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.


Monday, 5 June 2017

I've Lost my Fear of Falling

Next week, I'll be seeing the dietician for the first time in... about three months, I think. It's been hard. Before that, I'd been seeing her every Tuesday at 8:10am for five years. I've only seen her once since I lost transport, and that was because I had to see my GP to dress my pressure wounds from a hospital admission, and I managed to sneak in an appointment with the dietician at the same time (evidently, only physically injuries are worthy of helping me get there).

My GP's such a dear. She's going to pick me up and walk me to and from the appointment, all in her own time. We've done two walks on home visits so far – once just to the corner of the block, once just under halfway to the clinic. I've got to admit I'm nervous. Partly because walking around in public is one of the biggest challenges with my agoraphobia, and I haven't walked that far in years (excluding the occasional quiet bushwalk).

The other factor is that I also really don't want to get on the scales, but I'm worried she'll want to weigh me having been so long. I just don't want to be weighed and monitored any more. It's just stressful and pointless at this stage.

For the past week or two, I've been feeling awfully sick whenever I consume solids. It's like a cross between nausea, cramps, and heartburn. I've only been eating a small dinner so I can have the first part of the day without feeling sick, but I'll wake up two or three times a night with my stomach screaming at me.

I had a strange incident on Friday. Mum woke me up at 11am, thinking I'd overdosed as I never sleep that late.

I have to stress – I hadn't taken any extra pills or smoked or anything like that. But I was completely out of it. And I have no idea why. I was confused, panicked, crying hysterically, unsteady on my feet... I ended up having one smoke and a few sips of coffee before going back to sleep.

When I woke up again three hours later, I felt fine. It's a complete mystery as to what happened that morning, but mum later told me that she was about to call an ambulance, as it took her 10 or 12 tries to wake me before I even opened an eye.

Then, on Saturday, I had one of the worst breakdowns I've had in a while. Just the usual crap – crying about being worthless, useless, a failure and a fuck-up. After beating myself up, both mentally and physically, I went into the kitchen in a fury. I destroyed a heap of food, throwing the packets on the floor and stomping on them, throwing tubs of yoghurt in the sink. It was... not my finest moment.

A couple of hours later, I lay on the couch and took the stash of meds that I technically was not supposed to have. Judging from what I took compared to previous overdoses, I was expecting to probably wake up in hospital again. Before I passed out, I locked and hid everything self-harm or overdose related, and this time hid the keys where no one could find them, just in case. I've only just finished replacing everything after my last overdose, when the police found the keys in a drawer and confiscated all of my tools and meds. Since a lot of the time I'm still actively self-harming and being generally non-compliant by the time the ambulance gets here, they always seem to be accompanied by police these days.

Amazingly enough, I still woke up early the next morning, at home, with no emergency services. I was just a little wobbly on my feet and uncoordinated, and all I could think was regretting wasting my stash on a failed overdose.

To end on a positive: 
Over the two weeks between May 15th and 28th, I had six nights off drinking, which is better than I've done in a while. Given, I did smoke for a couple of those days, but hey, a win's a win. If I can stick to roughly every second night instead of every night, I think that's my goal for the moment.

With any luck, I should be able to get a new laptop in the next month or so, which will make it easier to keep up with blogging (mine died just before Christmas, so I've had to rely on when I can borrow Mother Dearest's computer).

The Aftermath...

Thursday, 11 May 2017


It's been a week of birthdays in the house. First with my 24th on April 30, then my mum's 60th a week later.

We'd planned to go out for dinner for my birthday, and while it's something I enjoy, it doesn't make it any less stressful. Between the act of going out, and the hours it takes me to feel presentable enough to, I started getting anxious, edgy, overwhelmed. I leaned on my PRNs through the day, perhaps a little too heavily.

We went to an Italian place that I've been wanting to try. I was still full from the cake, but wanted to go out because I just enjoy the experience of going out for dinner, even if I couldn't eat much. I indulged in linguini carbonara, since I knew I wouldn't eat much of it.

The big highlight of my birthday was, as those of you on Facebook would've seen, I am now the lucky owner of a NES Mini. I was so disappointed when I couldn't get one, but he managed to track one down. I was so excited when I opened it, and spent the next few days playing it for hours on end.

But between the fear from eating so much and wanting to self-harm, it only made me more determined to go ahead with the laxative overdose that's been building for the past few weeks. Plus, I've mentioned before that the only times I don't drink are if I'm physically ill, in hospital, or smoking. Laxatives would mean I'd have some time off drinking due to being physically ill/in pain, and drop some weight (from not drinking or eating much because I'd be sick, not from the laxatives themselves - we all know it doesn't work that way).

I took them across three days, hoping to prolong the pain and sickness without needing to go to hospital from taking a whole packet, as has happened a few times before. I had 20 one morning, but still drank because the cramps didn't kick in until later in the night. The next morning, I took another 20, but still only felt sick for a few hours in the late night/early morning. Then, I took 60. That worked. I was too sick to drink anything or eat much for the next two, two and a half, days. It wasn't fun, but it got me two days off drinking.

Then, it was mum's birthday on Sunday. I had a fantastic homemade Indian dinner planned. Three mains and five sides, but it ended in disaster.

I coped well with most of the day. My dosa batter failed spectacularly, managing to melt the base of my KitchenAid blender in the process (and I was just blending uncooked, cold, soaked rice!). My grandfather's signature sponge cake collapsed. I managed to cope with hours in the kitchen cooking dinner, only to (accidentally) spill oil all over my hand at the last minute.

I got ready to serve. Everything was ready to be played up, and I'd just finished the pappadums.

I think it's probably because I usually use a different pan of the same size, and the usual one is heavier, but I used the old one because I didn't want mine tainted with oil. I just lifted it up on too high an angle, because it poured from the pan and over the handle to my hand. That's what I get for cooking with oil.

Thankfully I turned off the burners before I moved the pan, otherwise god knows what could've happened.

I screamed and ran to the sink for cold water, and my family came in. I felt so bad for fucking up, I just kept apologizing. My brother is good with first aid from his years of volunteer work, so he helped out, and wrapped the fingers in plastic wrap to protect them. They wanted me to to A&E, but it felt ridiculous, so I said I'd just see a doctor in the morning.

Mum went to buy a bag of ice as I'd used what was in the freezer, and Steve started tasting and picking at the food, and I nibbled on the hard-won pappadums with another glass of wine. I ate dinner with one hand with the burnt hand still in water. I kept my hand in water overnight in a bowl on a table next to the couch.

We had to close Billy out of the kitchen, as he kept licking oil off the floor after it cooled down. Not only was there oil all over the stove top and on the floor in front of it, but it spread as mum and my brother walked through it searching for first aid supplies. Between cleaning the benches/stove/floor, it took mum a full day to clear up the disaster.

I have oil burns all over my thumb, index and middle fingers, thumb web and palm on my left hand, despite leaving it in icy water for 12+ hours after the incident. Once I realized it'd take more than a few days to start healing (or stop blistering, for that matter), I started slowly typing this post on my phone instead of the laptop, since I currently can't type with my left hand.

Being a physical injury, mum actually offered to drive me to see my GP and get it dressed without even having to ask. A blister on my thumb had already burst by the time I got to the appointment at 8:45. They popped the others that had come up, and dressed them tightly. I had to get a tetanus/whooping cough booster, and they warned my grandmother's ruby and diamond ring might have to be cut off if it kept swelling.

More blisters came up through the next few days. It happened on Sunday, and I saw my GP and the nurse on Monday, Wednesday, and I have to go back tomorrow too. Yesterday, my fingers were covered with blisters, and again they were popped and dressed, as well as getting a flu shot.

Next week, my GP is doing another home visit, as I haven't had a proper appointment in two months. I'm dreading having to go for a walk, although it'll still be short. For now, I'm just resting and loading up with painkillers.

And, of course, more birthday picture-spam...

More gratuitous selfies from going out for dinner

I don't get birthday cakes much anymore. I used to make my own, but these past few years, it's been too much, and mum never bakes anymore. So this year, mum bought me a lamington sponge cake (for you non-Aussies: a lamington is sponge cake that's been coated with an extremely thin layer of chocolate icing and sprinkled in coconut). Not my first choice, but it was at least something everyone eats. I had a small piece in the afternoon, and the family devoured the rest over the next day or two. I didn't much care to have more than one slice. I just wanted the gesture.
(And, naturally, there's no eating in this house without two furry supervisors)

The cheesymite scrolls I made for mum's birthday

The oil burns as of yesterday