My First Tattoo, and Missing That One Person

  If there's one thing about me, it's that I'm terrible at making decisions. I don't think that this is particularly uncommon - especially for people with eating disorders - but I'm a bit of a perfectionist, and I have a tendency to fixate on details, no matter how insignificant they might seem to others. In all aspects of my life, I struggle with wanting to constantly refine things. 

  And so, I've put off committing to tattoos, despite wanting them for as long as I can remember. Even when I know exactly what I want, I worry that it won't be perfect. And I have to be able to accept that part of it is out of my control. But I see how my body looks as a reflection of who I Am, and it feels like a big risk to allow an outside force to influence that.

  But this, this was an easy decision. Several ideas for a memorial tattoo had come and gone over the past couple of years, but in the end, this was a simple but meaningful design for my first tattoo. I was nervous that they mightn't get it perfectly right. But I figured that the simplicity would give me the highest chance of satisfaction, and my want for a memorial on my skin overthrew the worry of imperfection. I had to throw caution to the wind.

  One of the few samples of my mum's handwriting, harvested from a card from my 7th birthday, buried in a box amongst a pile of old paperwork that should've been shredded long ago, crinkled and water damaged, unearthed as I went through the lengthy process of organizing and packing up her house after she passed. As soon as I found it, I knew. I put the card straight in to a zip-lock bag, hoping to protect it from any further damage from the flooded environment, and carpets slowly fermenting mold beneath the surface. There was nothing to refine, or perfect. I didn't have to stress over the proportions of a cancer ribbon, the font of a date or text, or the minutiae of a specific design. Just where on my body to put it - not somewhere it'd be visible to the world 24/7, but also not hidden to the point that it'd be difficult to view.

  I've had the tattoo for six months now, and I'm still in love with it. Mum is never far from my mind, and the rollercoaster of grief continues, even two and a half years later. Along with her necklace, originally a gift to her from my dad, older than I am. She never took it off, and neither have I.

  On the day she passed, we already had what clothes she wanted for the funeral, folded neatly, sitting on the desk of the hospital room - even her favourite comfy shoes. It seems so morbid, but she knew what she wanted. We knew that the funeral home would take care of her jewlery, etc.. But this necklace was so important to her, it's hard to put in to words. Although I never thought to ask her specifically, I think it may have even been more important than her wedding ring. It was her comfort, her never-ending link to my dad, especially after he passed. Before we left, after sitting with her for hours, I carefully unclasped her necklace, and put it straight around my own neck. Things like her earrings, or her wedding ring, were not of such large importance. But her necklace was the one thing that we were unwilling to trust to the funeral home.

  But now, with her handwriting inked into my arm, I will always have that physical link to her. My tattoo, and her necklace, are just some of the small ways that I keep her with me. No matter where life takes me, no matter where I am - she'll always be close to my heart.

  For the past few months, I've been running on about 4 hours of sleep most nights. About once a week, I will sleep a more normal amount, usually after I've had a few drinks. My GP put me on prazosin, which is supposed to help with the C-PTSD nightmares, but so far it hasn't helped. It just tanks my blood pressure (the last time I checked it overnight, it went from 109/69 sitting, to 56/43 standing), and as such, she is hesitant to raise the dose any further.

  When I do sleep full nights, I wake up every 1-2 hours with horrible nightmares. They've been so much worse this year - vivid and constant. I push myself to stay awake for up to an hour each time, until I calm back down and feel 'safe' to go back to sleep. It feels like, if I go straight back to sleep, the nightmares will just pick up where they left off. But if I stay awake for as long as I can, completely exhausting myself, and only fall asleep when I physically cannot stay awake any longer, and only sleep for the bare minimum, it's like I'm too tired to have any dreams, let alone nightmares. So, while it is not ideal, at the moment it's the best I can do. But I admit, it is wearing me down.

  My psych asked a few weeks ago if I think we should start on trauma work, but honestly, I don't know if I'll ever be ready to. I've been carrying trauma around for most of my life, and not once have I ever felt able to actually talk about it. If I can just get the nightmares under control, I can just keep getting through.

  I had a close call last week, with someone trying to break in at 3am, which is one of my worst fears. It's shaken up my sleep even more, and I seem to have moved to only sleeping during daylight hours. Last night, I did actually sleep a solid night, after moving the cats' food/water/litter in to my bedroom, and locking us in, so I didn't have to worry about jumping up to grab them if it happens again. The police know who it is, and don't think he'll come back, but it's still left me on edge.

  And I know, you're probably all sick to death of me talking about my mum. But it was another one of those moments that hit me with an unexpected pang of grief. For so long, my mum would be the one I would call in an emergency, and even two and a half years after she passed, my first thought is still "I want to call my mum". And it's fucking painful, not having that One Person to turn to.

  Next month, I have a consult with an oral surgeon to get my wisdom teeth removed. I finally went to the dentist a few months ago, after breaking a molar in half (while eating sugar-free mint crisp dark chocolate, of all things!). It's been about 10 years since I last went to the dentist, and my childhood dentist has since retired. I went to see the dentist who my mum had been seeing before she passed. I didn't say anything - just booked a same-day appointment. During that initial appointment, at one point he casually mentioned "I haven't seen your mum in a while".  At this point, it's been quite some time since I've had to 'notify' anyone. It caught me off guard. He seemed genuinely shocked when I told him that she passed, but he was very kind about it. I could've sworn that I called them when she passed, but maybe he didn't get the memo.

  Anyway, I'm now up-to-date on dental stuff, had a few fillings done, a deep clean, etc... And now, the plan is to stay on top of regular check ups so things don't get so bad again. But I have four impacted wisdom teeth to be surgically removed, including one with a cyst beneath. My support worker, S, is taking me in for a consult in a few weeks time, and I guess I'll figure out things from there. But it just sucks not just having that One Person to be able to rely on after a procedure.

  And I know, I know it's been a long time since my last post. I find myself very overwhelmed at the thought of putting myself 'out there' these days. I don't really know why. I just over-think, and worry that I have nothing in my life worth sharing. I struggle with not wanting to be perceived. As if I don't want to be an active participant in the world. Sometimes I just want to fade away, and have no one notice.

  But as I write this, I think that maybe I have more to say than I think I do. And maybe it just takes actually sitting down and starting to get my thoughts out, and suddenly I do actually have something to say.

Some recent body checks from last week, since I'm now sitting fairly consistently below 60kg again (132lb, BMI 17.3). I've gone down a couple of bra sizes recently, and mots of my tops are loose, but my hips are forever stubborn. After spending the past 7 years bouncing around the 60s, it feels so euphoric to see the 50s on the scale again. I haven't done my measurements for a while, but over the years, I've been from an Australian size 4-14 (US 0-10), and at the moment I'm sitting around size 8AU.

xxBella

At Last, Progress

For the first time in a long time, I’m finally starting to see progress on the scale again. As I mentioned briefly in my last post, I’ve drastically reduced my drinking, and of course, that has meant less calories.

When I first started drinking regularly in 2016, I was sitting at around 42-45kg (92-99lbs, BMI 12.1-13.0) Within a year, I’d gained a whopping 20kg.

Since then, I’ve bounced around the mid-60s (roughly BMI 19), with no real consistent, long-lasting change. The past 7 years have been a constant struggle as the calories from alcohol continued to pile up.

In January, I was sitting around 66kg (145lbs, BMI 19.1). Since the reduction of alcohol in late January/early February, it's started creeping back down. As of this morning, I weighed in at 61.6kg (135.5lbs, BMI 17.8)

It’s not a lot, and some days it feels like nothing, but it’s the most consistent progress I’ve had since I started drinking, albeit slow. Each week, my ‘average weight’ has been slowly edging down.

I’d love break back into the 50s for my 30th birthday at the end of the month, but even if I don’t make it in time, I know I’ll get there soon. I can taste it. And it’ll be my first time below 60kg since 2016.

* * *

As for the drinking itself, I’m drinking less than I ever have. I’ve been on a new medication for just over a year now, which I do think has eventually helped. At the start of 2022, I was drinking 20-25 standard drinks a day, with and occasional day or two off per month. That was probably my worst point, in the first year or so after losing mum. By the end of 2022, I was down to 10-15 drinks a day, with usually 2 days off each week.

Something changed around the end of January. I had my first 2-day ‘dry streak’ for the first time in five years (excluding hospital admissions). It was entirely on a whim, just wondering if I could do it, after having a few days where I'd only have a handful of drinks, but stop after a couple of hours and make a cup of peppermint tea instead. Once I managed that, things became a bit easier. Soon I was having 3 days, 4 days, 5 days without drinking. At the end of March, I had my first 6-day dry streak, which turned into a 10-day streak.

Before this, I can’t remember the last time I had more than 2-3 dry days in a week, at best, and never consecutively. Now, I’m only drinking once or twice a week. I do still usually drink quite a bit when I do drink, but overall, the reduction has been dramatic. In March, I only drank six times. That’s something I never thought I’d be able to say.

I always think it’ll be amazing, but in reality, the experience is dismal at best, catastrophic at worst. It just doesn’t make me happy anymore. And the more I reduce it, the easier it gets. Nothing compares to seeing actual progress, numbers dropping, and the feeling of my clothes becoming looser, or my ring sliding down my finger as I wash my hands. Once I started seeing actual progress, it made it so much easier to avoid the alcohol (and the calories it contains), even when things get rough.

Will I become fully sober? Will I be able to moderate, able to have a glass of wine without finishing off the bottle, and opening a second? Only time will tell.  

* * *

Through it all, there have been challenges.

11 months ago, I finished packing up all of my late mum’s belongings. It went into storage, to wait until I had a bigger place. Two months ago, I was finally able to get everything back. Not only boxes upon boxes, containing a lifetime of memories, but also some furniture.

It’s been a strange feeling. While it’s, in a way, comforting to be surrounded by her things, it’s also been a bizarre mix of sadness. It was a kind of reality check, that she really is gone.

In the first few days, I would find myself with a sense of confusion, like I wasn’t in my own home, but hers. Especially in the lounge room, which now seems like a copy-paste of the family home.

I’ve had trouble dealing with all the complicated feelings. I was worried that having mum’s belongings around might trigger a major backslide in my drinking, but it hasn’t. Instead, I’ve been dealing with it more like a ‘normal person’. Sitting with the depression. I haven’t turned immediately to drinking. I haven’t had a welfare check called since Christmas. No major overdoses.

It’s meant a lot of days curled up on the couch, in the dark, feeling deeply uncomfortable as I wait for the day to end. I spent the first few weeks sleeping on the couch, her couch, the couch from home. I think I’m finally starting to pull out of it, managing to work parts of my usual routine back into my day-to-day life. But some days, the grief just gets to me, and I return to my couch cocoon.

* * *

Much love to everyone out there in our little community. This place has been my one constant over so many years, through thick and thin. It might be a bit quieter than it used to be, as life comes along and people change, but I still wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Roses blooming in the backyard of my new house

xxBella

Another Year Gone

  So, here we are in 2023.

  I know it's been a while (again), so let's recap.

  Since I last posted, a lot has happened. There's been a lot of chaos, welfare checks, attempts at unaliving myself, trips to hospital in the ambulance, a stay in the ICU with a central line in my neck to combat an overdose, my first COVID infection, a broken toe, a physio who's given up on me, an unexpected move to a new house, the dreaded holidays, and more. Fair warning, this will probably be a long post, but I'll try to not ramble on too much.

  Back in July, I had one of the worst overdoses I'd had in a long time. Since the first anniversary of my mum's passing in June, I'd found myself spiraling. 

  With the Big OD, a mix of both stockpiled daily meds and paracetamol, it's all a bit of a blur. I'd stumbled upon the paracetamol while I was packing, leftovers from when I needed a mix of different painkillers after my nerve injury. And something inside me just snapped. I don't usually keep it around because I know it's a big trigger, and I know how much harm it has caused me in the past, but for some reason, I kept a few packets that I had left, even once I no longer needed them. 

  The next thing I remember was a few days later, waking up in the hospital, unsure of how much time had passed. Naturally, my main concern was my MyFitnessPal streak (at 4,387 days, I can't imagine losing it). I fumbled around my phone with uncoordinated fingers, and eventually found the app. Thankfully, I managed to keep my streak over a couple of groggy days, water automatically logged in advance.

  As it turned out, I had missed a telehealth appointment with my psychologist. She was concerned, as I've never missed an appointment with her before, and she knew how much I'd been struggling in the past month. She knew something was wrong, so she called in a welfare check.

  They had placed a central line in my neck, as apparently the IV cannulas in both arms weren't enough, pumping me full of acetylcysteine mixed with glucose, saline and various other nutrients. I was yellow, jaundiced from my liver struggling to process the paracetamol. I've had a lot of IVs in the past, and I've had a few paracetamol overdoses where it looked like my liver wasn't going to recover, but this was my first time with a central line. You know when things are bad when you wake up to four doctors standing over you discussing whether to transfer you to the ICU or a major hospital in Melbourne - more than an hour away from where I live. I was in the ICU for a few days, then down to the general ward, where I was officially held under the Mental Health Act (Australia's version of a section, basically).

  While I understand the supervision required in the ICU, I hate the 1:1 babysitters on the general ward. After watching me eat, the nurse would then come in, lift the cloche, and silently judge what I did and didn't eat. It seemed like a moot point though, as they were pumping me full of more things than I care to remember.

  I was determined to avoid the public psych ward, and get out of the Mental Health Act. They determined that I would, in fact, be transferred there. I've been to several different psych wards - from adolescent to ED to private - but I'd always managed to avoid this one. When I've been sectioned in the past, I've been kept on the medical ward out of necessity (no IVs allowed in the psych ward), and moved to another facility afterwards.

  The psych team came in daily. As the nurse changed the drip on the central line, she mentioned that they'd probably switch me to oral liquid supplements (ha, fat chance!) once I was moved to the psych ward.

  "Nope, I'm not going there, I'm going home."

  "Well, we're just not going to talk about it, because then we won't have a very good rapport."

And we left it there.

  Two days later, I was indeed going home. I plead to the psych team about how I was just grieving for my mum, and that I needed grief counselling, not a psych hold. That I just wanted to go home and be with the cats, and follow up with proper grief counselling. Not to mention, I had mere weeks left to find new housing, and couldn't afford to lose any more time. That I really needed to go home to be able to finish packing. All of it true. And eventually, they released me to the care of my regular team.

  In the time I was there, my support worker was sick. My brother stopped by to pick up a key to take care of the cats. The only real visitor I had was when my dietitian came to visit me while I lay in the ICU. I don't even remember it, but I remember that she was there. This was my second admission (beyond the quick emergency room visit) since my mum passed, and it just rubs salt in to the wound that I am alone.

 

  But wait, there's more.

  When I was in hospital (on the general ward), they stuck me in a room with someone who ended up having COVID, as they were out of space meaning no private rooms. From the moment they moved me in and I heard the other patient coughing constantly, I was immediately on edge. Not wanting to risk potentially offending the other patient, I typed a note on my phone and held it up to show the nurse, simply saying "I don't want to get COVID". They said I'd be fine, and they gave me a benzo to calm down. Being on a psychiatric hold, I couldn't exactly leave. I'd still rather share a room with someone contagious than men though, so at least they were able to avoid that.

  The day I went home I was starting to feel somewhat human again. After a long soak in the tub, although exhausted, and sore from scrubbing the sticky bits off from various dressings and those dreaded ECG dots, I was still waiting for my energy to return. I figured that I might not get much done for a few days, but if I could wash a few dishes and book a few rental inspections, I would be happy.

  It's important to note that I was tested for COVID a few times while I was in hospital. Even that morning, a mere few hours before I was discharged, they tested me and it came back negative. So I was in the clear, right?

  Wrong.

  I woke up at 2am with an unsually painful cough. All I could think was "oh, fuck". I did a rapid test in the morning, and of course, it was positive.

  Then, I got a phone call. The coughing lady they put in the bed next to mine did in fact have COVID. To say I was upset is an understatement. If I wasn't sectioned, I would've transferred to another hospital to finish the medical treatment as soon as they moved me in to a shared room. Both the outreach team and my psychologist encouraged me to lodge a complaint, especially because I have COPD and so any respiratory illness is a big risk. But life got in the way, and it never happened.

  After a week in isolation, I was relieved to be able to see my support worker again, and to continue looking for housing. Of course, if something can go wrong, it will. The first morning out of isolation, I managed to break a toe (thanks, osteoporosis) after stubbing it on furniture. After my nerve injury 18 months ago, I mostly only need the walking stick when I go out and have to deal with steps, uneven ground, or spending more than 5-10 minutes on my feet. Both my leg and arm are still quite weak, and get exhausted and sore easily, and I still have numb patches, but it could've been much worse. But at least I had the walking stick to make getting around easier despite the broken toe.

 

  So amongst all of this, I found myself having to move. My landlord had decided to sell my unit, and I was given 90 days notice.

  I'm not sure what it's like elsewhere, but in Australia, in Geelong, the rental market has been rough. I looked at dozens of places, applying for nearly everything with no luck, and time was running short. I couldn't face being homeless again, and as time went on, I became less and less picky, willing to take anywhere that would keep a roof over my head. When I was in hospital, and then with COVID, I had less than a month left to move. I had to have support workers go to inspections for me, and I would just apply without having seen the place myself.

  Thankfully, I was offered a place at the last minute. I had to organize the movers and picking up the keys all in one day, so the first time I saw it was when the movers started bringing things in. It was also the same day that I had to return the keys to my old place, so it truly was last minute. I was nervous about my new house. It was one that my support worker had looked at while I was down with COVID. When I first got it, she only had good things to say. But as days went on, she added little details that made me worried - that the last tenants were hoarders and she could barely see the house, things like that.

  In the end, I'm very grateful for my new house. It's not in the greatest condition, but it's much better than I worried about, and it keeps a roof over my head. Over time, it has become home to me. Half of my things are still in boxes, and it'll only build once I get my late mum's things out of storage, but I'm doing what I can. Between packing up my mum's house, and then my own, I spent the better part of a year packing, so I'm in no rush to get everything unpacked.

  There was another paracetamol incident in October. I felt lower than I had in  long time. I have felt some level of suicidal ideation fairly constantly for longer than I care to admit, but seldom have an active plan. But this night, I did. I had a method, a plan, notes for basically every one that I know in real life. It felt like it was going to happen.

  Even with the Big OD, I don't know if I truly wanted to die or not. But this night, I did. 

  The trigger wasn't anything big. It was just talking to my psychologist about mum, things that I've talked about many times before. My support worker was out getting groceries while I spoke to my psychologist on the phone. And I thought I was okay.

  But by the time she got back, my support worker found me blubbering. 'Love Me Tender' by Elvis was playing, one of the main songs on my 'mum' playlist, along with 'Imagine' by John Lennon - the two songs she requested for her funeral. As soon as she walked in and heard that song, she just hugged me. I blubbered in to her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't even know exactly what the trigger was.

  She stayed for nearly half an hour over time, running late for her next client. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with my heart aching out of my body, lying on the floor and crying, gasping for air. My chest hurt, feeling like my heart was about to burst. It was the most intense pain I've felt in months.

  Late that night, I ended up Door Dash'ing half a dozen boxes of paracetamol. The next morning, I woke up with a blinding hangover. When I got out of bed, I saw the lounge room floor covered with a puddle of pill-filled vomit, empty pill boxes strewn around. I couldn't remember how long it was between taking them and throwing up, and had no idea how much had absorbed. I was too scared to tell anyone, not wanting to risk being sectioned again. Spoiler alert - I was fine, and did end up telling my team a few weeks ago. I was glad that it hadn't caused any damage, but the level of intent scared me.

  Christmas was painful, and I don't think that any years to come will get any better. 

  I made a most basic roast chicken for myself, served with roasted vegetables and homemade gravy. Black Russians - my mum's favourite drink - flowed freely, the bottles of Diet Coke quickly filling my recycling bin. On the couch, in my pajamas. TV off, no traffic outside. Just the sound of the bathroom tap dripping in the next room.

  After a few too many drinks, I decided it a good idea to go to the cemetery. Of course, I packed a 'water' bottle for the road. Asking the taxi to stop by the servo, I was disappointed by their dismal display of flowers, but I suppose it's to be expected on Christmas Day.

  Usually, I would take supplies with me. Marble polish and cloths for the headstone, secateurs for trimming the flowers and the edge of the grass that the gardeners always miss, things like that. This time, I was not so prepared. I dug through my handbag to find the tiny child-sized scissors that sit at the bottom of my bag, and made do with that. The little pack of tissues in my bag would have to make do instead of the polish I had stupidly left at home.

  I sat there for hours, crying and listening to her funerary songs. I called my brother. Heck, I even called my dietitian (yes, she is an absolute angel).

  After getting home, things didn't get any better. I can't even remember how things progressed, but I ended up on the phone with a helpline, just wanting to talk about mum. As it has in the past, it ended with a welfare check, and the paramedics turning up to take me to hospital. It was well after midnight, and I just wanted to go to bed and cry. When left unsupervised in the emergency department, I did something I've never done before and walked out. My heart raced in the taxi as I went home. Yes, they did call me to find out where the hell I went, and no, they were not happy.

 

  I know this is basically several posts in one, so I'll wrap it up here. I don't exactly have high hopes for 2023, but as I've said for the past couple of years, it can't really be much worse. My support team are keeping a close eye on me, including daily medication pick ups since the Big OD. It's been a few weeks since I last self-harmed, and I've cut my drinking down more than I ever thought possible, but that's a story for another day. I'm hoping to get past the mental block and get back to blogging more regularly, but I know I've said that for quite some time now.

  For now, I hope you all have a Happy New Year.

xxBella

On a not-terrible body image day.

New clothes, for the first time in years. 

The dress waists sit a bit high due to my height, but they're not terrible

With my babysitter in ICU

Dyed pink with antiseptic for the central line

Joggers and crop top, from the same brand as the dresses

(with an unfortunate crotch seam)

xxBella