It's Always Darkest Before The Dawn

The past few months have been very, very busy, but for the first time in years, it's mostly been for positive reasons.

It's been a long hard road, but after a year of unstable housing, one real estate agent finally took a chance on me, and now I have a place of my own for the first time ever!

At the end of August, one of the units I'd applied for finally gave me approval, after endless unsuccessful applications.

No one had ever bothered to even call my references before. Whether is was the fact that I'm on disability pension, have no rental history, or own a cat – or a combination of the three – they all took one look at my application and binned it. There's so few rentals available for so many people who need them, and I'm not exactly an ideal candidate compared to others.

Just a week after looking at the unit, I got a call saying that my application had been successful. I went in to sign the lease that afternoon, and two days later, I picked up my keys and went to look at my home for the first time ever.

Even though it was empty, it was lovely. Since it would be five days before the movers could get my things out of storage, I was planning to still sleep at the refuge, but go to my place during the day. I took Misty with me, just to try to get her used to a new environment, thinking she might take a while to adapt. But she and I were both so comfortable and at peace with our new home, that I slept on the floor with blankets and pillows for those five nights. It was just too depressing to think of going back to the refuge, so I only went back a few times to pack and clean.

After living in such terrible conditions, this place feels like a palace. Don't get me wrong – I had no other options for the past year, and I do appreciate being able to stay there. All I can say is that I'm relieved to be out of such a toxic environment.

One bonus to having my own place, is having a kitchen of my own. I don't feel self-conscious like I did in the refuge. There's no one to stare or ask questions about what I'm cooking or why I use the scales to weigh every morsel of food, no one to judge or interfere. I can feel comfortable knowing that there's just me. I've even started a little herb garden on my kitchen windowsill, which I'm very excited about for when they're fully grown.

As far as drinking goes, the less said about that, the better. I'm drinking less standard drinks per day since I've moved, but I've only had three days off in three months (and all three of those days were in the past month). I was on a bender the months before and after moving. Before moving, it was dealing with the stress, depression, and drama. After moving, it's been just wanting to relax, and being overwhelmed with having so many things to do. I had 77 days drinking in a row, which I think might be the longest bender I've had.

I need to get back to having at least a few days off each week, but it's a struggle at the moment. I'm having trouble breaking the habit. If I am trying to have a day off drinking, I need to hide in bed with my meds and go into lockdown, blocking out the world, to avoid a potential trigger. The hardest part is trying to distract myself from the things I need to/should be doing, and stressing out because it makes me feel lazy.

The only reason I'm even trying to have days off is because of the calories and weight. I was at a 50/50 ratio of days drinking vs days off for quite a while, but as the stress at the refuge built, 50/50 became three days off a week, then two, then one, then zero.

For the most part, the majority of my intake calories come from alcohol. My food intake still averages around 600, whether I'm drinking or not, but alcohol is usually anywhere between 1,000-1,500. I hate it, but it's so hard to get back on track. I don't even drink sugary or fatty drinks – it's all just vodka and wine.

With the extra alcohol calories, I'm working my butt off to try to burn them off. I rarely get more than halfway through the alcohol calories, but it's enough to keep my weight stable instead of gaining. But I'm so disgusted in myself. I lost 5kg at the start of the year, but after a few months, things started to get worse at the refuge, and so I began drinking more and more.

When I was at the refuge, they had an exercise bike sitting unused in a storage area. I'd asked if I could borrow it while I was there, and was told I could take it with me when I left. The computer on it doesn't work, so I just figure out a rough burn by time/steps/heart rate, but for now, I'm happy with it. I'm also trying to get out for walks with one of my support workers, as part of my exposure therapy for agoraphobia. She brings her two little dogs with her, and we walk at a quiet part of the river.

Apart from that, I'm not getting out much. I am doing click-and-collect orders for some of my groceries, which my support worker takes me to get. After increased rent and all the new bills and utilities, I'm struggling to afford more than the most basic groceries, let alone delivery.

I see my support workers six days a week, for two hours a day. A lot of it is just to give me some routine and make sure I'm okay. It gives me someone to talk to if I need to, and just having someone check in on me each day has been really helpful. But they can also help with things like picking up groceries, taking me to appointments, and general things I might need help with or want to do.

Life isn't perfect. I'm still dealing with the same issues I was last year, but I don't have to deal with the stress and drama of living in a refuge. It gives me a degree of feeling calm and content, living in my own place.

It's taking a while to learn how to run a house and be a real adult, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely. I'm just trying to find some semblance of routine again. For the past year, I've just been getting through the days, but now I want to have things to fill them – journaling and blogging being one of those things.

I've had no motivation to write, or even communicate with the outside world beyond my team, recently, and I really need to get back on that. So by the time I get around to needing to blog, so much has happened that I didn't know where to start, and it was just too overwhelming. It might still be a slow process while I finish unpacking, but hopefully you'll start seeing regular posts from me again soon.

It seems like I've barely even had time to read blogs, with the insanity that has been the past year, and I feel so disconnected, but it's time to change that and get back to being a regular member of the community, which slipped away as my housing situation grew increasingly worse over the past 18 months. I'd had no energy or motivation to do anything, but now that I've got stable and safe accommodation, that's starting to return.

I'm sorry I've fallen off the grid. But I love you all, and I'm sorry I let things slip so far for so long.

For now, I'm off to start a long overdue catch-up on everyone's blogs.

Misty is loving having huge windows to sit and watch the world go by. 

Without a courtyard, she can't roam in and out as she pleases, 

but she's adapting well. I take her outside in her harness when 

it's quiet outside, as my street can get very busy and loud, 

but she seems content just snoozing on the windowsill. 

I have most things set up and unpacked. The only things 

left are half a dozen random boxes, and my sewing room. 

When it's all done and looking nice, I promise I'll post some photos.

xxBella

"You don't have to be invisible to disappear."

In the months since I last posted, my support team has basically tripled in size.

For a long time, it’s been my GP, dietitian, and psychologist. Now, since my NDIS plan has come into effect, I also have two support workers, a support coordinator, a drug & alcohol counselor, and an occupational therapist.

The only day that I don’t have any appointments is Sunday. I see one support worker Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturday. The second one, who I only met a couple of weeks ago, I see Mondays and Thursdays. They’re there to mostly have a chat, help out with issues that might be bothering me, and day-to-day things. I see my GP and dietitian every other Tuesday, and my psychologist on alternate weeks. I see the drug & alcohol counselor every few weeks, to try to come up with coping mechanisms to cut back on drinking. My support coordinator basically runs things, but I don’t see him much, and the occupational therapist is every month or two (basically to set goals and create more routine in my days).

The organization my support team are from run groups during the week. I’m supposed to try to get to them once or twice a month, but I haven’t yet (when I do, it’ll probably be the exercise oriented ones). They also do BBQs each Saturday, which I try to get to every 4-6 weeks. A few of the people there I already know pretty well from when I was living at the SRS, so that makes it easier to be around so many people.

I’m still too nervous to eat at the BBQ, between eating in front of others and whipping out my scales like a weirdo, but my Support Worker buys me a coffee on the way. Since I’ve always been so isolated, I’ve never really had to deal with people pressuring me to eat. My family would ask if I’d like to try what they were cooking, and obviously wanted me to eat, but accept it when I declined. At the BBQ, even when none of them know explicitly about the ED, at least half a dozen people will ask “have you had something to eat?”, “aren’t you having lunch?”, “are you sure you don’t want something?” Even if I was hungry and the food smells good, I’d rather wait until I get home and cook a low-fat sausage in a dry pan and eat it in wholemeal, instead of a fatty budget sausage cooked in oil and put in white bread.

None of it’s helping much at the moment, but it’s nice to have the extra support and know that, most days, there’ll be someone around if I need to talk.


A few weeks ago, I slammed headfirst into a massive ED trigger. I won’t go into detail, because I don’t want to trigger anyone else with it. In the space of a few days, I made after hours crisis calls to my support worker, dietitian, The Butterfly Foundation (which I could unfortunately not get through to), Lifeline, and an emergency GP appointment. Those who know me, know that it takes a lot for me to actually pick up the phone, or to go and talk to a doctor I’ve never met before.

I’ve had to be more cautious with food, with only the safest of safe foods on the menu to avoid another breakdown. I’m stocked up on fruits (currently apples, mandarins, kiwis, strawberries, watermelon and cantaloupe), yoghurt, crispbread, multigrain bread, and boiled eggs. If I want a main meal, I’ve got veggie soups and stews in the freezer, and I’ve always got things to make baked potatoes around (usually a little low-fat cheddar, garlic, and 97% fat-free shortcut bacon).

One of my favorites is a light version of potato latke - a medium low carb potato, shredded and mixed with No Egg egg replacer, and cooked in a couple of teaspoons of butter. Even though I use a little butter, it still works out to under 200 cal. I’m also partial to chicken cooked in Mexican seasoning, to have with salad in either a wrap or a couple of crunchy taco shells. And with winter hitting hard, hot chocolates (45 cal) are flowing in abundance. It’s not 100% full proof. Especially if I’m drinking, my food choices vary (not so much by calories, but different options that aren’t necessarily as safe).

On the plus side, I’m also drinking less, even though it’s mostly because of the calories. Last year, I consumed a total of 136,700 calories in alcohol alone. That translates to 17.75kg (39 lbs) extra on the scale that I could’ve lost if I didn’t drink.

My dietitian is concerned that I’ve barely been getting any protein. I’ve been averaging 20g a day, and she wants me to get up to at least 40g. I’ve been trying to add in things like more yoghurt, boiled eggs, and nibbling on cashews instead of crispbread, but I still struggle to even hit 30g. Since the Big Trigger, it’s back down to barely 20g.

My weight’s slowly been dropping since cutting down on drinking in the past year, although it’s been stagnant because I’ve been drinking more again in the last three months, mostly due to a lot of traumaversaries at this time of year. Whether I’m drinking or not, my food calories average around 600, but alcohol can easily add an extra 1,000 in a day.


Mum has since decided to move back to Geelong, after spending months looking around the state to figure out where she wants to go. Our relationship has definitely improved in the past 6 months, but it’s not without effort. We’ve started going for walks, to get me out of the house and to help with her health issues. About a month ago, we did the walking track at the beach (unfortunately I did not take photos). Then last week, we did the river walk (pictures below). I’m still not getting out much - the only other outings this year have been two birthday dinners - but hopefully between these walks, the BBQ, and trying to start some of the groups, that might improve.


I’m also going to be looking at a couple of places this week, for the first time since the house was sold in August. I’d been looking a lot before that, but since Billy passed, I lost all motivation. Even though it’s never been an overly pleasant place, the refuge has become even more stressful and depressing in recent months, and I need to get out of here, especially after being here since October. So wish me luck!


And I’m sorry I’ve been terrible at answering comments and emails. When I get them, I tell myself I’ll post an update the next day, but can’t find the energy to get out of bed and sit at my laptop. I know I say it every time, but I really will try to update more often.







xxBella

Where's Bella?

I’m sorry that I’ve disappeared for the past few months.

There has been a lot going on. Losing home, and then Billy barely two weeks later, has shattered so much.

I’m working on a post explaining how I ended up where I am living now. The long-story-short version? Neither The Salvation Army or any homelessness organizations could find somewhere for me in time. Mum put me up in a motel room for two nights. A caseworker from a mental health organization got me into a Supported Residential Service, where I stayed for six weeks (basically a nursing home for all ages, and while wonderfully supportive, it also drained 99% of my income, while still having to buy my own food because I couldn’t eat theirs). I am now in short-term accommodation at a share house for homeless women (which I hate and am too scared to leave my room).

As I mentioned in my last post, Billy and Misty were cared for by a charity, staying at volunteers’ houses and being well cared for. Both they and my team were working to have Billy classes as an emotional support animal. The SRS had agreed to him coming to stay with me there (a friend I met there had his dog there too). Fate being cruel, he was mere days away from coming to be with me when he had his accident. We parted on August 23rd. He injured his eye on September 6th, I visited him before his surgery on the 7th, and spent a few hours with him on morning of the 8th. By 8pm on the 9th, he had gone into cardiac arrest.

I will never forget the fear those days. That they weren’t sure he’d make it through the surgery. The relief when he did. The shock of seeing him missing an eye with a very swollen head (but otherwise in good spirits). But the most vivid was when I was sitting on the porch of the SRS with the rest of the smokers on that Sunday night, and saw the vet who’d been taking care of him the past two weeks walking up to the building. Trying to hold it together as my new friend (we’ll call him J), who’d been a great support through it, came with me when the vet asked the staff for a private room to speak to me in, trying to convince myself that it was something else.

Then, she held my hand,

  “I’m very sorry...”

Before she could finish her sentence, I was hysterical. Sitting there, crying and screaming, Billy, my baby boy, oh god, why. Staff and residents coming in because someone was suddenly screaming uncontrollably.

I called mum on speakerphone within minutes. I couldn’t bare to make the call, so I wanted her to hear what the vet was saying. When she said she couldn’t drive the 6-hour return trip to take me to see him that night, and it would have to wait until the morning. I called my brother, just over an hour away. Even though it was late and he had to be up early for work, he agreed straight away.

The vet had told me I could only see him for 20 minutes, as it was a very busy emergency clinic, and then I’d have to say goodbye. When I got there, the staff showed us to a room and brought him in. I held him. I lay on the floor, sobbing, singing “You Are My Sunshine”. After an hour, my brother nudged me that it was time to let go. I knew I had a lot more time than I thought I would.

My poor boy. My baby. I’m sorry for rambling on, much of which I’ve already posted. Whenever I start talking or writing about him, I can’t stop, no matter how upset I get.

On top of the homelessness issue, losing him has destroyed what was left of my mental health. I spend half of my time overdosed on my meds, and the other half binge drinking the cheapest Shiraz I can find because I have no medication left. I spend all day lying in bed. There have been many times I should’ve gone to the emergency room - times that, if I was at home, mum would’ve called 000. I have very seriously considered joining him. I have been found passed out in the kitchen from overdoses, and at times unable to walk or form simple words. I have even called Lifeline, at the end of my rope, and spent hours crying to them, telling them about Billy.

As I write this, I realize there is nothing else in my life right now. There is nothing else to say. There is homelessness, a more passive issue that I’ll cover in another post, and there is the loss of Billy. Grief has consumed every minute of the past four months. I call mum every day just to talk to someone about him. I often find myself journaling or writing notes on my phone, often repeating myself, just to write about him. I medicate and I drink and I cry. My life has become consumed by loss.

Thankfully, I do have Misty here with me, after a few weeks of trying to convince the owners. It has been a great comfort after spending the first two months alone. But part of me realizes it will never be the same. When I first picked Misty up, I cried. Not necessarily because I hadn’t seen her for so long, but because it was now just the two of us. And don’t get me wrong, I love her... but it’s just not the same. Billy and I had such a deep connection. He’d been by my side since I was 10. He was my world.

I haven’t had a mental health safety plan since losing Billy. Under the section “Reasons To Live”, the only reason was ever Billy. I know Misty would be fine to be re-homes, that she could still be happy and thrive. But Billy, anxiety-ridden and codependent... it always effected both of us a great deal if I even went away for a night. We needed each other.

Tomorrow, it would’ve been Billy’s 15th birthday. It also marks six years since losing Silky, our family dog. Six years since I realized they are only mortal, and started making plans for what would happen when Billy’s time came (Silky’s passing was very sudden, going from fine to gone within hours, and none of us knew what to do. We never got her remains, and I knew I wanted more for Billy). I’m planning to spend the day with mum, as my psychologist doesn’t want me to be alone. My brother will be joining us for dinner. On the 9th of every month, each month since he passed, I’ve been fasting. I don’t even drink. It’s become a near-religious routine. But tomorrow, especially considering I’ve had no medication for a week and won’t for a few more days, I’ll be taking advantage of having access to decent wine.

I’ll try to get my post about my journey with homelessness up soon. I’m sorry that my posts have been so depressing and rambling. I think I’ve avoided posting because I knew it would come out as another long sad story about Billy, when I’ve wanted instead to update you on my living situation and everything that’s been happening alongside.

How cruel fate can be. To lose everything and have life turned upside down in the span of two weeks... It just feels like a sick fucking joke.

P.S, I’m sorry for disappearing. I know some of you have been concerned or wondering if I’m okay. Everything just takes so much effort right now.

A couple of people have asked about contacting/following me on other social media. I don’t use Instagram or Snapchat or tumblr or twitter or any of that. I am always on Facebook, although I don’t really post much. You can find me under the email address  too-much-not-enough@hotmail.com

To end this post on a less negative note, a few pictures.

When I ventured down to a pub a block away shortly after moving to the share house.

Christmas lunch. I didn’t get to cook this year. Instead, my family came down and we went to a nice pub. Everyone actually enjoyed the food, which was surprising given a set menu. I was slack with pictures, but we all had Korean BBQ lamb ribs, eye fillet steak with scalloped potatoes and broccolini, and mud cake. I may or may not have had a bottle of wine...

The same pub. The night after leaving home, staying at a motel in town and heading to the SRS the next morning. It was right next door to this pub and I’d always wanted to go. So, I took myself out for a steak and a nice bottle of wine, as I knew it’d be the last time for a while I’d be able afford it.

xxBella