She agreed to come to the corner, but I'm afraid that next time I won't have a choice.

One thing that hit me hard was when the dietician said she was proud of me for still eating at all, with my mood so low and everything that's been going on. Obviously, this makes me feel like a failure and just makes me want to eat less. Since she said it, it's just been playing in my head over and over.


Friday, 11 August 2017

The Saga Continues

For the past week, I've been going back and forth as to whether or not to share this. I'm worried about potential judgement, but in the end, it's relevant to what's been going on lately, and has had a huge impact on my mental wellbeing.

Last Wednesday, as I sat down with my egg for lunch, a police car pulled up outside. I thought maybe it was just a coincidence, and they'd drive off in a minute. But they got out, walked up to the door, and knocked. I wondered if I should run and hide.
As mum went to answer it, I asked   "What's going on?"
  "I don't know."

I was handed an intervention order, filed by mother dearest.

Basically I have to keep my behavior 'reasonable', and not damage property, otherwise the police can be called and I'll end up in court.

The night of the last 000 call and the cut, I'd broken a bowl, angry at myself for making dinner, and blockaded the lounge room door with a couch as mum tried to push it back, then the whole 'cutting and spilling blood everywhere' thing. If she wants to stand by and watch as I self-harm or overdose, fine. That's the only reason I ever blockade or hide behind locked doors - to self harm without people watching, or trying to stop me.

I was in hysterics within minutes. I sat sobbing with my head in my hands as the police asked if I'd be okay.
I wanted to say  "No, I want to die."
It's not like I could say that though. I'd just end up with a police escort to A&E, an assessment under the Mental Health Act, and a visit to the dreaded public psych ward.

I still haven't moved the papers. They were put on the arm if the couch, and fell off face down. I nudged them under the couch when the vacuuming was done, so they wouldn't be put on the table. I'm scared to read them.

I spent the rest of the day in the dark, crying and listening to sad songs. I hid in the lounge room, even smoking inside, which I'm not supposed to do. She didn't stop me though. I scribbled in my jouurnal and tried to knock myself out on my meds, but a couple of hours later, it hadn't worked, so I gave up and went for the vodka.

We'd actually been getting along okay, but now it's all fucked.

Before I got up, I sent her a text, leaving enough time for her to read it before I ventured forth.
  "Please don't talk to me about the recent police stuff right now ... I am in even more of a devastatingly low place then I was last week, and I really can't afford to sink any lower. Right now, I just want to be alone and hide away. Just please not talk about it until I have some tiny amount of support."

By the time I felt up to eating dinner, dizzy from the pills and booze, and not having gotten to eat my egg, the meds had kicked in. I couldn't control my knife and fork, and just gave up.

Even now, I feel physically and emotionally drained. Everything seems like too much hard work. Moving my arms and hands to roll a smoke is exhausting. I don't even want to watch anything. I just want to lie on the couch and stare at the wall in silence. Just when I think I can't sink any lower, I hit a new low.

I don't have to move out as I initially thought, but with the recent threats and then being locked out of the house when I returned from hospital, it's only a matter of time before I'm kicked out.

My arm is healing okay. Thankfully I haven't ended up with an infection despite the gaping wound and lack of dressings and follow-up care. After the police visit, I ripped off the dressing and let it bleed, then I stopped bothering with dressings.

Part of my is scared by the cut. Not because of the cut itself. Not because of what I've done, but what I could do, knowing I can cause so much damage with so little effort. It makes me think that I could actually do something bad enough to end my life.

During the mess of tears, the officers asked if there was anyone I wanted them to call. Desperate, I asked if they could call my GP's office to see if I could get an appointment. Mum even agreed to drive me there. The receptionist said there weren't any gaps that day, but maybe the next day. Over a week later, and they never gave me an appointment. I talked to a couple of the bloggers when it first happened, but I still wish I could've seen my doctor to get some professional advice. I thought about talking to Z, my friend who works at the hospital and has had similar issues, but I was too ashamed.

There's still two and a half weeks until my next appointment. I wonder if she'll actually turn up this time.

After the last few weeks – having had two ambulance & police call outs, such a severe cut, so many overdoses, and now an intervention order, I doubt the Clinic would even consider me. They only do voltunary admissions, and I obviously can't keep myself safe.

I have no hope, no help, and no one. Nothing.

The weekend before: Actually resembling 
a human being when I put on Proper Clothes 
and did my hair & makeup


Monday, 31 July 2017

Screaming into the Void

After self-harming for the past twelve years – literally half my life – you start to think that you know what you're doing. If you use this tool and that technique, you think you know what the result will be. But, as I learnt last week, you can be terribly wrong.

This has been one of the hardest weeks I've had in months. Last Monday, despondent, feeling like I'll never get to the Clinic or any other help, I broke down.

I took a sizeable overdose, followed by the worst cut I've ever done. One cut. That's all it took. But I really fucked up. My skin burst open. Blood started pooling on the table at an alarming rate. I looked at my arm and freaked out. I'd never cut so deeply, and definitely never bled so much. The blood covered an area the size of at least two sheets of A4 paper, and when I changed the dressing a couple of days ago, I did measure, and it was gaping 10-11mm.

I felt like I was going to throw up. I called for help, and mum called 000. I held my arm in towels, trying to stop the bleeding. The usual entourage appeared – four paramedics and four police. Since there have been a few ambulance calls when I've still been holding knives or blades when the calls go in, it seems the police always tag along these days.

They took me into A&E until the next afternoon. Thankfully, I just barely missed a vein. Because it had stopped bleeding, they said I didn't need stitches. That said, I've had stitches in smaller cuts that had stopped bleeding too. They didn't even do steri-strips or any proper dressing – just a big pad wrapped around my wrist. Maybe they just want me to have a horrific scar as a reminder.

All in all, I had maybe 10 minutes total with the psych. It seems there is no access to help even when I'm in A&E for self-harm and an overdose. There was no follow-up or “you need to see your GP next week”. They just took out the IV, gave me my meds and a taxi voucher, and sent me on my way.

The psych had called mum in the morning, to discuss where to from here. She said she didn't know if she wanted me to come home. He gave her time to think about it, and said he'd call back in an hour. She didn't even answer the phone. After five hours, he just gave up and sent me home.

I got home, and mum had actually taken the locks off the doors so I couldn't get in. That was a really low point. She did eventually let me in. Her friend's toolbox was still right inside the door, and he came back a few hours later to put them back on, so I think she was just trying to make a statement. But still,it fucking hurt.

One small bright spot from when I was in hospital was seeing my old friend Z, who works there. He was a huge support the last time I was in there a few months ago. I saw him moving a patient and passed by my door. As I was halfway through messaging “I think I just saw you in A&E, or a very good doppelganger”, he popped his head in and talked for a couple of minutes before he had to get back to work.

Apparently he came back just after midnight when he finished work, but I was already asleep and he didn't want to wake me. He said never to hesitate to message him if I'm in a shitty place. Having been through the same system with similar issues, he actually understands. I should really try to catch up with him more often, you know, when I'm not in hospital.

A few days before, I had a breakdown in the evening. Let me preface by saying this – as much as I wanted to, I hadn't taken an overdose. I hadn't self-harmed beyond a few hits to the head. I was just crying hysterically, and had blockaded myself in the lounge room because I needed to be alone, which does happen every now and then, in one room or another.

The next thing I knew, mum was on the phone to 000. Within minutes, there were four paramedics, four police, and a mental health worker asking me to let them in. I don't mind the paramedics. I don't mind the mental health worker. But the police?! When I haven't been cutting and have no sharps? And four of them? Isn't that slight overkill?

They didn't take me in that night, but the mental health worker said she'd get the Clinic to call me the next day to arrange an interview. They did call the next day, and left a voicemail to call them back. We all know I can't talk on the phone (note to self: ask a psych about Selective Mutism next time I see one), so mum has been saying she'd at least talk to them to make an interview time. But she changed her mind, and refused to. I wallowed for days before I finally snapped, resulting in the trip to A&E on Monday.

I eventually found an online enquires form for the Clinic and explained the situation, asking if they could contact me with a time to go in for an interview, but I never heard back.

When I was in A&E, the psych also called the Clinic, but were told they'd have no beds for at least a week, and to wait for them to call back. They probably won't even take me after the 000 calls, the self-harm, the overdoses, the breakdowns. It doesn't exactly scream “able to stay safe for voluntary admission”. When I saw the psych, he said I need an advocate to talk to the Clinic and arrange the interview, but gave me no idea on how to do that.

Now, I've pretty much given up hope on the Clinic. The psych in A&E mentioned that my referral might even lapse before they admit me. I feel numb and lost, and not sure where to go from here.

Why is it that when I finally, and desperately, do want and need help, there's suddenly no way to access it?

I'm just screaming into the void.

My GP was supposed to come see me the week before last, to do a home visit and walk me to and from my appointment with the dietician. I waited for nearly two hours before she texted to say she was 'too busy' for our appointment, and rebooked it... for August 29th. That'll make it 11 long weeks between appointments. Needless to say, I was upset by this. I really needed to see them both. I book triple appointments to allow the walking time, and you can bet that she wouldn't tell a patient sitting in the waiting room that she's too busy to see them.

On the upside, I just spent a lovely, relaxed weekend with my friend R. We watched movies all day and talked and laughed and drank far too much wine. It was good to get away from the house for a bit after the recent dramas and just block out the outside world for a couple of days. Considering that after cutting off communication with A (for reasons mentioned in my last post), R is really now the only friend I ever see in real life, making these times all the more precious. It's a lonely feeling losing such a big chunk of your social life, but in the end, he can do me no good. I just wish I'd realized that earlier.


Thursday, 13 July 2017

The Waiting Game

I've been trying to figure out how to best deal with my current situation – not feeling safe, constantly scared, feeling overwhelmed and out of control.

A day or two after I last wrote, I broke down. I confessed to mum how much I've been struggling lately, especially with the trauma dates, and the extent of my self-harm and use of medication and alcohol, as it's all that gets me through each day. That life in general is overwhelming. I told her I think I need to go back to the Clinic for a week or two, and I need to see my GP to make it happen.

After an hour or two of panic and hysterics, she eventually agreed to make an appointment with my GP and drive me there as I'm in crisis. Apart from the pressure wounds and oil burns, this was the first time in about six months that she agreed to help me get to appointments.

The next day, she backtracked, and wouldn't do it.
  “They probably wouldn't have a bed for you anyway...”

Eventually, a few days later, she followed through on her original agreement, and last Monday I saw my GP, which was the first appointment available.

I told her the same things I'd told mum. She agreed it was a good idea, but said a few things that made me feel hesitant.

She thinks it's best to not tell them I'm trying to hide from trauma dates, but rather to have professionals to talk to and learn new mindfulness skills. Groups might be a problem. I can do the ones that don't involve talking. Groups like yoga, mindfulness, maybe stuff like art therapy, but I worry they're going to expect more this admission. She also said I need to try to have more days off drinking so the Clinic can know withdrawal and seizures won't be a problem. There's also the worry that they might want to reassess and change my meds, which I feel very uncomfortable with. When I take them properly, the meds I'm on do help a lot.

In the end, I'm feeling apprehensive and not overly hopeful, despite her saying she'd push for me to go in, and thinks it'd be helpful for me. She took me to get bloods done, and said she'd send off the paperwork that same day.

Amazingly enough, the next day there was a phone call from the Clinic to set up an intake interview. Last time, it took around six weeks to hear from them. Mum played the role of messenger because of my fear of talking on the phone. I just choke up and I can't get a word out. The nurse unit manager raised the issue of attending groups, but it sounds like the non-talking groups might be enough if I'm lucky. She doesn't want me hiding in my room, although last time, I spent most of my time either walking laps around the corridors or smoking with a coffee in the courtyard.

Then, I started getting distressed, so she said she'd call back in the next two days to make a time for the interview. Upset that it meant more time before I could get support, I broke down crying, attacked myself, and ate a handful of sleeping pills, hoping I'd feel better in the morning.

Wednesday and Thursday, I spent all day stressing, waiting for a phone call that never came.

Then, on Friday, mum went away for the weekend. It was my first time home alone in over a year. Before my brother moved out, he'd sometimes be gone all day, and it's not like we sat around chatting for ages, but having someone around in case something went wrong was a safety net I never appreciated. I didn't realise how hard it'd be.

I don't want to get into too much detail, but that night, I hit a wall. My friend A and I were talking about weight issues, and he wanted to see what I looked like at my smallest. I should've known better. I'd sent him pictures from my set weight (BMI 19-20) a while ago, and he told me I looked like a cow. This upset me so greatly, I didn't speak to him in the longest time.

I'd deliberately not sent pictures at, or near, my lowest weight, because it's obvious his view of women's weight is not right. But this time, I did. Truthfully, I wanted to test him. His reaction would give me an important insight to what he really thinks of me and if he was a worthwhile friend. If he said I looked awful, that would've been a good thing. If he said I looked good, that would mean he's not someone I want to have any interaction with.

Unfortunately, it was the latter. He though the pictures of me around BMI 12-13 looked good.

It was horrified and distressed. I tried calling mum to talk, but as I got more distressed, she hung up. I felt scared and unsafe and wished I wasn't alone. I tried to calm down and called her again, but it didn't go much better. After that, she stopped answering my calls. I left a voicemail, explaining that I didn't feel safe. That it was my first time alone in over a year, and it's scary to know there's no one to catch me if I fall, no one to help me if I did something stupid.

I felt, and still do feel, so low and hopeless. I couldn't just not do something about it. It was the worst time to be alone. In the end, I tried to find the least-destructive ways to self-destruct. After more sleeping pills and a few new burns, I just listened to sad music and passed out, and slept as deep as death.

Mum eventually got back on Monday afternoon. She asked how I was doing, and I told her it'd been a pretty miserable weekend after everything with A.

I'm not sure if the Clinic called when she was away. The phone rang twice on the Monday before she got home, plus once on Friday. I don't know if it was even the Clinic, as I thought they left messages, but most calls go through to our mobiles these days, so I guess it's possible.

Tuesday and Wednesday went by. No call. After more than a week since the first phone call, I'm starting to think they won't call back. I'm spending all day stressing and waiting, but I'm losing hope they'll call again.


Monday, 19 June 2017


Last week I finally got to see my dietician for the first time in three months.

My GP has been working on taking me out for short walks when she does home visits. The idea is that I'll eventually be able to walk to appointments by myself, and although it's not even a kilometer away, I'm still a long way off walking solo.

Even walking alone to the corner of the block is terrifying. My GP found a way I can get to the clinic winding through the laneways instead of the busy streets, but she thinks I need a psych to help me overcome the fears before I'll be able to walk alone.

She was coming to pick me up and hour before she started work, so there'd be enough time to walk me to and from my appointment with the dietician. She was running late though, so she drove to pick me up, and then walked me home.

It was so good to see the dietician after so long. In the five years I've been seeing her, I've never had this long between appointments. She gave me a hug straight away. Thankfully, she didn't push weighing me as she saw me get distressed when she asked, so she focused more on what/how much I've been eating and drinking, and how life is going in general.

My GP made another set of appointments in five weeks, walks included, before she walked me home. The walk itself was difficult - not physically, but mentally - as it's the farthest from home I've walked in many years, but it definitely helps not having to do it alone. Rational or not, I feel so unsafe, even just a short distance away.

Unfortunately, neither of them are sure why I've been feeling so sick the past few weeks. I've been doing liquid days every other day to reduce how often I'm sick, because on days I eat solids, I'm up all night nauseous and usually vomiting. And it's not the alcohol - if I eat early in the day, before I drink, I get sick. If I eat but don't drink, I get sick. If I do liquids only, even with alcohol, I don't get sick.

I asked them both about it, and they said they'll discuss it with each other and get back to me. We went over what I can handle without getting sick, and it's really only yoghurt, iced coffee, supplement milk drinks (Ensure or Milo), hot chocolate, ice blocks, jelly, and thin pureed veggie soup (my current obsession is cauliflower and leek, for only 44 calories per cup - simply a cauliflower, a leek, and a stock cube, boiled and pureed). The current advice is to just stick with liquids and puree as much as possible.

June also marks the end of my traumaversary dates, and is always a very difficult and triggering time. The end date doesn't stop the feeling. I've spent most of this week knocked out on meds during the day and drinking until I pass out at night, which is why it's taken me nearly a week to write about the appointments.

Every day is just trying to get through in one piece, but then I wake up the next morning and have to go through it all again.

I feel so low and hopeless. The overdose urges have been so strong, but I've whittled down my stash by knocking myself out. I'm torn between using my extra meds to avoid the days, or keep stashing them for an overdose, although the latter would get me in trouble if they realise I haven't been returning any leftover meds as I'm supposed to.

I just don't want to be here, stuck in my head 24/7. It's taking all of my willpower (and a shit tonne of vodka) to avoid ending up in A&E.

I can't even enjoy things like TV or movies unless they're incredibly sad. Comedy makes me feel even worse. I can't even laugh if I wanted to.

To be honest, I would actually consider another inpatient admission. Even though the last one was somewhat disastrous, it did keep me safe while I was there. But considering the lack of support at home, chances are I won't even be able to see my GP until the next appointment in five weeks (unless I manage some awful accidental injury like the oil burns), and god knows what could happen in that time.

For today, it's a soup day, with no extra meds up my sleeve until this afternoon's delivery, and counting down the hours until it's somewhat acceptable to crack a bottle of wine.