Remnants

A few weeks ago, I went to the cemetery to see mum for the first time in over a year. 

I feel terrible even saying that. Just leaving the house is hard enough, but I do not know how to deal with heavy emotions without alcohol. And I’m only just starting to feel confident enough in my sobriety (coming up on 15 months) to be able to go to the cemetery and not be tempted to drink. 

Because for me, it was never just taking flowers. It was a day trip. I would take bottles of Not Water, and I would drink and cry and fall apart. I’d sit there for hours. I’d get stuck. I would feel guilty about choosing to leave. Twice, I ended up going home, only to end up in the emergency room that night due to various self-injurious behaviors.

It was a mess. I was a mess.

This time, I asked S to drop me off and pick me up at the end of our support time. Although I only took a coffee and an electrolyte drink, I still need the set times to stop me spending all day there and spiraling into the abyss (which I am perfectly capable of doing without alcohol). But I feel good having been.

It’s been a heavy few weeks, with my birthday, mum’s birthday, and Mother’s Day, all in the space of 11 days.

I ended up staying up obscenely late on the night before my birthday, had a few hours sleep, saw my psychologist, then slept through a good chunk of the afternoon. I thought I had a lot to talk about with her. But I just wasn’t able to. I felt too fragile, and didn’t want to break. I tried to keep it in, clenched my jaw, but I couldn’t help a few tears leaking out when she pressed.

Mum's birthday falls exactly one week after mine. I did more for her birthday than I did for mine. I finally began to unpack some of her memorial items, things that I haven’t had the strength to since the move. I usually spend birthdays and anniversaries poring through boxes and folders, immersing myself in memories. It breaks my heart every time, and I couldn’t allow myself to get lost in it.

I’m trying now to pull myself out of the depressive episode that seems to have enveloped the past few weeks, though they seem to be happening more often this year. 

I can’t help but feel a lingering discomfort with life. When I hit these slumps, I tend to deal with it by trying to avoid life to the best of my abilities, often destroying my sleep schedule in the process, though still spending a great deal of time in bed. 

I find myself looking at Tomorrow with dread, not wanting to face Another Day. So I rush around that night, doing my morning routine, housework, getting the necessities out of the way. Then I force myself to stay awake as late as I can, knowing that for the rest of the night and tomorrow, I won’t have to do anything. At the end of the next day, after having a quiet day, rinse and repeat. Continuously dreading Tomorrow. 

The late nights just feel easier. Quieter, in the world and in my brain. 

This week has been a bit better, trying to get back into my usual routine. I’ve had a few good days doing so, but also a couple of bad days, and I immediately slip back to my more nocturnal inclinations. 

I also went out to visit my Great Aunt last week. Especially now that I don’t particularly have much contact with my brother outside of the obligatory birthday and Christmas messages, she is really the only family I have left. 

I do try to visit her every few months. It’s always good to see her, but in the past year or two, each visit feels heavier. Some visits have been more distressing than others, but this was a better day. Though when we talk about her failing health, she’s become rather fond of saying 

“Well, I am 94 years old…”

I’m scared there won’t be long left with her. And I’m not even sure if anyone will call me to let me know. 

On a selfish note - the past few visits, she’s made comments about how I’m ‘looking good’. Though, logically, I know this could mean many things - my skin, outfit, makeup, hair… But I’ve always taken it to be a compliment on my weight loss in the past 12-18 months (which, of course, is not a compliment to me, if I still look ‘good’). 

It would always ‘factory reset’ my body image. I might’ve been starting to think that I was finally beginning to get somewhat thin again, but that one comment would set me back to ‘fat’. She’s the only one who ever comments, so it’s the only external input I get these days. 

But last week, as we pulled back from our hug, her hands rubbed across my back, firmly down my arms, and she looked me up and down before declaring 

“You’ve lost weight.”

It seemed neutral - neither compliment or concern, merely a statement of fact. But it felt better than the ambiguous “you’re looking good!” - at least I didn’t have to stress about what it meant. 

I feel bad, because I genuinely don’t want to worry her. But the AN part of my brain still seeks that validation. I don’t want to be seen as big enough to still look ‘good’ (although I know I can still get away with it). And I immediately thought “she’s finally noticing, now I have to be noticeably thinner by the next visit!”

Birthday goodies from S. She knows me so well!

xxBella 

Just Another Day

And here we are at the end of April. Dreadful time of year. Not least of all because my birthday falls on the 30th. 

This year, tomorrow is shaping up to just be Thursday - complete with psychologist appointment. 

Birthdays are a quiet affair these days. Back when there was a family, we would go out for dinner, which I always enjoyed. In the past, of course, I would drink. I did go out for dinner with my support worker/bestie, S, two years ago, which was nice. Of course, I got drunk and made an idiot out of myself, but that was par for the course. 

In the past few years, for birthdays I would at least cook something ‘special’, or perhaps get takeout. That was really the only thing I 'did' for my birthday. But for the past four birthdays, I just feel like it was going through the motions. Following the script for what a birthday should be, even though I'm alone now. It’s become increasingly like that each year since mum passed. Christmas is the same - I just kept asking myself 

"Why am I even doing this?"

Even at my worst points, I’d always eaten on Christmas and birthdays.

This past Christmas, I couldn’t get a proper roast, and I took it as a sign. Instead, I fasted, as a silly little symbolic thing. I suppose it was like saying that my anorexia is stronger than tradition. That I am just done with it all.

For my birthday tomorrow, I asked S to get some cheese & chive scones from the bakery. They're something I used to have with mum, something that feels special. The bakery didn’t have any - they don’t even sell them anymore. 

Could I DoorDash them from another bakery? Of course. But I immediately thought that it’s a sign. That the universe is telling me not to eat. So I’m going to do a silly little symbolic thing, and fast. 

Even at my worst points, even at my lowest, I still ate every Christmas and every birthday. I always participated in those special meals. But it’s time to stop going through the motions. It’s time to stop pretending. 

* * *

It’s been another month, and so I’ve had two more appointments with the New GP. One in person, one telehealth. 

I also saw Dietitian. Apart from not having any appointments for two months, I hadn’t seen her in person since December. 

Ever since 2020, I’ve been doing most of my appointments as telehealth, only going in person when Old GP pushed me to get a blood test, or I needed other things done in person. I’m trying to change that and get there in person more. 

She mentioned that it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten on her scales. I said that I’d prefer not, that I really don’t want to.

“But it’s just the same as getting on your scales at home.” 

“But it’s not. I have to account for clothes, and all the fluids that I drink beforehand… I used to weigh my outfits and not even have any water beforehand. That’s why I always had the earliest appointment of the day. But I can’t get out of the house without at least a coffee these days.”

She understood, but asked if I could give her some weights to fill in the gaps on my record. I do tell her my weight when she asks, but she only does so occasionally, and I’m not sure if it’s always recorded. I am always honest about my weight, and I think she trusts me.

So I opened up my weight history and just gave her my phone. Looking at last year’s log, she commented on how much I’ve lost, that it’s gone down quite a bit. I tried to alleviate her concern, brushing it off as something that was always going to happen once I stopped drinking.

She told me that I really can’t afford to lose anymore, but I struggle to take it seriously. I have a tendency to make light of it., in the way the average person might go “oh, I’m so bad” when they take an extra dessert, I do it when I lose an extra kilogram.

Then she asked me how I feel about my weight. I thought for a moment.

“I don’t feel particularly strongly one way or another.”

Which is somewhat true. I went on to explain that after spending so many years in that BMI 12-14 range, that still feels like my Normal Weight. Then after the substantial weight gain when I started drinking, it never felt like the weight my body was supposed to be. It was foreign to me. 

And now I’m here, teetering around in between. I feel strongly about my weight, but somewhere in the middle. So I don’t completely hate my current weight, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with it either. In my mind, I’m halfway through getting back to my Normal Weight.

As for New GP, I'm still on the fence as to whether or not she'll be the right one for me. I’ve still got to go out to get a blood test, but looking at my previous results, she seems to think she can talk me into taking supplements. I told her that it’s not going to happen, that the only thing I’ve been able to do was the B12 shots, but she still wants to discuss it further.

I know its not logical to most people, but it’s still nutrition, still nourishing my body. Food and calories are the main concern, yes, but it doesn’t stop there. I could deal with the B12 shots, because it wasn’t me doing it. But taking those pills, willingly giving those extra nutrients to my body… I just can’t do it. I have a feeling she may not understand that.

xx Bella

The New GP

I met the New GP two weeks ago. 

When my Old GP and I were discussing who would take over my care, she threw out a few options for names. Mostly which doctors at the clinic were a) female and b) unlikely to be retiring soon, but not much else to go on. When I mentioned needing someone good with mental health, she said “oh, they’re all great!”, though I tend to be a bit more cautious after previous bad experiences. 

It was actually Dietitian’s opinion that swayed me to New GP. Of the other names in the hat, she said one of them “can be a bit scary”, and the other “is very thorough, but might be a bit too thorough”. I know I can always rely on her for an honest opinion. 

Compared to the last time I needed to find a new GP, it went really well. I told her what I needed from her. Medical monitoring, bloods and whatnot. Maintaining my prescriptions. That I’m working on harm reduction versus active recovery, and that I prefer to keep all ED-related discussions to Dietitian, including weight. 

New GP was understanding, and recognized that it’s a big change for me. And that, in her words, she has some very big shoes to fill after Old GP’s retirement. 

She seems happy with where I’m at with my various medications. Even the benzos, which Old GP was unsure if her successor would be comfortable continuing to prescribe me (because I know I’ve been on them a lot longer than is typical). I do want to potentially continue reducing my seroquel, which we started to do last year. But first, I feel like it’s time to get rid of the naltrexone.

Since I’m over a year sober, and it doesn’t particularly do much if you’re not drinking, it feels kind of pointless. For the past six months or so, it’s been more like a security blanket than anything else. I’ve been thinking about it since the hemicolectomy, because I felt like I was treated differently because of the naltrexone (regarding pain management, because of ‘my history’), and it all felt very icky. So, I think it’s time. 

I wasn’t sure how often I’d be seeing New GP, but she wants to keep the same routine I had with my Old GP. And it turns out that she actually does work on a day that my Dietitian does, so I can keep my fortnightly back-to-back appointments, it’ll just be Thursday afternoons instead of Tuesday mornings. 

Since Old GP retired, and thus all her patients needing new GPs, she was booked flat out with no open appointments for the next seven weeks. But she found a couple of on call appointments to block out for me, before we’ll settle into a regular time. 

When she was booking my next few appointments, she noticed that I didn’t have any lined up with Dietitian, and took the incentive to book them so they lined up with hers. I’m really glad she did, because I was struggling to convince myself to sort it out. So I’m also seeing Dietitian on Thursday, after almost 8 weeks. 

She said she’d understand if I decide to see someone else, if it doesn’t work out. But I told her I was cautiously optimistic - that I’d gone through so many GPs before finding Old GP, and it was already going exponentially better than last time I needed to find someone new. 

Miss Persephone has also been back at the vet this week. She had a good run - two months since her last visit! But in the process of weaning her off her meds, her urinary issues flared up again, this time having also developed a crystal in her bladder. I’m glad it’s nothing more serious, but it means that it’s time to move her to prescription food, since it’s the only thing we haven’t tried yet. It seems like it is indeed going to be a longterm issue for her, the poor little muffin. 

Just a short post this time. I’m really trying to push myself to do monthly posts, even if there’s not much to say (because there never is, until there is). Which is why I’m sat here at 5pm on the last of the month. I know I’ve been saying that for years, and hopefully I don’t jinx myself, but I really do miss it, even if there’s not many of us left in the blogosphere these days. 

A very fitting sticker for my pill organizer

The babies, who are finally coexisting peacefully 

(…most of the time)

xxBella

End of an Era

My GP of 13 years has officially retired. I had my last appointment with her on Tuesday. 

It was emotional. It was more of just a goodbye chat, ending with a quick “Oh, do you need any scripts?” as I stood in the doorway in the way out. 

It seemed very fitting that it was the same day that marked her 40 years in practice. It’s clear that she has been a deeply cherished doctor to many, made obvious by the display of dozens of cards covering her office. My stark grey card, blunt and self-deprecating as always, stood in contrast amongst the sea of more typical ‘thank you’ cards. Of course, I did fill the inside with my sappy gratitude and goodbyes, but “thanks for putting up with my rubbish” really says it all, doesn’t it?

I’d seen almost every GP at my clinic before I started going to her, and while some were more disastrous than others, none seemed willing to meet me where I was. I’d been maintaining around my lowest weight, seeing my dietitian for a year already. She’d been constantly trying to help me find a GP because I’d been without medical monitoring for so long. My GP was the first doctor who was actually willing to work with me and focus on monitoring and harm reduction, instead of just trying to push me back to hospital and psychiatrists. 

When I got home, I cracked. I was glad I’d planned ahead to wake up early to get all my housework and self-care tasks done beforehand, because I had a feeling that might happen. As soon as I walked in and sat on the couch, the finality of it all hit me. 

It’s the quiet kind of sadness. No tears, no hysterics. Just staring at the wall, blank. A sense of emptiness. Loss. Even now, several days later, I’m finding it hard to get motivated. Not to read, not to watch anything, not to talk to anyone. 

It feels like a kind of grief. Another important person in my life, just gone. I’ve spent the last few days in a zombie daze, shuffling around mindlessly to do the things that are necessary, then returning to bed. Sleep has, yet again, gone out the window. I’d been doing so well, too. The middle of the night just feels easier to cope with than the daylight hours. And because S is away for a week, I can just sit in my sadness for a bit, with no reason to be up at a certain time of day. 

I think the situation was compounded because I’m not sure what’s happening with my dietitian appointments. She was off sick this week. I’d called ahead to change the telehealth appointment to in person, since I’d be going in to say goodbye to my GP, and when they told me she wouldn’t be in and the telehealth confirmation had been sent in error, I also found out I have no future appointments booked. 

For many years now, my appointments have been booked several months in advance. Dietitian then GP, back-to-back, at the same time every fortnight. But since there’s no more GP appointments, I guess the dietitian appointments didn’t get booked either. I was a bit caught off guard, and just said I’d organize it another day. 

I know I probably should’ve gotten it done while I was at the clinic. Usually if there’s an issue, I’d mention it to my GP and she would get it sorted. But part of me is like “what if I just… don’t?”

So right now, it feels like I’m in limbo. No regular medical appointments. Nothing to hold me accountable, no one to catch me. It’s tempting to just slip away from medical monitoring. I still have my psychologist appointments, but I don’t talk to her about anything to do with anorexia. It feels like an opportunity to spiral. For maybe the second or third time since The Great Disembowelment, I had an urge the other day to take massive laxative overdoses, just to fuck my body up even more. 

I do have an appointment with a new GP in a few weeks, someone decided upon by both GP and dietitian as being the best fit for me, but right now, I don’t even want to do that. At least my old GP thought it was a good idea to book it for during supports with S, so she’ll be dragging me there even if I want to back out. I usually do appointments by myself, but we agreed it’d be best for the first appointment because I get so anxious meeting new people. 

I don’t know how often I’ll be seeing the new GP. I don’t think it’ll be fortnightly. Maybe every month, or even every two months because that’s the bare minimum I can stretch my scripts. It’s going to be a whole new routine, after over a decade of consistency. She doesn’t work the same days as my dietitian, so back-to-back appointments wouldn’t be an option. 

Right now, I don’t even want to think about it. 

It feels strange for this to be a footnote, but on Thursday, I reached a milestone that I thought I never might. It was One Year since my last drink. 

I didn’t do anything special. While I recognize it’s an achievement, internally it didn’t feel special. If anything, my mindset was more in a place of “how pathetic that I have to celebrate this, how pathetic that it took me so long to get sober”. Although I know, objectively, that’s it’s a positive thing, I’m just struggling to genuinely feel that. 

Coffee mugs for GP. It had to be cats, because we spend (spent) a lot of time bonding over our cats. Bold patterns, bright colours - very ‘her’

xxBella

Reflections

I came into the New Year at 51.7kg. This week, 51.3 (113 lb, BMI 15.5). Slowly, slowly.

Quitting alcohol has really changed everything. Losing the booze weight was my main motivator, sadly. Nothing else mattered. I didn't care about the health concerns, physical or mental. I just needed the weight gone.

February 26th will be One Year Sober. Crazy. I started last year at 62.8kg, and was still 62.5kg on the day of my last drink (138 lb, BMI 18.8). Since then, the weight has been coming off. 11.2kg in just under 11 months.

The weight gain started with the alcohol, back in 2016. That year, I was still sitting at a low weight. That February, I was 42.2kg (92.8 lb, BMI 12.7). I had six years of sitting consistently around BMI 12-14, after hitting my lowest at 41.3 kg (90.8 lb, BMI 12.5).

I hit my 'highest weight' (not including pre-ED) in 2020. I was terrified of hitting the 70s, and came far too close for comfort. My highest weight was 69.8kg (154 lb, BMI 21.0), and it scared the shit out of me. I spent a lot of that time purposely avoiding posting my weight here - I was so ashamed.

After hitting that high, the weight loss slowly started, while I kept on drinking. 7kg across 4 years, frustratingly slow but consistent. Slow enough that I didn't really notice, until I looked back at the graph over a longer time period, or old body check photos. 

Since I quit drinking, the weight loss picked up the pace. I don't really see it as a problem. I see it as getting back to my 'normal' weight. I'm halfway there. I don't care if it's slow progress - it's still progress. I'm finally starting to feel good about my body again (keyword starting), even though I have 10kg to go to get back to my low weight. I'm itching to get back into the 40s. I just need to push.

For the most part, I'm in a little honeymoon phase, and I'm just riding the wave. Restricting feels good, and effortless. I know it will change, inevitably - it always does. I spend a lot of time in the mirror, turning and examining. In the right light, I can see my chest bones again, and it's the most amazing feeling.

Sometimes I feel like I still look like I did 15kg ago, and I have to get to the mirror to make sure that I'm not. No one ever comments on my weight (except for my dietitian, obviously, but she comments on the number, not how I look), which I can kinda understand, because it's a known issue to everyone, but it makes me question if I actually look different or not.


(As a note, I'm calculating my old BMIs with my current height. I was slightly taller back then, as my last DEXA scan put me at 182.1cm. I don't know exactly when the height loss began, so I may have been slightly taller for some of the old weights, which would lower the BMI a smidge)

* * *

After The Great Disembowelment, although I initially dropped a few kilos quite quickly after the swelling/water retention was gone, my weight then hit a plateau for a couple of months, and really only started dropping again in November. The majority of the weight loss happened before the surgery. I think it's partly because I feel like I never quite got my energy and activity levels back to normal following the surgery. I still feel so tired all the time. I'm more sedentary than I've been in years.

As for how all that's going, I've still been getting pain and nausea after eating, that seems to come and go. It'll be okay for a few weeks, then come back with a vengeance, and I start relying on liquid calories again. My GP isn't particularly concerned by this, and it might just be one of those things I have to deal with now.

I'm still trying to find the right balance of fiber supplements (which I've taken for well over a decade anyway) and osmolax, guided by my GP. Without getting too TMI, my bowels are unpredictable, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. Again, just something I might have to deal with.

I was warned that I may have trouble absorbing nutrients since I'm missing that section of bowel. I finally got a blood test done a month ago. I'd been putting it off, not wanting to deal with it. My B12 and Vitamin D have been consistently low for years - that's to be expected - but now I'm also low on Folate and Iron. Which probably doesn't help with my energy levels.

I've talked about it before, but supplements are a difficult thing for me. Fiber is the only exception. For me, it's not just about calories (though that is the main thing), it's also about simply not wanting to nourish my body. I can't take vitamins because it is giving my body nutrition, even though I know it's not going to contain calories or affect my weight. The idea of nutrition is difficult for me. Even the blood tests themselves can be triggering. Every number affects me, not just calories and weight.

Mentally, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that I did this to myself. Sometimes it still hits me hard, but it doesn't keep me up at night. But I do have a lingering unease with knowing how truly ready I felt to die when I crashed after the first surgery. It's scary to not have that fear of death, if that makes sense. It's something that I'm slowly unpacking with my psychologist.

* * *

My wonderful GP, who I've been seeing for 13 years, is retiring at the end of February. This is a major change, and I'm dreading it. It took so long to build a healthcare team that works for me, and works with me. I had some nightmarish experiences with other GPs before I started seeing her, and I don't care to repeat them.

I still haven't settled on a new GP. There's a few options, staying at the same clinic I've been at my entire life. My GP says they're all good with mental health, but I'm waiting to ask my dietitian's opinion when she gets back from her break. I need someone who will be understanding of eating disorders, and most importantly, be on board with harm reduction as opposed to pushing active treatment. Even when I started seeing my current GP, I spent the first few years maintaining around that BMI 12-14 mark, and she was always good about it. 

I have 3 appointments left with her, and time is quickly running out. I've known it's been coming for a few years now, but I'm still not ready. She's been with me so much, and it'll be so sad to say goodbye. She's become like family to me.

* * *

Christmas sucked. Worst one yet. I didn't question my sobriety, but I did question laxatives. I'm so over it. 

It was heavy. I was dreading it. I usually do some baking (which I rarely do anymore) around Christmas, family recipes, and a roast on the day to fill the freezer with leftovers. I bought the ingredients for grandma's caramel slice and mum's chocolate truffles, and they're still sitting in the pantry. It's just been going through the motions since mum died, and every year I ask myself "Why am I doing this?"

I broke down in tears a few days before. I'd decided to do lamb this year, which I used to make a lot with mum, though I've only done chicken since I've been doing Christmas solo. The only lamb roast S could find at the shops was kind of pathetic. It was such a small thing, but it broke the dam. She kept talking about Christmas, and asking what I was going to do, and I broke down completely.

"I don't know whether it's more sad to cook that pathetic lamb, or nothing at all."

When the day came, I decided on nothing at all. I didn't cook my roast. I didn't eat. 

Even at my worst points, I have always eaten on days like Christmas and birthdays, when we used to go out for birthday dinners, even if I didn't really want to. So to me, it was a stupid little symbolic thing. To show that I'm done with Christmas. It's not special enough to force myself to eat.

The only highlight of the day was getting an email notification that I had a comment from Shelby on here, saying they were thinking of me. It gave me my only smile of an otherwise lonely and empty day.

* * *

I also had yet another move in October. Packing ahead of the move was a real push. Physically, it was the most difficult move I've had yet. Thankfully it was timed well, and I got the '60 day's notice' right around the time the 'no heavy lifting' restriction passed. It was still hard, but at least I wasn't at risk of damaging something or causing a hernia.

Now, I'm struggling to get the new house unpacked, as evidenced in the backgrounds of my photos. Some days, even staying on top of regular housework has been a struggle. Everything just takes so much effort, it's all so draining. 

It was also my first time moving sober. I wasn't sure if I was going to get through it. I didn't even pack up my alcohol until about two weeks before the move (yes, I still brought it with me - I'm not quite ready to completely let go of it yet, but it's now packed away in the garage), because I was worried I might crack. It definitely got a lot easier once I secured a new place, though there was still so much to do.

Through the move, Miss Sephi has been unwell. Thankfully, it's nothing serious - we ran the full gamut of tests to rule out the serious issues, including the Big C. It still feels so recent that Misty passed, and I was terrified I was going to lose Sephi too. I wonder how I would deal with grief sober.

It turns out that the stress of the move triggered a stubborn bout of Stress Cystitis. Basically, when cats get stressed, their bladder can become inflamed and cause behavioral urinary issues. It started a week before moving day - just the packing and boxes piling up was upsetting her, and she was straining to pee every few minutes. I panicked, and took her to the vet that day.

Since then, she's had half a dozen more visits. Anxiety meds twice a day, anti-inflammatories, and even an antidepressant - the latter of which will be a long term thing. She's starting to wean off the anti-inflammatories (she had a few short courses at the start, but went backwards when they stopped, so she's been on them for a solid month), and we're going back next week to check in and see if she can start coming off more of the meds. But for now, she's doing okay. She's now settled into the new house, though it was a slow process.

Summer vibes

As you might notice, I did a thing to my hair! It's the first time since 2011 that I've had black hair. I had the dye sitting around for months, waiting for the courage and impulse to strike. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it for, but I like it more than I thought I would. I've recently done my eyebrows a bit darker, too.

A couple of months ago, a couple of kilos higher. 

I dug through my clothing tubs, where I store my different sized clothes, trying on dozens of items. I was ecstatic to find that most of my size 6 (AU) clothes fit again.

I got dressed up to go out for lunch with my writing group (that I've been in since I was a teenager). A bunch of people came down from Melbourne to go to somewhere local to me. Definitely outside my comfort zone, but it was nice. We did it in 2024 as well - the first group event I'd been to in person in over a decade, since I can't get to Melbourne anymore. We're planning to do it next year too. I can't remember the last time I'd seen a friend who wasn't a support worker.

The full fit. I look a bit rough because I didn't take photos until after the lunch - not my best decision (I should've at least brushed my hair after getting home! It was windy out). 

It's difficult trying to balance wanting to choose clothes for fashion, when my main concern is trying to look thin (or at least, not bigger than I am)

(sorry for the awkward photo formatting - I’ve realised that putting photos side-by-side makes them weirdly squished on mobile view, and I’m yet to figure out a better option. It’s also currently 4am, and now is not the time to figure it out, but at least I’ve finally gotten this post done)

Much love to you all. Thanks for sticking around. It means more to me than you could ever know.

xxBella