Saturday, 26 September 2015

Get me Out of my Head

This week has been an utter mess.
I ended up seeing the dietician twice and my GP twice, even though I only had the one appointment to start with.

When I saw her on Tuesday, the dietician suggested 6-weekly weigh ins, which I'm not too sure about yet, but I guess I've got a month to think about it.

I told her about last weekend, when mum and I had gotten into an... intense disagreement (about food, no less), and my brother actually stepped in and spoke to us separately, first me crying on the kitchen floor, then her outside.

I didn't tell her about them freaking out when they came back inside and saw me sitting with three different boxes of meds, searching for a PRN that would help.
Note: I didn't take a huge amount - I just didn't want to stand at the medicine cupboard and sort through everything - although it did add up to a bit much throughout the day.
But they panicked and inspected packets and tried to figure out how many were there before. Mum 'offered' to take control of my meds again, but for whatever reason, I've been pissy about that since we've been clashing lately.

That said, the next morning I couldn't remember much at all from after the breakdown, but apparently I got restless legs from hell and was unable to move about by myself for a few hours.

Then on Thursday, I made an appointment to see the dietician again because I was having such a low day and really needed to talk to someone.

The same thing had happened with my meds, but I didn't think much of it.

She said I looked a lot worse than when she'd seen me two days prior. Concerned, she went to get my GP, who asked me to wait with the dietician while she finished with a patient.

The GP took my blood pressure a few times, sitting and standing, as well as drawing bloods herself right then because it was too busy for me to go to pathology. I was kinda irked because my bonus for getting on the scales last week was not having a blood test this month.
Blood pressure: 90/65, 51/33 standing

    "Do I need to tell your mum to take control of your meds?"
It's only in the last year or two that mum has returned my meds to the medicine cabinet after being in hiding since a nasty overdose nearly ten years ago (oh god, I'm getting old).

I had to make an appointment to go back the next day to show my blood pressure was improving and my blood tests were clear, otherwise she was going to call an ambulance. She said I was very close to an admission, but even then, I didn't see what the big deal was. I'd just taken a couple of extra PRNs - wasn't it a good thing I was actually using them for once?

Clinical note on my pathology request read:    "Anorexia, recent neglect."
(Self-neglect, I should add)

The dietician wanted to give me one of those pre-mixed Ensures, but said I'd have one when I got home. I ended up falling asleep by 4:30, after a 2:30 appointment, and sleeping for a solid 10 hours for the first time in an age. But I had one yesterday, so I guess that's close enough.

In the morning, I'd forgotten most of the day. It hit me like a tonne of bricks when I remembered her ultimatum of improvement-or-hospital, and saw I did indeed have an appointment in my calendar for 9:30am.

Thankfully, my bloods were okay, white cells aside, and my blood pressure was back to a reasonable level. When I pulled up my sleeve for the cuff, I still had the crumpled tape and cotton ball in the crook of my elbow, forgotten.

She was going to contact the dietician to let her know I was okay. I just feel like an asshole for worrying them. I just wanted someone to talk to. It was entirely incidental that my PRN intake even came out.


Friday, 18 September 2015

Weigh Day

On Tuesday, after months of gentle but increasing pressure to stand on the scales, I had my long-awaited weigh-in with the dietician.

We did it first, to get it out of the way. After drawing up Wii vs Her Scales comparisons with her the week before, I told her that I'd weighed 47.9kg on the Wii this morning, and just before we left I weighed myself in the same clothes she weighs me in, and I was 48.4kg

On her scales, I stood facing them, fearless but terrified, as the little red numbers flashed up.

I groaned "Oh, I don't like that..."
"I don't think you ever will."

I'd been feeling bloated, the scales hadn't been moving that week, and I was pretty sure I was carrying some extra food/water weight, which is likely considering I'm already down another kilo from Tuesday. I thought about putting it of for a week, but what good would it serve?

We'd figured a 1.2-1.4kg difference, between my morning weight and the clinic weight, and this was much the same. I know I should really adjust the Wii to line up closer to her scales, but at the moment I don't know if that would be a good idea or not.

When did weighing become so complex? I miss the days of waking up, peeing, stripping and weighing each day. It seems so perfectly simple, looking back.

So, a bit of an overview.
  • I was 43.7kg (BMI 12.6) when I last weighed in at home, early last year before returning control of the scales to the dietician.
  • Then, due to the whole ridiculous 'misunderstanding' with the dietician, I saw in this New Year around 53-54kg (BMI 15.3).
  • This year, I've been dropping pretty damn consistently, even if not quickly, and am currently around 47kg (BMI 13.6), give or take.

Which is still too much. But at least I have a better idea of where I am.

I'm still not ready to face the real bathroom scales, first thing in the morning, naked and void. Like I said before - when did weighing become so complex?

She congratulated me for looking at the scales. In the three years I've been seeing her, every weigh-in has been blind, simply because the weight wouldn't be my true weight (naked, void, AM, you know the deal) and would serve no good. Now that I think about it, it did serve no good. Seeing the number has only triggered a push to lose more. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure its something worth congratulating.

The dietician asked me to have a think about how often we should weigh in.
    "Whenever GP pushes it?"
I was only half-joking.
She suggested monthly, adding that it'd mean I might be given some slack with blood tests. I was thinking more like 3-monthly, and to try to fill her in on any losses/gains I'm aware of, but I don't know if that's a reasonable situation at all.

Any input here? I know there's been a lot of discussion lately regarding how often we should weigh ourselves (both in recovery and not). What's a reasonable time frame for weigh-ins that I really don't want to do?

Mum ended up being away for an extra day last weekend. Basically, she was picking up a new car from some friends, and began her journey home, but after not even an hour on the road, it just kinda... stopped. When she called to fill me in on the details of when it'd be fixed and when she'd be back, I couldn't help but laugh when she said the mechanic, being in the middle of woop woop, wouldn't have the part until 4:30 the next day, meaning it could be 6 or 7PM before she gets home.

A full extra day would be perfect, thank you very much!

After I blogged (at which point I was expecting her home that night), I spent most of my Sunday and Monday beng a couch potato. Monday was a totally lost day. I took full advantage of the extra time, and pushed everything productive down my to-do list so I could spend one more day on the couch, smoking and dozing in-and-out, with my Disney & Pixar favourites marathon in the background. I know that's no existence, but it's all I feel up to right now,

And now, it's back to the daily grind, with tension hanging thick in the air and two Taurens like bulls at a gate. That's what we are. Today we got into an argument, crying, full on break down. I've taken to locking myself in the laundry when I want to be alone. Took a few too many PRNs, and one that isn't supposed to be PRN. Right now, I just want to sleep.

"Two lorazepam. One seroquel. One bright orange, 
so hopefully I may sleep. Four more lorazepam.
It's like candy.
'Swallow, and you will be happy'"

I only really realised after, that the only times I really ate over those four days were when my brother prompted me, whether to join in take-out, or just eating something for dinner in general, or to have a piece of the Vegemite toast he makes in the middle of the afternoon. The first day when he was at work and I was completely alone, my intake consisted of an egg & toast, plus a small tub of light choc mousse (200 total).

My dietician's parting words of wisdom this week was to be kind to myself, to take care of myself, to just get through each day one step at a time, but at the same time it makes me feel so selfish.

She suggested trying to get in contact with "that one friend" who I might actually see a few times a year, and that it might provide a break from the hellfire currently raging at home. I would be nice, but I can't initiate contact with people. I haven to wait for them to come to me. Even with some of you guys, I can't start a conversation, because I'm so worried of being seen as annoying or weird or I don't even know what. 

I think I'm gonna have to call it a night. This has taken so long, and my head is not in a good place. Imma hurry to finish this up, and hope that tomorrow isn't so hard. Sorry for any typos. I simply 
cannot today.


Sunday, 13 September 2015

"Life is this big, fat, gigantic, stinking mess, but that's the beauty of it too."

For the last few days, I've been home alone. I say 'alone', although my brother has been here during the weekend.

When he got home on Friday he mentioned getting take-out last night, which had me on edge all day. I ended up choosing Noodle Box, and had noodles with beef, black beans, peas and carrots. I was shocked by the size (750 grams!) when he bought it home. He'd ordered a regular, when even a small would've been two meals. But tonight, I think I'm just going to cook an egg and a slice of toast (which seems to be my new go-to meal, again).

I think it's safe to say I've spent the bulk of the past three days either gaming, watching movies, smoking or sleeping. But it's been good to have some time alone. I haven't broken down or cried or self-harmed once.

This week I saw my GP for our monthly double appointment. She changed my antibiotics and gave me another two weeks, despite my being honest and telling her I've been shit with taking them. She said she wants to keep me on them for a while after my chest's cleared up to help with the redness from picking at my skin.

The dietician also asked me to try to get an Ensure in. She thinks my intake is contributing to this chest infection lingering. It hasn't happened yet this week, but maybe after I get weighed on Tuesday.

She asked if I had any more thoughts on getting back to see the new mental health nurse, but I really don't know. I just don't want to sit down and talk to her, even though I know I have to. She was going to talk to the dietician about it later that day, and mentioned that she was going to call the old MHN to organise a time to catch up.

It was only then the idea struck that maybe she would have some useful advice on the situation. So currently the plan is to talk to her about it, and hopefully she can help me get back to seeing the new MHN.

Last week the postman delivered a parcel from my Starsister with this amazing colouring book.

At first it was really daunting, and I was worried I'd use the 'wrong' colours or somehow else wreck the whole thing, but after I got started it really flowed (...even if it doesn't look like it). At last, the Derwent 72s I bought in high school are finally getting used.


Sunday, 6 September 2015


I know it's been well over a week since I last posted. I've been trying to write for the last two days, but the words aren't coming. I'm just empty.

Everything just hurts. It feels like I have no skin.

Seeing the dietician on Tuesday was, as usual, the highlight of my week. Just having someone who I can actually talk to face-to-face has been invaluable, and lately she truly has been my rock, my comfort, my lifeline.

We actually spoke a little about weight, in preparation for the upcoming weigh-in. She pulled up my history and I whipped out my phone and we made some comparisons.
Comparing weights from my first weigh-in of 2015, and the last time she weighed me in February, I had weighed 1.2kg and 1.4kg (respectively) heavier on her scales than I did that morning on the Wii Fit.

Doing the math - clothing weights, coffee, allow a variable for BMs - the Wii can't be more than 1kg off, two at the most. I'd expect to weigh at least 1kg more once I'm fully dressed with a belly full of coffee (1kg of clothing max, plus 500g coffee).
I don't want to get specific and try to guess exactly, because I know it'll only end in pain, but for now it's sated my curiosity. I know I'm down a little more than 5kg (11 lbs) this year, although some of that was the weight gained during our 'misunderstanding' last year/early this year.

But I actually looked at her screen for the first time ever, with my weekly weights on full display. Same as weighing on the Wii, I know it's not 100% accurate so it means nothing but stress to me. It's only an indication, a hint. I need to get on the proper scales soon. I'm just scared and keep wanting 'one more kilo's safety net to make sure I'm at a weight so I won't do something regrettable.

I think next Tuesday (15th) I'm going to weigh in three times. First on the Wii, then clothed-and-coffee'd just before I see the dietician, and then on her scales. How much of that 1.2kg gap will be made up during that second weigh-in...?

After I got home from seeing the dietician, my lungs hit the dirt. After a breakdown (that could've been avoided if I kept my mouth shut. It seems whenever I open my mouth, I fuck up -- talking, eating, smoking...), I was completely breathless, unable to walk more than 10 meters without descending into coughing fits. My O2sats hit 86% and my heart rate was pushing 150 (even resting, I'm 120 now).

So I was back to see the GP on Friday. Another two weeks on antibiotics, more painkillers, although it doesn't solve the problem of me struggling to take them, as some fucked up form of self-harm. If I'm stressed at med times, I have a bad habit of pick-and-mixing, taking the psychoactive drugs, leaving the pills that could potentially improve my physical health.

Today is Father's Day.
It's been nearly twenty years since we lost my dad to a brain tumour. February 29th 1996, a month before my third birthday, and a date that stings more every leap-year.
He was in my dreams last night.
I don't want to get all sappy, but seeing my friends post Father's Day tributes on Facebook today hit a nerve, so here's my social media contribution.

Happy Father's Day, dad.
I wonder how things would be different if you were still here...