.:Too Much, Not Enough:.: January 2023

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