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.