I've officially continued my streak of losing weight over Christmas, for every year since the start of my ED. This was the fourth.
After two days of being slack with where my calories came from, my blood sugars had dropped by Saturday morning. I struggled on the step, stumbling and dragging my feet. I felt cold and nauseated, unable to breathe, about to pass out. My heart rate went through the roof, and I gave up after a pathetic 10 minutes; 90 minutes less than I'd managed the day before. I struggled to keep my eyes open all day, but pushed to get my sugars stable again, resulting in an intake of 800. With exception of that, and New Year's Eve drinks, my intake seems to've settled around 450-600 calories.
The dietician will be working next week after all, even though she'll be halfway through a family camping trip at the beach. Thankfully that means there'll only be two weeks without appointments, which is slightly less daunting.
I'm struggling for words again. I'm currently getting through the days with step aerobics filling the morning, leaning on lorazepam to zombie through the afternoon, smoking the green stuff after dinner and taking my night meds as early as is reasonable. But hey, whatever works.
Lorazepam is new to me. My GP gave me a box of 50 back in May, after the Lung Doctor Man recommended I should be on them. She wasn't too keen on the idea, but gave me the one prescription, warning there'd be no more after that. I hadn't taken any yet, aware they're a precious commodity. I started taking them just after Christmas, in a desperate attempt to lessen the breakdowns, the debilitating panic attacks, the 4-hour episodes of nonstop hysterics.
Everything is too overwhelming, too painful, too much. I'm managing little bits of sewing here and there, but that's about it. Except for Christmas, I haven't even cooked for three weeks.
I am self-destructing.
I am falling apart.
"I would say happy new year, but it's not happy; it's exactly the same as last year except colder."
- Robert Clark