Tuesday, 27 September 2016

A Rock and a Hard Place

For better or for worse, I've had a few impulsive outings in the past couple of weeks.

Last weekend, I had an argument with mum. I told her I was feeling trapped and lonely, and wanted to go out, even just for a drive in the car. I don't know why, but she started snapping at me about wanting me to be more 'active' and not spend all of my time between the couch and my arm chair on the porch.

I do a lot with my days. She just doesn't see it. Between writing, keeping my notes up to date, reading and commenting on blogs, exercise, self-care, cleaning, reading books, mindfulness, sewing and crafts, not to mention just getting through each day, I actually have very little downtime. I do everything I have the energy for (physical and emotional). She thinks I have no structure or routine, and that the only way to be productive is if you're moving around. 

After crying all morning, I raided my meds. After two mini overdoses in a week, taking over an extra week's worth, mum realized I've been stockpiling my meds.

I tried talking to her some more, telling her how hurtful her comment was, and she backed off. I still don't know why me wanting to get out of the house made her have a go at me for not being more active in the house. She said that I was doing so well keeping busy after she first had surgery, and didn't understand why I couldn't just keep going. Never mind that I told her at the time that it was a struggle, and not something I could deal with long-term.

  “Let's all go out for afternoon tea – the three of us.”

Self-conscious about the newest addition of cuts, and scratches on my face, I said I didn't think I could do it. She had lunch, and came back out and asked again. I'd been thinking about it, and said okay, but that we'd have to buy something and go somewhere like a beach or park – not somewhere busy like a cafe.

And then, she backtracked, saying we should do it the following day. I burst into tears, saying I didn't know if I could. Going out is more of a 'carpe diem' thing. I can't plan in advance and be sure I'll be able to follow through when the time gets here.

Going out at all is getting so much harder. Even walking beyond the house, down the backyard, is hard. I need mum to walk with me. Walking to the garage to collect my laundry from the dryer this week was nearly unbearable. My chest hurt, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was desperate to get out of this house, and after the argument, I started running around manic. After a bottle of wine, I decided to go see A. Yes, I was that desperate. And yes, I told you all to slap me if I saw him again.

When he first asked, I hesitated. I told him I was still trying to work through the cow comment and the subsequent OD. He said he was seriously kicking himself for saying that, and apologised yet another time. I guess everyone fucks up now and then – what really counts is how they follow up.

So I put a caveat on meeting up.
  “Please, at no point, comment on my body shape/weight/size. With an ED, even things that may be intended as a compliment can be received the wrong way.”
And with that, he got in the car and drove the hour each way to pick me up. 

We stopped at a strip club to play pool again, and I had another vodka and Diet Coke. It feels weird being the only girl in the joint wearing clothes.

At his place, I drank another half bottle of wine. My tolerance for alcohol, and how often I drink, has increased exponentially since I stopped smoking synthetics (three months today!). Drunkenly, I told him how negatively I thought of myself around him, which led to more questions and a deep-and-meaningful about my mental health in general. The kind of conversation where you wake up the next day and want to die of embarrassment.

I told him I felt like an idiot for breaking down, but he thanked me, saying he really appreciated me talking, that it helped him understand more. He asked a bit more about the past abuse, the anorexia, the link between, but without a few drinks under my belt, I just sat silently.

I know it's potentially a bad idea, but apart from feeling so lonely and isolated, I feel like I need to keep as many options open as possible. With mum pushing me to move out, and the fear that I'll one day be kicked to the curb, I need friends around to fall back on.

Then, this weekend, I caught up for drinks with R. I now feel like I have to take the precaution of telling everyone who sees me to please not comment on my weight/size. He said I certainly don't have to worry about that with him, and the thing is, I know that I don't.

So I spent all of Saturday trying to make myself look like a presentable human being again, after being a mess when I went out the week before. I straightened my hair, painted my nails, neatened up my brows, did my make-up... I wore a long sleeved cardigan with a tubigrip covering my forearm and hand, with a fingerless glove to complete the illusion of not being a total fuck-up.

I had no idea if I'd be eating with him or not, so I had a little bowl of pasta with bolognese sauce (153 cal) and a dinner roll (99 cal) when my family had dinner. Having not eaten so I wouldn't be bloated when I went out, it was probably a good decision. I'd already had half a bottle of wine – call it social lubricant – and wanted to make sure I didn't make an idiot out of myself by throwing up again. 

On the way to his place, he stopped at the servo to pick up snacks – lollies, chocolate bars, chips, Ben & Jerry's. But I was too scared to eat any of it in front of him. My stomach was burning by the end of the night, and I wanted a handful of chips so badly, but I couldn't. What would people think if they saw me eating such junk?! 
Going to people's houses is a lot easier than going out in public though, so that was at least one less stress.

I've missed more appointments with the dietician since I last posted. After last week I texted her, apologizing for missing so many, explaining that mum still can't drive and the anxiety of catching Uber or a taxi makes me feel physically ill.

She asked me to cancel our appointments until I'm ready to get there again.

It's not like I do it on purpose. Every Monday, I get the confirmation text, and tell myself I will get there this time. But I haven't been in over a month.

I don't know what to do anymore. I feel so alone and abandoned. It's like all of my appointments and support I have are just slowly slipping away. I just wish everyone cared so little ten years ago instead of not giving me a choice in getting treatment or not. Now I'm on my own, and I don't think I want it enough to fight alone. 

To top things off, I'm being pushed back to weekly dispensing, after over a year on daily. Mum won't pick them up on her walks anymore, and the chemist can't keep delivering daily. I've got a week getting deliveries on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but after that, it'll be weekly. I'm afraid, but at the same time, I don't care if I fuck up. I know if I misuse them, my GP will just notify the chemist to give me more, as she doesn't want me going without. 

Everything's falling apart, and with everyone backing off and withdrawing support, I feel like they've all just given up on me and are giving me permission to give up too.

I'm just so very tired. I don't know where my head's at these days. Next time I see my GP, I'm going to ask her about a possible admission to the private psych Clinic. My self-harm is out of control, I don't know how much longer I can fight the urge for another laxative OD, I haven't been taking my meds properly because I'm too scared to sleep, then I take the entire stockpile. I only feel safe from the flashback nightmares if I'm drunk, or stay up for 24+ hours and run myself into the ground.

And thank you for all the support on my last post. I know that my team probably consider it unethical to maintain the status quo, preventing a further decline but not actively seeking treatment, but if that's the case, I feel like I should just stop going. Frankly, my only apprehension about stopping all appointments is my meds, especially the assorted benzos that keep me sane.


Wednesday, 14 September 2016

Don'tCryDon'tCryDon'tCry, Don'tThinkDon'tThinkDon'tThink

It's been a few weeks since I've posted. Truth be told, I'm in a very deep depression at the moment, especially since the overdose incident. I'm barely functioning, getting through the days and precious little else.

I've missed so many appointments in the past two months. Two with the psychologist. One with the GP. With the dietician, I've seen her twice, missed four, and she's been away for two.

I'm not sleeping. The past four nights, I've slept about four hours each. Last night, I didn't sleep at all until a two-hour doze around 7am.

Mum keeps pushing me to do more and be more and move forward or move out. She doesn't even see the progress I've made recently. I've been off synthetics for nearly three months. My intake wasn't too terrible for a couple of months. But everyone thinks I'm making no progress. They all just get angry and tell me to move forward or leave them alone.

What more can I do? I'm so tired. No matter what you do in the life, you can never make others happy. That's one thing I'm slowly, and painfully, learning.

I'll never be good enough. I'll never meet everyone's expectations. I'll never be perfect and successful and happy and healthy.

Everything takes so much effort.

I want to sleep. I want to drink. I want to smoke. I want to OD. Yesterday I found myself eyeing the new box of laxatives. So tempting. What I wouldn't give for a few solid days of pain to stop the thoughts.

I'm losing hope. I'm scared to sleep. I wake up screaming from flashback nightmares. At the same time, I dread every waking hour. When sleep isn't an option, and neither is being awake, there's not exactly many other options.

“Today I felt like a ragdoll that has lost its stuffing.”

I saw my GP the week before last. Mum was away staying with friends for a few days, so my brother worked from home for the day so he could drive me in. Most of it was just going over the overdose, but she's really pushing me to get back to see the new psychologist. After the initial meeting, I ended up cancelling both of the appointment we had planed because it's just so far away, and especially until mum can drive again, I just couldn't do it.

Needless to say, my GP wasn't too happy.
  “I do have some rules, and both myself and the dietician could use the support.”
  “She needs to be part of the team.”
  “...and you did tell the mental health team in hospital that you were seeing a psychologist...”
Looks like my little white lie got back to her.

Between her insistence that I see someone who I really don't want to, and the fact mum told me the other day that she won't be driving me to appointments for much longer, I'm so close to just saying goodbye and going back to my bubble. Mum has always been the whole reason I started, and kept, seeing people to help with my mental health. Ever since I was 12, I've gone because I felt like I had no choice. When she started withdrawing support over the past year or so, I've started wondering why the hell I'm still doing it.

I don't want to talk to a psych. I don't make any progress with the dietician anymore – honestly, she's more like a therapist. I don't want people invading anymore. I don't want treatment or help or to move forward. I just want my GP and dietician to hold my hand and support me to try to keep things at the status quo.

Mum had more surgery last week. One of the wires in her elbow didn't hold, and the whole thing was just a mess. So she was in hospital for another two days while they fixed it up. The major impact on me I that it means another 6+ weeks before she can drive. I've already missed so many appointments because catching Uber, or even taxis, is so hard.

“I want to hide, from people, and life, and uncertainty.”

This week, I had been planning of ordering the last of the furnishings I need to set up my new sewing room and getting it all set up. But now I have some kind of infection building, and it's really kicking my ass, for nearly a week now. It started as a lump on the back of my ear (which I'm assuming is the lymph node). It gets bigger by the day, and a few days ago, I noticed the lymph at the base of my jaw is swelling too. Then, it hit my new navel piercing, which is now a mess.

Last night, the skin on the back of my ear started to break open. It's that swollen. For the past couple of days I've had a fever, chills, sweats, nausea – all that infection-y stuff. I'm seeing my GP tomorrow, but I just feel so run down.

A random little design I came up with