Tuesday, 11 September 2018

Forever my Sunshine

It is with a heavy heart that I write this post, to let you all know that my baby boy, Billy, passed away on Sunday night.

After a lifetime of health issues, his little body just wasn't strong enough to recover from another bout of surgery.


On Thursday, I found out that he'd injured his eye, and it had to be removed. There were concerns as to whether or not he'd make it through the anesthetic, given his age and plethora of health issues.

I went to see him on Friday morning before the surgery. His eye was entirely dark red, and he was very confused.

He made it through the surgery. I went in the next morning to see him before he went back to stay with the vet nurse who'd been taking care of him. As much as I'd tried to prepare myself, I was shocked by the amount of swelling and bruising on his little head. I gave him cuddles, and took him for a little walk. He seemed to be doing really well.

Someone anonymously offered to pay for all of his vet bills, which was a huge relief. At nearly 15 years old and tens of thousands of dollars put into his medical care, it was at the point where I couldn't afford any more surgery.


On Sunday night, I was outside having a smoke. I saw the vet walking up, and I knew something was wrong. We went inside to talk, and I was already crying. She said she had some really sad news, and I just lost it. Crying and screaming hysterically.

Even though the surgery went well, they took him to a 24hr vets for the weekend because they were concerned about the swelling and his pain levels. He had a cardiac arrest and they tried to resuscitate him, but couldn't. He just wasn't strong enough.

My brother came down so I could go see him. I was told it could only be 20 minutes, but I was with him for 1hr 15mins until my brother gave me a nudge to let him go. I just held him and lay on the floor next to him and sang 'You are my Sunshine'.

I've chosen an urn, and am also getting a locket with part of his ashes in it. The vet said a lot of people put something special in to be cremated with them, like a flower. Since I want so badly to be with him, I put in a lock of my hair, so I'll always be with him. He went on his final journey with my hair nestled by his heart.


I don't have words right now.

I am staying in supported accommodation until I find somewhere longer term. It's basically like a nursing home for all ages. I will update more at another time.

My GP, psych, and the people from the organization who were taking care of him were all writing letters and working to have him classed as a therapy dog, so he could be here with me. He was supposed to be here this week. And now he's gone.


There are no words for how heartbroken, devastated, and destroyed I am.


Rest in peace, my best friend, my strength, my everything.




20.01.04 - 09.09.18





Post-Surgery




Last night, the vet brought over a beautiful bouquet of flowers, 
a book of poetry, a card, two blocks of Lindt, and some tea.




xxBella

Friday, 24 August 2018

Homeless

I didn't get an apartment in time.

I'm writing this to you from a cheap motel room. 

I've cried so much this week, I ran out of tears. I've been retching because the stress is making me feel physically sick. 

The mental health case worker assigned to me after my last hospital trip visited me every day this week. He said he'd gotten in contact with someone who could help me with housing, and seemed optimistic. That never led anywhere. 

Yesterday mum was locking up the house and leaving to stay with her friends. She'd been planning to leave by midday. But no one could find me a place to sleep. I've gone through three different services this week, which is all that's available. I'd even gone into the Salvation Army in the morning, but by the end of the day, they couldn't find me anywhere either. 

By 4pm, with no where to go and time running out, mum decided to pay for a motel for me to stay at for two nights. Her friend helped me move my things in his ute, because it wouldn't fit in a car. He'll even help me when I leave the motel, and when I find an apartment. They both sat with me for two hours, smoking and chatting outside, trying to help me settle in. 

Billy is with a pet sitter. Letting him go yesterday was excruciating. I cried my eyes out handing him over, and spent the next few hours lying on the floor, crying with his blanket. I'm very worried about him. He's nearly 15, has a hoard of medical issues including anxiety, and whimpers and howls and panics whenever I leave the house. At least he has a person around though, and won't be outside in a noisy, cold, lonely boarding kennel. He'll be warm and inside, sleeping on the bed, being loved and cared for and getting cuddles. If Billy can't be with me for now, it's the best place for him. She's a vet nurse who volunteers for people in crisis, and she specializes in dogs with acute anxiety. I don't really care where I end up. I just worry about him, but am glad my case worker listened when I told him that Billy needs a person and cannot go to a kennel. Misty is much lower maintenance, and is staying with a vet (at her house) for a few nights before going to a very nice cattery. 

There are a couple of leads for places I might be able to go tomorrow, and I'll be in contact with my case worker today. If it doesn't lead anywhere, I go back to the Salvos at 4pm, and they'll try again.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'll update when I can. 

I never thought I'd be homeless. 

Friday, 10 August 2018

14 Days

Things have been hectic since I last posted. Everything's coming down to the crunch, and I have exactly two weeks until the family home transfers over to the new owners.

I've currently got two applications in for houses, and am working myself into a tizzy trying to sort out loans, setting up, and hiring movers, plus still packing up the last few bits and pieces. I looked at three places earlier this week, plus went to two shops to get prices on secondhand whitegoods and furniture (all split across two days). 

I did find the perfect place, not long after I last posted. I went to an inspection the day after it was listed, and sent in an application... but didn't get it. Now I'm looking at places in the not-so-nice neighbourhoods (to put it politely). The big problem is that I'll be too far away for my GP to walk with me to get to appointments. My psych has said she can do home visits, at least to start. But my GP and dietician? 
  "Well, I'm sure we can organize something every couple of months."

I really need to get one of the places I've applied for. I'm quickly running out of time, and everywhere my team have inquired with have been hopeless with finding emergency accommodation.

It's been hard, to say the least. A few weeks ago I had two breakdowns that resulted in ambulances taking me to emergency for assessments. My psych has also gone away for the month, which is the worst timing, so I have little support during all this change. When I last saw her a couple of weeks ago, we did a safety plan to help me deal with crises. It was very depressing. My only Reasons to Live were Billy (my 15 year old dog) and not wanting to die fat.

My lips got a little too lose after a few drinks last week. I admitted to a paracetamol overdose I took over a month ago, and hadn't told a soul about at the time. It scared me, not necessarily because of the overdose itself, but because I didn't ask for help. I didn't care what happened. I took more than what nearly killed my liver back in February, but in the end I was fine. I also admitted to having quite a large stash, which was subsequently taken to the pharmacy to be destroyed.

On the upside, I did get some good news. In the last few months, my team have been working on applying to the NDIS, to get more support and funding. I wasn't expecting to be approved, but two weeks ago I got a letter saying my application had been successful. I still need to wait for a plan to be sorted out, but hopefully it will lead to something good.

For now, I am off to spend yet another day packing and sorting. Keep your fingers crossed that next time I post, I will be living in my own place.



Misty 'helping' with packing

My current pile of Crap To Move in the garage - with more to come!




xxBella

Thursday, 21 June 2018

Going... Going... Gone.

There has been a lot going on here in the last month or so, and I've been avoiding writing about it because it's been a bit overwhelming.


Firstly, I've been having a lot of trouble with PTSD issues. There's a lot of trauma-versaries at this time of year, and it's always hard to deal with. This year, though, everything feels so much more intense. It's ten years since the trauma occurred, and I haven't been coping very well. Ten fucking years. A decade of my life, gone.

Last week, it all hit me really hard. I had an overdose on Monday. It was my regular psych meds, not paracetamol, but I can't remember what or how much I actually took. I've been slack with returning my unused meds, which I'm supposed to do twice a week, so I had a bit of a stockpile. I don't remember any of Monday, or most of Tuesday, which might be for the best.

It happened at some point in the afternoon. I don't know what exactly triggered me. Maybe it was just all the trauma stress building up. Either way, it was bound to happen, and I was pretty sure something would happen before the end of the trauma dates.

I ended up in an ambulance later in the day. The next thing I knew, it was Tuesday morning. I kept drifting in and out, waking up and realising I was in hospital, but for the first time ever, I had no idea how or why I was there. They kept asking if I knew where I was, what day of the week it was, what year it was. The only one I ever got right was knowing I was in hospital.

After ECGs, blood tests, IVs, a very snooty mental health team came to talk to me, none of whom I'd met before. They let me go home on Tuesday night as long as I followed up with my team, although they wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist, as they didn't think I was getting enough support. When I talked to my GP, she said she'd spoken to a psychiatrist she knows about it, but that the psychiatrist was happy with how my current team are managing things. So, so much for that.


After that, I've tried to cut back and balance out my drinking. It's a fine line between self-medicating and relief, and making myself vulnerable and ending in utter disaster. I've just been trying to get through each day intact, and drinking can potentially do more harm than good. I still drank, despite the fear of losing control and hurting myself, but I've been trying to use medication a bit more often (another a fine line between relief and disaster).

I'm worried that the pain was dissipate with the dates as it has in previous years. I'm worried that this feeling will just keep on going, and I don't know how to stop it.


On Wednesday, things started building again. So I started drinking. I started walking laps of the house to try to block it out. Fill a water bottle with vodka, blast music through my headphones. Walk, drink, walk, drink, don't think don't think don't think. After 3 hours and a dozen drinks, I started cracking. I was visually upset, and I didn't dare stop walking lest I break down completely. Mum got concerned. She tried to stop me walking. I snapped
  “Well, it's either this or take every pill I can find. I can't stop.”

Queue yet another team of paramedics trying to talk to me and calm me down.


Last week brings to light one of my biggest fears about moving out. Being alone. While I'm sure I would've been fine without medical intervention this time, and just slept it off after a day or two, that isn't always the case. There have been several overdoses where I haven't been able to communicate or walk, or have just been unconscious for a little too long, which triggers mum to call 000.

A year or two ago, there was one where I was unconscious for nearly 24 hours before mum noticed and called for an ambulance. At the start of the trauma dates this year, I inhaled 70-something paracetamol and nearly destroyed my liver, as well as a cocktail of psych meds. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't speak clearly. I couldn't walk, and didn't have the coordination to use my phone. What happens then?


And, of course, the house has been sold. The auction was at the end of May. My brother came down to support mum, and brought his housemate's son (his pseudo-son) down for the day.

The worst part of the day was waiting for the auction to start. Mum and I had taken Billy for a drive as the house was open for a bit before the auction started. When we got back, she went inside and I waited in the car with Bill, as there were still people around. Neither of us thought that people would be looking inside the garage, but oh boy were they. Every minute, there was some new person sticking their nose in. I just buried my head in my hands and held onto Billy. After texting mum that people kept coming in, she sent out my brother and pseudo-nephew to keep my company, which made things easier as people would see us talking and close the door.

When the auction started, we sat in her bedroom at the front of the house with the window open so we could listen in. The house sold for $120,000 above reserve, which none of us were expecting. Mum looked like she was about to faint when the bidding jumped above $700k. As a bonus, the new owners have met Misty a few times, and will know whose cat it is if she turns up there after I move.

Now I'm in a frenzy of trying to find somewhere to move and get everything organised, which has been difficult as getting through each day has been enough work as it is.



With Billy and Pseudo-Nephew. I look awful, and didn't know my brother was taking photos, but I did like this one.


My first ever tub of Halo Top


xxBella

Thursday, 17 May 2018

25

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago.

I got depressed. About my birthday. About having no one to share it with. About being stuck in bed instead of going out, like a normal 25 year old would do. I feel like I'm losing so many years, and now I'm closer to 30 than I am to 20. I wanted to cut. So badly. I ended up drinking at midday, and although it's not a healthy coping mechanisms, I managed to get through the day relatively unscathed.

As always, people seem to connect birthdays with food. I didn't have cake or anything like that, but mum wanted to cook fillet steak for dinner. I don't eat red meat much, but it was still nice. I had a small piece (80g raw weight) with garlic sauce, roast potato, steamed carrots & green beans.

Then, a few days later, my brother came down to go out for a joint birthday dinner (mum's birthday is one week after mine) at a Japanese place we used to go to quite a bit.

Whenever I get dressed to go out, my stomach cramps up. I feel bloated and awful, even though I hadn't eaten all day. I hate the way I look. I hate the way my clothes feel. Switching and swapping outfits, four tops, three skirts. I ended up wearing the baggiest ones so I didn't feel quite as bad with the feel of the fabric on my body.

Thankfully, the restaurant was pretty empty. For appetizers, I had two mini vegetable spring rolls and a pork dumpling, then teriyaki eye fillet for mains. Especially after having steak a few days before, this was unusual. I don't eat steak much at all - maybe once or twice a year - but their teriyaki chicken had been disappointing in the past, and I don't like trying new dishes/sauces. My brother ended up getting most of it anyway.


Appointments have been routine, and mostly uneventful. We've started applying for the NDIS (National Disability Insurance Scheme), for a variety of reasons. Basically to get me extra support, both professionally and with day-to-day life. They provide funding for a variety of things, with the goal of helping you function better. They can help with the costs of appointments, and also with things like transport, which will be a huge relief.

After getting a comment from Shelby on my last post, about social workers and the fact I should probably have one, it got me thinking. I mentioned it to both my mum and brother on the day I got the comment, and they both agreed I should have a social worker, and are surprised it's never come up during one of my many hospital admissions. After bringing it up, my team all agree I should get one, and are now trying to organize it. Basically it means I'll have help with coordinating everything, which will be a huge help, especially with moving out and living alone. Between that and the NDIS, hopefully I'll be getting some more support soon.


As for moving out and finding a place of my own, progress is going very slowly. I've still not found anywhere to live. To be honest, I've been putting it off a little bit, even though I've only got a month (maybe two) to find somewhere. It's just been too much to cope with. I did go to an inspection a couple of weeks ago to look at a place nearby, but it just wasn't what I'm looking for. It was stressful. It was the first time I've gone out in public (excluding appointments) in around 6 months (going out for dinner being the second). There were 10-15 other people there, and I got out of there as soon as I could.

After finding out that the NDIS can help organize someone to transport me to appointments, I'm no longer limited to living so close to my team's offices. Even still, there's just not much around at the moment, unless I want to live in the more notoriously unsafe neighborhoods.

The house has been on the market for a few weeks now. There have been open houses three times a week. Since Billy can't stay at home (although Misty is loving having so many people coming through and paying her attention), we take him in the car and he curls up on my lap while we go for a drive for a while. Next weekend is the auction. It's getting down to the crunch, and I'm freaking out.


Everything feels so uncertain. So I drink and I drink and I take too many meds and I drink. Trying to block it all out. I'm more depressed than anxious, because it all feels so hopeless, and I have no idea where my life will be in one, two, three months. On the calendar I use to keep track of when, how much, and why I drink, the most common reason has changed from "argument with mum" or "stressful appointment" earlier in the year, to "moving out stress" in the last couple of months, and now to simply "depressed".


Fillet steak with garlic sauce, roast potatoes, steamed carrots and green beans
Teriyaki eye fillet
(I completely forgot to take pictures of the appetizers)


xxBella

Sunday, 8 April 2018

A Series of Unfortunate Events

First off, I want to apologize for taking so long to update after my last post. The last couple of months have been intense and overwhelming in so many ways, and I've barely been able to gather my thoughts enough to even write in my journal, let alone blog.

My liver function has returned to normal. One of the levels is still elevated, but not hugely concerning compared to how it was after the overdose, and may not go back to normal until I stop drinking (even though I'm drinking much less than I was a few months ago). I only got the good news last week, and I wanted to wait until I got the all-clear before I updated so I at least had something positive to say.

That said, that's about the only positive thing that's happened.


Moving out looks like it'll be happening earlier than I thought. This week, the real estate agents came by to do a valuation. I spent days worrying about where to hide, knowing that I couldn't escape them completely, and wondering where they'd spend the least time. I ended up curling up in my armchair on the porch, trying to read, but being distracted by their voices analyzing the house and trying to hear what they were saying. They're now planning on putting the house on the market by the end of the month, having inspections for four weeks, and auctioning the house to have it sold by the end of May.

I'm scared about having strangers snooping through the house. I'm scared about having to go out for half an hour each week, even if I'm just sitting in the car. I broke into a panic after mum told me the plan. I have to start getting things boxed up and tidy for the end of the month. Not only will there be strangers, my biggest fear, in the house, but there'll be photos. That terrifies me. Both feel like such big invasions of my fortress, the place I never leave and never let people in to.


The past couple of weeks, I've been extremely depressed, about everything. When I saw my psych on Thursday, I was in tears for most of the session and couldn't make a single second of eye contact. I just can't cope any more. Even at home, I find myself in tears every day. I've had two psych appointments where I've turned up with fresh black eyes, not to mention other hidden bruises. It's not even just self-harm these days. It's attacking myself.

Between her, my dietician, and my GP, I haven't had many appointments in the past month. Everyone seems to be away for one reason or another. By the time I see anyone next, the house will probably be on the market.

I've given up on going to The Clinic. I decided a few weeks ago that I'd decided I did want to go, but it ended in a huge breakdown and a lot of vodka. Mum said she wouldn't even drive me to the admission, even if my psych handled the phone and admission side of things. It's not even that far away – maybe five minutes. But I can't get there by myself, and I can't get in a car with a stranger to take a taxi. Everyone agrees I need a higher level of care, but right now there's no way for it to happen.

I've also given up on my plan to get a car loan and do a few driving lessons before moving out. Mum had originally said I needed a couple of driving lessons before she'd take me out. Then she said I needed my own car. I finally came to terms with both issues and had sorted out a way to afford it, but then she said she just wouldn't take me out driving at all.

I'll have no license, no car, no way to get Billy to the vets, and unless I somehow manage to find somewhere affordable in the area, no access to appointments.


I've also been feeling very physically unwell the past few weeks. I think my intake consisting of mostly alcohol is catching up with me. I've been doing okay with drinking for the most part. So far, since New Years, I've been mostly meeting my goal of only drinking every second day (on average), although this past week I've been drinking every day. But I feel dizzy, light-headed. I'm exhausted all of the time. I constantly want to throw up. My heart races and everything blurs when I stand up. Yesterday, I tried to do some walking, panicked about the crap I've been ingesting. The day before, I managed 35 minutes before my body gave up. Yesterday, I could barely get up and get started. It was a push to even keep going for 10 minutes. My shoulders ached as I walked, like they were too heavy for their sockets.


On top of everything else, my laptop is broken after only having it for three months. I don't know how it happened. I put it away safely one night earlier this week, and when I turned it on the next morning, there was a big ugly black circle in the corner and white lines radiating. It looks like the screen has actually been physically damaged, but I can't figure out how. Apart from the obvious issue of sorting out a repair and finding the money to pay for it, it means I've also lost my main coping mechanism of gaming. And so this week I've been drinking every night for the past six days (although last night I only managed two vodkas before my stomach wanted to reject them).


I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, and that most of it is just whining. But I do want to say thank you to those who've contacted me to check if I'm okay. It means a lot, especially when I have so little social contact outside of the blogosphere. I'll try to make my next update more cheerful.


xxBella

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Poison

On Thursday last week, I had one of the worst overdoses I've had in years. Recently, they've usually been on psych meds, but not this time.

I took roughly 35,000mg paracetamol (70 tablets), many of which included codeine.

I'd been drinking and reading through my old journal entries and notes relating to the abusive relationship when I was a teen. The day marked the 10th anniversary of when I met him. It's been ten years. Ten. Fucking. Years. A decade of my life lost.

I'd had an overdose on oxazepam the night before. An amount that has landed me in hospital many times, but this time, I just woke up the next day as usual. I don't remember much of the day. By the evening, I started looking at when I had left in my stash. My usual go-to, an over-the-counter sleeping pill, had disappeared. I had a box of paracetamol/codeine (500/30mg), and a box of cold & flu that had both paracetamol and codeine. There was also a sheet or two of plain old paracetamol.

As a rule, I generally don't keep paracetamol around. I know the dangers all too well. I had a bad overdose when I was 13, with hundreds of pills, everything in the house (including paracetamol, ritalin, post-surgery painkillers – anything I could find). Two weeks in hospital, one week in the ICU, most of that week in an induced coma. Since then, the cupboards are kept bare and everyone stashes their medication where I can't get to it.

After taking them, and writing down what I'd taken, how much, what time, and how many drinks I'd had (because not knowing/remembering just makes things more difficult for everyone), I drifted off to sleep.


When I woke up on Friday, the room was spinning as I lay in bed. I got up and stumbled to the bathroom. Trying to pee, I instead puked black liquid all over myself and the floor.

#imsogothipukeblack

I rinsed myself off and changed into clean clothes, and made my way to the kitchen, desperate for something to drink. I measured out my low calorie cordial into a drink bottle, topped it off with water, then sank to the floor. I called out to mum, who was outside with her coffee, that I thought I needed help.

I gulped down the cordial, desperate for water, and threw up again. Mum was on the phone to 000. They told her not to let me drink anything. All I wanted to do was chug down the entire liter, even if it came back up again. Soon, three paramedics arrived and whisked me off to hospital.

I don't remember much of this day, either. A doctor gave me a lovely speech about how paracetamol can cause liver failure, and liver failure requires transplants, and most people who need new livers don't get them. I had to have the antidote drip for the next 24 hours. They put the drip in, moved me to the short stay unit, and I slept for most of the day, only waking up to throw up.


On Saturday, they took more bloods. An hour later, the doctor came back with the psych with the results. I thought it'd be to plan discharge. But they told me my blood tests showed my liver function was still declining, and was worse than when I was admitted. They'd be talking to doctors at one of the biggest hospitals in Melbourne to get advice. I thought I'd be out after the 24hr drip, but with my liver getting worse, they told me I needed another 16hr drip after the first one finished, and see where things go from there.

I'd been watching the time on the IV crawl down, my countdown for when I might be able to sneak out for a smoke. Not having smoked at all the day before, I was gagging for one. I asked the nurse, and after checking with the doctors, the nurse unplugged the heart monitor and let me outside, where I sucked down two before going back in.

When the psych came to see me (who is much nicer than the Horrible Psychiatrist who used to work there), he asked the general questions – are you still at risk, do you think you'll do it again, do you have any more at home. I told him I feel more passively, not actively, suicidal, but that an overdose will probably happen again. Whether it's in a month or a decade, it's probably going to happen again at some point. But it wouldn't happen again as soon as I got home, as there wasn't a single pill of anything in the house outside of mum's (heavily guarded) lockbox.

After maybe four hours on the second drip, I was sent home to follow up with my GP on Monday. A GI doctor had come in and poked at my gut, and apparently that was enough to counteract the whole “your liver function is declining” thing. I wasn't exactly filled with confidence, and couldn't help but worry about the test results. As it turned out, I was right to worry, and all was not well.


On Sunday, I slept most of the day. Mum said I looked like I should've stayed in hospital. Everyone seems frustrated at the hospital for discharging me when they did - myself included - as things got worse after I was discharged.


By Monday, the nausea had started to ease off, which they said was a side effect of the drip. I still felt sick though. It was like I had a lump in my abdomen.

I went to get the follow-up blood test, wondering whether my liver had kept getting worse, or had started to recover after the doctor poked and prodded at me. I'd written a note for my GP, explaining what had been going on, asking her to arrange an appointment for later that week. Although she'd have a letter from the hospital, I felt it important to explain myself.

I gave the note to reception, asking if they could pass it along, and went to get my bloods. On the way out, my GP was at reception, holding the note. She booked an appointment for me, but didn't have any gaps until Friday, but I ended up seeing her before then anyway. Mum even agreed to drive me to blood tests and appointments as it was follow-up from the hospital.


On Tuesday, my GP texted in the morning, asking for my mum to call her. I immediately panicked. When she called, my GP told me I needed another blood test that morning. My liver function had gotten a lot worse since the hospital discharged me. She told mum to keep an eye out for signs of confusion, as my brain may start to swell.

On admission, my ALT level was 76, when it should be under 45. When they discharged me, it was 132. By Monday, it was up to 1,237. As of my last blood test it had come down a bit and was at 1,066, but I'm not out of the woods yet. I've had bloods every day this week, except for yesterday and today, being the weekend.


Wednesday, I had an awful headache/neck ache. When it started on Tuesday morning, I thought it was just stress, until I woke up in the middle of the night in pain and couldn't move my head without my neck hurting. When I was getting my bloods done, mum went to the pharmacist to ask about painkillers. They couldn't give me permission to take anything, and my GP had the day off, so I just had to wait it out.


When I saw my GP on Thursday, she told me that the pain was my brain responding to the paracetamol. She gave me paracetamol/codeine (500/30), to take one at a time, four times a day. I've actually been taking them as instructed. This week, I should be able to wean off them. She thinks my bloods should be improving this week too.

My blood pressure has also been very low. I've been checking it at home, but it's not changing much. On Thursday at my GP's, it dropped from 104/59 sitting to 72/50 standing. I just feel like crap physically. She said to drink more water, as my organs are holding on to it, but it's proving difficult to get more than my regular 3-4 liters a day.


Mum even asked me if I wanted to set up the couch with pillows and blankets, which I did. I think she wants to keep an eye on me for signs of confusion or anything like that. She's even checked on me when I'm asleep in my room in the middle of the night. I think she's scared too, but it's nice to feel like she actually cares. She actually visited me in hospital a couple of times, and picked me up when I was discharged, which she never does anymore. During a breakdown on Tuesday night, she actually gave me a hug. I can't remember the last time she did that.




Since the overdose, I've just been taking it slow. I'm completely exhausted, mentally and physically.

I've been told to try not to drink as it could make my liver worse. I've had drinks three nights since the overdose, but only 4-5 drinks, instead of 10-15. I know I shouldn't, but I need an escape, and my only other coping mechanisms are self-harm and overdosing. And I'd be lying if I said part of me doesn't hope it'll mess up my liver even more. By the fifth drink, I end up feeling sick and giving up, despite how much I wish I could just get drunk.

I didn't necessarily want to die. I wanted to hurt, which is why I take most overdoses in the first place. It's self-harm, not a suicide attempt. Thinking of taking the paracetamol did worry me, knowing the dangers, but I was desperate.

But between things like drinking in the hopes my liver will get worse, and the fact I'd do it again if someone handed me a 100pk of paracetamol, it's got me thinking. I don't think my suicidal ideations are are passive as I thought they were.

I'm not coping with life, traumaversaries, moving out, medical issues, depression in general. Part of my is scared I'll do it again. Part of me wants to do it again. Mostly because it was very effective as self-harm, but part of me hopes my liver fails, and the decision to live or die will be taken out of my hands.


I also saw my psych on Monday. We spoke about the trauma for the first time, as it's always a difficult time of year. She wants me to do 10 appointments in the next eight weeks because I'm 'suicidal' (I really don't know if I am or not). I want to ask her about an admission to the Clinic. This week, I'm seeing her on Wednesday, which is the worst trauma date, then again on Friday, plus my GP and dietician on Tuesday. We made a safety plan, which I haven't done for years. Is it sad that my only 'friends and family' contacts are my GP, dietician, and psych? Or that my only 'reason to stay alive' is “I don't want to die fat”?


I know this post is long, but there's been a lot going on. I haven't been talking to people about it, because I didn't want anyone to worry, but since my liver seems to have turned a corner, I thought I better update.




xxBella