Beginning of the End

I've been struggling to write for a couple of months now. Even my journal has been seriously neglected. There's something about having the words written down that makes it so much more real, so much harder to ignore.

Over the weekend, I was informed that my mother will no longer be teaching me how to drive, and on top of that, will no longer assist with transport to appointments.

It's barely a 3 minute drive away. But I can't walk there. I can't take a taxi there. It scares me more than I can find words to explain. Walking around the neighbourhood alone makes me terrified - I can't tell you how many years it's been since I went for a simple walk around the block - and don't even get me started on the fear of getting into a car with a stranger (isn't that what we were always told, anyway?).

I'm just going to miss my dietician and GP so, so much. With the dietician, that's a five-year relationship turned to dust in an instant. But that's how great the fear is

I guess she might change her mind about teaching me to drive, but I doubt it. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm scared, and it all just feels so hopeless.

I've lost all access to every kind of help and support I had. If I can't see my GP, I'll probably lose my meds. I was supposed to keep seeing my new psychologist for my GP to be comfortable continuing meds as it is, but obviously that's not going to be happening. I cancelled another appointment with her last week, again due to the taxi issue.

What do I do when I have another COPD exacerbation?

After this, I told mum I was scared. That I felt unsafe, like I was falling into a deep dark pit, and didn't know what to do.

  "I think you need to talk to someone."

I wanted to laugh.

  "And how the hell am I supposed to do that now?"

She would call an ambulance. She would even drive me to A&E, but I'd have no way of getting home. When I was there a few weeks ago, I was given a 24/7 phone number for the youth mental health services, who can do immediate risk assessments. I can't talk on the phone to call up for one, and neither would mother dearest.

Sometimes, like now, it feels like I have two sides of my head fighting to and fro. An angel on on shoulder, a devil on the other.

One side is wanting to get help, desperate to talk, devastated that I can't.

The other side asks me why I'm still bothering. All that I've wanted for as long as I can remember is to disappear, so why am I still trying when it feels like everyone else has given up?

My head is screaming, fighting, bursting against my skull.

Then the latter half takes over, and I feel an eerily complete calm. I stopped panicking and crying and breaking down, I sit myself up, the emotions stop, and a small smile comes across my face. I don't have to do this anymore.

At the end of the day, part of me is kind of relieved, you know? It's kind of like getting permission to throw in the towel. And I feel free.

I don't know what will happen with the ED without the support I've had from my dietician for so many years now. I'm just devastated that it's all come crashing down at once. I'm in free-fall and I'm so scared and I don't know what's going to happen

Now that I've got my thoughts somewhat together, I guess it's time for the part I've been dreading - writing the 'break up' text. I'm going to ask about occasional home visit appointments, and I'm pretty sure my GP does them too. But really, I'd settle for giving her a hug and saying goodbye,

On another note, I was home alone for a couple of days last weekend. For the first time in months, I ended up cracking and smoking. Not synthetics - that stuff's gone for good. But I spent six days in a blur. Between everything that's been going on, I felt like it was either that or self-harm/overdose, and at that point I wouldn't have been able to get help. After the past few days, I wish I had more to numb the fucking pain. But I can't fall back into the 'all day every day' trap, and considering the cravings/withdrawals I'm still feeling, I know I can't risk it.

Since I finished it, I've been drinking for the past four nights/afternoons because I didn't want to deal with sobriety, I didn't want to feel. I never drink that many days in a row. But when I had weed, I went eight days without a drink, which is better than I've done since... well, since I last smoked, to be honest.

Probably the last time I'll be all dolled up for... I don't even know how long. Without appointments, or learning how to drive, there's nothing left for me to get out for. They were the only access I had to the outside world. 

I'm trying to plan an outing. Maybe spend a few hours going to my favourite thrift stores, maybe going to the zoo. But right now, I can't even think about it. My head is overwhelmed with everything I need to do. But I'm so depressed, I rarely get anything done. I just zombie on the couch in my pajamas all day, re-runs playing in the background to try to distract myself from the nothingness.

xxBella

Will the cycle never end?

The thoughts have been building, becoming more intense and intrusive for over a week now. On Wednesday, I took 8 laxatives, hoping that'd sate the urge. But on Thursday, after an argument with mum, I broke.

She told me I should move out.
She called me a freeloader.

She told me to get off my fat ass and do more with my days. I told her she has no way of knowing, nor care, of how I spend my days, and that it's none of her business, that she doesn't dictate how I should spend my time or what is productive to my life or not. She doesn't care about the deep bout of depression that's left me frozen on the couch for weeks now. I struggle to do even the basics of brushing my hair, washing my face, brushing my teeth. She doesn't care that I do so little, move so little, because if I do I'll self-destruct. 

She wants me gone, but she has no right to decide on the terms on which I leave, whether it's moving out or death. Either way, I will be gone from her life.

I overdosed on laxatives, again. Usually, my overdoses have been one packet, 100 pills, give or take 10-20. This time was 2 packets, and my fourth big laxative overdose. Intoxication, self harm, and self poisoning are my only ways to escape. A laxative overdose gives me three days break from the world, three days of pain.

Mum called an ambulance. I barricaded myself in the lounger room, my heavy armchair pushed against the door.

The ambulance arrived with police in tow. So embarrassing - what will the neighbours think? It seems the police always turn up now if I've self-harmed in any way. They were all very nice about it though.

With people coming and going, Billy was put outside. He whimpered and cried - the poor thing has terrible separation anxiety.
When I did get home after hospital, he gave his usual excited welcome, then sat outside the bathroom door whimpering when I dropped my bag and made a mad dash for the toilet. 


But yet again, I land myself in hospital.


I got to the hospital sometime around 7pm, and the mental health team came to see me. I didn't get to see the nice psychiatrist, but their general mental health team are usually quite nice.

The head of the team actually remembered me from years ago. From how the conversation went, I'm guessing it was from my first ED admissions. Given it's such a big hospital, it feels weird that so many people there seem to remember me from one time or another.

He asked if I'd been drinking, as the paramedics noticed the bottle of wine on the table. I told him I had a few glasses of wine with dinner (…well, maybe a little more, truth be told). He asked to check my BAC, and it turned out at 0.089.
  “Well, you certainly wouldn't be able to drive.”
  “I'm on my learners permit – I couldn't drive at even 0.001.”
(Note: Since I'm sure it varies internationally, a result over 0.05 is the limit for fully licensed drivers).

They gave me a few bags of saline, and a constant stream of buscopan (for the cramps) and pain killers, although I refused many of the painkillers. I was moved to the short stay unit, and they would keep supervising me for a while, but there's really not much they can do (which is why it frustrates me that I can't just stay at home).

It took six hours for the laxatives to start kicking in. Within the first six hours of their effect, I had six bowel movements. Within the first twelve hours, I'd had 16. That was the worst of it, but the cramps, nausea, and runs to the toilet continued for the next day or two.


I feel like a balloon deflating. Shriveled, dry, and empty.


I was discharged later the next day. They wanted me to go see my GP the next day and get some bloods done to check my electrolytes, but as I found out, pathology wasn't open, so trying to get in to see GP seemed completely pointless.

Mum refused to come pick me up. The doctors were going to talk to her about keeping an eye on me. Checking in on me and keeping me safe, telling her what to watch out for and signs I might faint or need additional medical help.

After over an hour of panicking and crying while the nurses tried to find a safer way for me to get home, as I had no one to call on, the mental health team decided they'd help me to a taxi. Taxis are one of my biggest fears (getting in a car with a stranger? no,no,no,no,no). It's not something I'd do again. I wanted to cry on the drive home, but I was focusing all of my energy into keeping my bowels in check.


Between running to the toilet, cramps, OBs, meds, and mental health team & doctors checking in, I barely slept in hospital, or for the first night at home.

I had three quiet days waiting for the effects to pass. It seems to be 48-72 hours for my body to get through it. I was dizzy and weak for most of it, not to mention the cramps

I stuck to mostly peppermint tea (which has never felt so good, and worked amazingly to help with the cramps), yoghurt, and liquids for the first two days, hoping it'd minimize the strain on my digestive tract. Watermelon made me sick. Soup and bread made me sick. I could stomach small amounts of dry crackers, but that was about it without feeling like I had to throw up.


The youth mental health services have called a few times, to follow up on the admission, and to see if I need extra support. It seems kind of pointless when I have my psychologist (as useless as she is), but maybe if I do this, then my GP will let me drop the psychologist. They also gave me a 24/7 number, and asked for me to contact them if I feel in crisis or like I'm going to overdose again, and they can see me for a risk assessment any time, day or night. 

Tomorrow, I've got my dietician in the morning and GP in the afternoon, then the psychologist on Wednesday. There's going to be a lot to catch up on, so it'll be a busy few days. Maybe it's time to look at a new care plan. Because, obviously, something isn't working.


xxBella

Return to Normalcy

This week has been busy catching up with appointments.

On Tuesday, I saw the dietician for the first time in six weeks. I missed a couple of appointments, then she was away for a few, plus the stint in hospital. So it's been a while.

We talked about the overdose and drinking and what TV shows we've been watching. It was so good to just catch up and be able to talk to someone.

She asked about weighing me, and I said no, that the drinking has shot my weight up over the past couple of months. When she asked for a rough number, I just said

  “Too much.”

Yesterday, I saw my GP. She begrudgingly gave me back my regular PRNs after a speech on how I need to stick around, that she doesn't want to be responsible for my death, and is wary of giving me more meds in case I take a fatal overdose. I haven't been given them since the overdose, and as a result I've been skipping my regular meds and feeling horrible, so I have extra in case I need them.

She wants me to start returning leftover meds to the pharmacy after I build up five extra, but to be honest, I'm hesitant. My pill stash has become a kind of safety blanket. It's my way out. It's my way of getting a great when life becomes too much. It's my go-to for it I decide I'm just tired of it all. And that's a lot to give up.

Then, this morning, mum had gone to pick up her own meds, and the pharmacist told her that they now have to see me at the door at each delivery to hand back leftovers. I can't do that. Usually, they just quietly slip the pack behind the security door. I have so much trouble even opening the door for my fortnightly grocery delivery. I can't face some stranger stickybeaking twice a week. My GP knows this, and it wasn't the deal anyone. I'm allowed to have a reasonable amount of extras up my sleeve in case of emergency – not give everything back twice a week.

My usual meds have also been changed again. The lorazepam at midday is gone, and replaced with another oxazepam. Now I'm on 300mg seroquel morning and night, and 30mg oxazepam at midday and night, plus 45mg oxazepam for PRNS. They've been pushing me for a while to change to just one type of benzo, and hopefully it'll work better.

Even though oxazepam initially started as a sleeping pill for me, it's become one of the most useful meds I've ever been on. The only downside to having it at midday is that I'm not supposed to drive after taking it, which is going to make continuing to learn tricky at best.

I did tell my GP that it's not been going so well with my new psychologist, and she said she'd give her a call and talk to her about giving more active advice instead of just talking pointlessly.

I was actually supposed to my the psychologist this morning, but I didn't go. I'm just so tired of it all. I did actually write a note to give her last time, just a couple of days before the overdose, because saying the words was too hard, but I couldn't even do that. From the morning I sit down, she just makes me feel like shit. I feel belittled and laughed at. I can't talk to her like I should be able to.

An hour before the appointment, I just broke down crying because I can't keep doing this.

I don't care if I'm 'on contract' to see the new psychologist for six months before I'm allowed to say it's not working. I can't keep going and sitting there when she makes me feel even worse. I'm just tired of the whole damn system.

After cancelling the appointment, a few hours later I got a text from the psychologist's office, saying

  “[Psychologist] has been speaking with [GP] and both would like you to make an ongoing appointment. Please ring to make a time."

It looks like I'm not getting out of this one so easily. Ugh.

Speaking of – thanks to everyone for your feedback and love on my last post. Some of you mentioned seeing the hospital psychiatrist as an outpatient. Although I think it's not going to be possible, I think I might ask my GP if there's any way if it could happen. So, fingers crossed.

xxBella