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.
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