tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56067344296576259292024-03-13T14:17:03.248+11:00.:Too Much, Not Enough:.Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.comBlogger515125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-7022259491772777282024-01-06T18:18:00.003+11:002024-01-06T21:33:34.028+11:00The Days are Long, But the Years are Short<p> The New Year has rolled over, and I find myself feeling uncertain about what 2024 will hold.<br /><br /> Next week, I have a brief hospital trip for the long-postponed removal of my impacted wisdom teeth. Because I'm a lonely loner, I get a little overnight vacation at the hospital, because I don't have anyone to stay with me to supervise for 24 hours after coming out of the anesthesia.<br /><br /> I know that it would have to be done at some point, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to put it off further, until they started causing serious problems. I'm a little apprehensive about the general anesthesia, and the pain afterwards. But my biggest concern is that I'm incredibly mentally uncomfortable with the concept of having four gaping holes in my mouth. Even thinking about it sends chills down my spine.<br /><br /> I'm stocked up on all forms of liquids for post-surgery, from clear to full. I've got sugar-free jelly in five different flavours, plenty of skim milk for iced lattes, 45-cal hot chocolate sachets, my favourite vanilla yoghurt, sugar-free Zooper Doopers (I think most of the world calls them 'freeze pops'), and I'm sure there's some ice cream lurking in the freezer. I've plenty of broth cubes - both chicken and beef - as well as some potato & leek soup. It's been a few years since I've done more than 48hrs on liquids alone, but I'm going to try to make the most of it by seeing it as a little break, obligatory, from the constant thoughts of food.<br /><br /> I've also organized pre-prepared scrambled egg mix, and low-carb mashed potatoes, for when I'm able to get back to soft foods. But at the moment, the mere idea of having four giant wounds in my mouth, stitches, blood clots... I might be working myself up to think it's worse than it really is (and if you guys have done this before, I'd love to hear from you, as I've not found much specifically about EDs and dental surgery online), but I'm not sure how much liquid I'll even want to put in my mouth.<br /><br /> In the last few days, I'm also becoming increasingly nervous about the possibility of dry socket. As it stands, I've been smoking cigarettes for over half of my life. These days, around 40 a day. The first 24 hours will be easier, because I'll be in the hospital, but it's going to be hard to resist once I get home. I'm planning to grab some nicotine patches, plus some mouth spray if the surgeon says it's okay. When I've used them in the past - mostly during sections when I wasn't allowed to step outside of the hospital room - I've always used a combo of patches and inhalers, but any suction is a no-go. Even then, they've barely touched the sides.<br /><br /> I've scrounged around online, reading about other people's experiences of smoking after dental surgery. I think I will actually follow the instructions for the first couple of days, because reading about others' experiences with dry socket has definitely put me off. But oh man, it's going to be rough.<br /><br /> I know that the general consensus from society as a whole is <i>'what a great opportunity to quit!</i>'. But frankly, if being diagnosed with COPD in my early 20s didn't push me to quit, and neither did watching my mum go through lung cancer, I don't know if it'll ever happen for me. Over the years, I've overcome addiction to weed, synthetics, and as I try to knuckle down on giving up the booze, I lean especially hard on my cigarettes. I'm only human, and surely, I should be permitted one vice.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">* * *</span></div><br /> In other news - just before everyone went on break for Christmas, I got my new NDIS plan. Apparently my (now-former) Occupational Therapist refused to write a report for my review, and no one seems to know why. Without it, there's 'insufficient evidence', and my funding has been decimated. My support worker, S, who I usually see four times a week, has been cut to twice a week. My fortnightly psychologist appointments? They're now once every three months.<br /><br /> There's a whole appeal process going on, as well as finding a new OT. But in the meantime, I'm terrified at the prospect of losing such a large amount of support. Aside from the practical issues, it would be very isolation, to say the least.<br /><br /> I'll still have my dietitian and GP every two weeks, sure. But adding on my GP retiring at some point in the next year, it feels like 2024 might be the year that my support worker crumbles.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br /> I hope everyone is having a wonderful start to the New Year. As for the holidays, the less said about that, the better. I got through. You think I'd be used to it, being my third year spending Christmas alone, but it doesn't seem to get any easier.<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBWqLXGJmG7Nf_R8YQKWeJvatKGo3nio2FQp5-_nLmzFPIXzb35I8_VVc6ECYmSvsEO78YaRza-hINP3pfxn3TdaccArPZd8ZJ97xcAbBvsKevPTmixLQj6LQUK6sA8jdEJpYLmzdYfFhKSjgwM7C7siow1xoFAYYb4Q3waCx2j_q6WZiV_jYZK3lAYiD/s3024/Jan%20%202024.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBWqLXGJmG7Nf_R8YQKWeJvatKGo3nio2FQp5-_nLmzFPIXzb35I8_VVc6ECYmSvsEO78YaRza-hINP3pfxn3TdaccArPZd8ZJ97xcAbBvsKevPTmixLQj6LQUK6sA8jdEJpYLmzdYfFhKSjgwM7C7siow1xoFAYYb4Q3waCx2j_q6WZiV_jYZK3lAYiD/w400-h400/Jan%20%202024.jpg" width="520" /></a><br />Sitting in the backyard with a good coffee,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> a new book, and Marty the Emotional </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Support Demon (it's short for Martholemew)<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> It's only taken me two years to get around to buying a copy of <i>The Opposite of Butterfly Hunting</i>. I'm about half way through, and so far, I'm mostly enjoying it. It's a nice break from cycling through the same old ED memoirs that I seem to re-read at least once a year.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">xxBella</div></div><br />Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-34409219500780226792023-11-27T19:34:00.002+11:002023-11-27T21:49:46.418+11:00My First Tattoo, and Missing That One Person<p> 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. </p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p><br /></p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p> 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>"I want to call my mum"</i>. And it's fucking painful, not having that One Person to turn to.</p><p> 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>"I haven't seen your mum in a while". </i> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p><br /></p><p> 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.</p><p> 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.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPWUmbwIu9xfRJEAQdR43FO_7EA-pxe1HIFRqDH1g5SzZ2e7JK-_gabAUcU7XFsf2Mmd16-L9-DZBdyeB1tnrYnfATnCF-K1O4Bw_o4_bjdDelKjOi-ew7ohxT879O_yLNYXP5Mp61oKmfi62Juac4eaDL8s1d4Og7KFa7ioEEhpzMF061jqlqDTbeSxZ/s4032/tmne%20nov23%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPWUmbwIu9xfRJEAQdR43FO_7EA-pxe1HIFRqDH1g5SzZ2e7JK-_gabAUcU7XFsf2Mmd16-L9-DZBdyeB1tnrYnfATnCF-K1O4Bw_o4_bjdDelKjOi-ew7ohxT879O_yLNYXP5Mp61oKmfi62Juac4eaDL8s1d4Og7KFa7ioEEhpzMF061jqlqDTbeSxZ/w640-h480/tmne%20nov23%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfrAJ1QwdUiInGTDSqPbsAxYfm-_3yQ9Ud4JSzCTc2-tDhzFzSdB71qJ-5mGtCSdtBY7reokWE6pHq8cr8TfBvlt9YJXzc6sOyZu992FszKdQI_oFOLZzPwyPoXLKpAbDg4jR9UsgwFIGJSrLJ-e9-jFyuqwvlyMmclqtLbl0cw8b2mbwIrix7BZwylhG/s4032/tmne%20nov23%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfrAJ1QwdUiInGTDSqPbsAxYfm-_3yQ9Ud4JSzCTc2-tDhzFzSdB71qJ-5mGtCSdtBY7reokWE6pHq8cr8TfBvlt9YJXzc6sOyZu992FszKdQI_oFOLZzPwyPoXLKpAbDg4jR9UsgwFIGJSrLJ-e9-jFyuqwvlyMmclqtLbl0cw8b2mbwIrix7BZwylhG/w400-h300/tmne%20nov23%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47VtlVGwsSggIO8f6lMNzxKbS5xN_hfasKshaLJu5j7V9PRD4jHiZXwPbmv92QuTTGGJVn9GzZoemWcEPUeSIfQCv6PuDVoIqasc50nRnFR7Ffq75hyphenhyphentyjkUCoX7iC665g_4aXXyF7r44d9_GT9Q12F_tUMJlZ9DnGBFFgnMAxugBIKEZlpwRnAVhMloa/s4032/tmne%20nov23%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47VtlVGwsSggIO8f6lMNzxKbS5xN_hfasKshaLJu5j7V9PRD4jHiZXwPbmv92QuTTGGJVn9GzZoemWcEPUeSIfQCv6PuDVoIqasc50nRnFR7Ffq75hyphenhyphentyjkUCoX7iC665g_4aXXyF7r44d9_GT9Q12F_tUMJlZ9DnGBFFgnMAxugBIKEZlpwRnAVhMloa/w400-h300/tmne%20nov23%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifNlP6qw6ozQofbQ3jP13YWpFAKXpsQ4N8kjkfvBgWyHMDim-M2H5_Tg9dfU-WuiV6SWZbcuJTBtmSU9vVgIdQjV9ajEM-AAHfcYoj3-cqfoJLRVzWo462MvguiJLpmzHGTAIqDyV5wQwECCrDgau1KpcwIeMOBIU0OP4tjsY2a0C2xtRAVMVc7q-rjwCT/s1920/tmne%20nov23%204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifNlP6qw6ozQofbQ3jP13YWpFAKXpsQ4N8kjkfvBgWyHMDim-M2H5_Tg9dfU-WuiV6SWZbcuJTBtmSU9vVgIdQjV9ajEM-AAHfcYoj3-cqfoJLRVzWo462MvguiJLpmzHGTAIqDyV5wQwECCrDgau1KpcwIeMOBIU0OP4tjsY2a0C2xtRAVMVc7q-rjwCT/w400-h300/tmne%20nov23%204.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table>
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<p style="text-align: center;">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.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">xxBella</p>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-1087532086307490682023-04-17T15:23:00.002+10:002023-04-23T13:11:31.654+10:00At Last, ProgressFor 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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)<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />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. <br /><br />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.<div><br />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. <br /><br />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.<div><br /></div><div>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. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div><br /></div>Through it all, there have been challenges.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />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. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43HViJnxybUAkdCzsmnqEiA0hvjIAJHlAjSmQYqOjSDvUvB3KrIjkGBGOkOwmMPcwmjhnz6Z2fXzmzlyUw_9WoJjEukpv2FYojxpZbUlrY3q8FicJmoElJOms-7Xs9DHwkfRfGwBYihYMuk0vXZaMPKQQZzfp9QmULRBdedV9DLDAaDHzZBdE3haPnw/s2016/blog%20rose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43HViJnxybUAkdCzsmnqEiA0hvjIAJHlAjSmQYqOjSDvUvB3KrIjkGBGOkOwmMPcwmjhnz6Z2fXzmzlyUw_9WoJjEukpv2FYojxpZbUlrY3q8FicJmoElJOms-7Xs9DHwkfRfGwBYihYMuk0vXZaMPKQQZzfp9QmULRBdedV9DLDAaDHzZBdE3haPnw/w400-h300/blog%20rose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Roses blooming in the backyard of my new house</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>xxBella</div></div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-84498983346765847652023-01-21T17:17:00.006+11:002023-01-23T14:37:35.581+11:00Another Year Gone<div style="text-align: left;"><div> So, here we are in 2023.</div><div><br /></div><div> I know it's been a while (again), so let's recap.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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).</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><i> "Nope, I'm not going there, I'm going home."</i></div><div><i> "Well, we're just not going to talk about it, because then we won't have a very good rapport."</i></div><div>And we left it there.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> But wait, there's more.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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>"I don't want to get COVID"</i>. 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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?</div><div><br /></div><div> Wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div> I woke up at 2am with an unsually painful cough. All I could think was <i>"oh, fuck"</i>. I did a rapid test in the morning, and of course, it was positive.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> Even with the Big OD, I don't know if I truly wanted to die or not. But this night, I did. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> But by the time she got back, my support worker found me blubbering. <i>'Love Me Tender' </i>by Elvis was playing, one of the main songs on my 'mum' playlist, along with <i>'Imagine'</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> Christmas was painful, and I don't think that any years to come will get any better. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> 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).</div><div><br /></div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div> For now, I hope you all have a Happy New Year.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>xxBella</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</tbody></table><div>On a not-terrible body image day.</div><div>New clothes, for the first time in years. </div><div>The dress waists sit a bit high due to my height, but they're not terrible</div>
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</tbody></table><div>With my babysitter in ICU</div><div>Dyed pink with antiseptic for the central line</div><div><br /></div>
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<div>Joggers and crop top, from the same brand as the dresses</div><div>(with an unfortunate crotch seam)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></center>xxBellaBellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-65183804158566004992022-05-28T13:49:00.003+10:002022-05-30T11:49:31.896+10:00Disconnected from Reality<p></p><div style="text-align: center;">I feel like I don't know who I am anymore.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">A stranger in my own life.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">What is wrong with me?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />In recent months, I've come to the jarring realization that I am not the same person I was a year ago. I feel disconnected from the world and the people in it. Not really real. It feels like I'm missing a piece of my heart. Somewhat dead inside. Slipping away further each day.<br /><br />For the most part, I just want to be alone with my grief. I want to curl up with it and block out everything else. And in a way, I am alone with it. It feels like people have already forgotten my mum. Like no one misses her the way I do. It feels like it'll never get easier.<br /><br />Things have been rough since Christmas. I think that's when I started to fall back downhill. There's been a lot of anniversaries, and a lot of 'firsts'. Christmas was the first big one, and since then, my birthday, my mum's birthday, and Mother's Day (all three falling in one week).<br /><br />It's been hard to figure out how I'm supposed to spend those days alone. Do I sit in silence, drinking the day away with only memories to keep me company, like I did on Christmas? My psych even offered to take me out for lunch for my birthday, but that just felt too pathetic and pitiful to even consider. In the end, I spent them all alone. <br /><br />At the start of the year, an old friend messaged me, wanting to catch up for a drink. And part of me wants to. But I couldn't do it. I make excuses, weeks between replies. I can't bring myself to be social. I know that no one wants to hear me rambling on about my grief, but it's all I can ever talk about. All I can ever think about. It's completely consumed me.<br /><br />When mum was sick, my life became all about throwing myself into supporting and spending time with her. It wasn't an overly long time, but it was extremely intense. Now, I feel like I've lost all purpose. In a way, her illness and subsequent death have become a part of my identity. It's a new breed of emptiness and loneliness. <br /><br />The only people I see are paid to be there - my support worker, my psychologist, my dietitian, my doctor.<br /><br />I see her in my dreams every night. Living, dying, crying, laughing, fighting.<br /><br />I'm working on my psych to find healthier ways to grieve. Positive ways.<br /><br />Last week, I finally finished packing and saying goodbye to mum's house. I'm glad it's wrapped up, as it was a very intense and exhausting process, both emotionally and physically. But handing over the keys for her house feels like losing another part of her. It was heartbreaking, walking out for the last time. I'd still had her place to go to and feel close to her. But now, I only have the cemetery.<br /><br />I know I need to find a way to move forward. Not necessarily move on, but a way to stop being stagnant, and find my own life. I know that my mum wouldn't want me to be so suffocated by her loss, but I can't help it. Last year changed me drastically, to the core, and normality feels out of my grasp.<br /><br />It's hard to get out of bed in the mornings again, and even harder to not retreat back after a few hours. At the moment, my cats are my purpose. They get me out of bed each day, if only for a short while to make sure their bowls are full and their litter boxes clean. And when I inevitably hide back in bed, they keep me company and comfort me.<div><br /></div><div>Apart from the cats, the only other reason to get out of bed is to make a drink. I hate myself for not having control over alcohol. Even though I've cut back my calories (both food and alcohol) to not gain any more for the last few years, I still hate seeing the number on the scale each morning, frustratingly stable. <br /><br />The only decent loss I've had in the last few years was when my alcohol dropped to nearly zero for a few months - about 7kg during the time I was staying with mum in hospital for her final weeks, when I was in hospital myself shortly after, and the month or so after that (before my alcohol intake went back up). At the moment, I average about 450 in food, but around 1,200 in alcohol. Not even sugary drinks, just dry wine and vodka. I've just started a new medication to help get off the drink, and it's early days, but I'm cautiously optimistic. If only my GP knew that my only motivation to get sober is so I can get the weight back off...<br /><br />As far as my nerve injury goes, I stopped physio a couple of months ago. Or, more to the point, they dumped me because my progress had plateaued. My arm is basically back to normal, although it still gets tired/sore easily (chopping veggies for a batch of soup last month had me out of action all week), and the Lyrica helps with the nerve pain. But my thigh is still numb, and my leg still weak. I'm still needing the walking stick, and can't do a straight leg lift no matter how hard I try. I've got a couple of specialists appointments coming up in June, so I guess I'll see where to go from here.<br /><br /><br />So many thoughts. So few words. So little energy.<br /><br />Who am I?<p></p><p><br /><br /></p>
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</tbody></table><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">My slightly depressing Christmas meal. </span></center><center><span style="text-align: left;">Lamb leg cooked with garlic and rosemary - 'set and forget' </span></center><center><span style="text-align: left;">in the slow cooker - with air fried potatoes. </span></center><center><span style="text-align: left;">Usually, I would go all out with a fancy roast chicken,</span></center><center><span style="text-align: left;">but there's just no point anymore.</span></center><center><br /><br /><br /><br /></center>
xxBella</div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-51783199909554773362021-12-24T16:51:00.002+11:002022-01-25T14:17:59.728+11:00Grief & ConsequencesFive days after mum passed, I ended up facing a serious health issue of my own. <div><br /></div><div>She passed on the Sunday. The following Friday, I went over to her place. I wasn’t going to start packing yet. But I wanted to do things like look through photos, and even just be there to feel close to her.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was my first time going over there. And I couldn’t deal with the emotions. I didn't want to feel. I felt lost, and so alone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to sit. So, in the early evening, I just lay down on the floor in front of the heater. I took too many of my meds. It’s something I used to do a lot, but not for the last few years, and it was minimal compared to what I used to do. I curled up in front of the heater, on the floor, and wept until I passed out.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I woke up in the middle of the night, I couldn’t move my arm. It was kinda like when you sleep on it, but worse. More intense, completely unable to move, unable to feel. Then, trying to stand up to get to the glass of water on the coffee table next to me, I fell over. I couldn’t feel or move my leg either.</div><div><br /></div><div>I managed to drag myself to the couch, with my arm and leg being dead weight, and waited about half an hour, thinking my limbs would ‘wake up’. I used my left hand to Google my symptoms (as we all do), but it only worried me more. Not wanting to be a nuisance to the emergency services, I called 'Nurse on Call' for advice, who quickly put me through to the ambulance.</div><div><br /></div><div>They thought I’d had a stroke.</div><div><br /></div><div>All I wanted to do was call my mum.</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn’t realize it’d been about 30 hours that I was passed out - I thought it was more like 6. I lost an entire day, passed out on the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>It took days for them to figure out what was going on. At one point, I was scared I was going to lose a limb - maybe two.</div><div>Was it a stroke? </div><div>Autoimmune disease? </div><div>Compartment syndrome? </div><div>Complications from an ingrown hair in my armpit? (not even joking) </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I still don’t quite understand it all.
To put it simply, in the way I understand it, I slept on my arm and leg for too long. The blood supply was cut off for long enough for the muscles to literally start to die. When that happens, toxic byproducts are released into the blood. It’s called rhabdomyolysis. My arm swelled to twice it’s usual size (which has thankfully gone down). Thanks to dysmoprhia, I couldn’t even see it until a doctor pointed it out before a scan. Even then, I couldn’t see it unless I put my arms next to each other to see the difference. The swelling put pressure on my nerves, and now I’m left with nerve damage. </div><div><br /></div><div>I spent three weeks in the hospital. They wanted to keep me longer to do physical rehabilitation, but I needed to go home. I had spent two weeks there staying with mum during her final days, then 5 days at home, then 3 weeks in as a patient. I went to my mum's funeral in a wheelchair. I felt like I couldn’t grieve, being in the same place she passed away. I missed my cats.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve been home for 5 months. I went from wheelchair, to gutter frame, to walking frame, to crutches. I just graduated to a walking stick last week, although I’m still very wobbly on it. My leg still collapses occasionally, and my thigh is still numb, but no where near as badly as it was. My arm is doing better. I have most of my movement and feeling back. It still gets sore and tired if I use it too much, even basic things like typing or cleaning, but I’m off the hardcore painkillers (oxycodone) regularly. I’m on lyrica to help with the nerve pain. If I miss a dose or two, I really feel it the next day, so I guess that means it’s working. </div><div><br /></div><div>I see my physio every week. Every session leaves me feeling weak and shaky. It’s sad how far things have deteriorated so quickly. I’ve been recommended to go twice a week, but mentally, it’s just too much. </div><div><br /></div><div>They just did another MRI on my shoulder, and thankfully there's no tumor there. I didn't know that was even a possibility until the neurologist gave me the results last week. I've had so many MRIs, CTs, ultrasounds, and various tests in the past 6 months, I've just stopped asking why. I've got another nerve conduction study coming up in the next few months, so hopefully I'll get an updated prognosis then. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to share this. When I last posted, I had already been dealing with this for a couple of months. In the early days, they didn’t know if I’d regain function in my leg, or especially in my arm, or if the pain would ever go away. After being so depressing this year, I think I wanted to wait until I had some good news about this.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On Monday, it will be 6 months since mum passed. It’s still hard to believe she’s really gone, let alone that it's been so long. I still keep thinking I can just pick up the phone and call her. </div><div><br /></div><div>The day after mum passed, I went back to the hospital, just to sit out the front. Because the funeral home hadn’t picked her up yet, and it was the closest I could get to her. I took wine in a travel mug, and sat out the front for hours, because I knew she was there. I did ask the concierge at the entrance (who I got to know very well in those last few weeks, and I still am very friendly with when I go in for appointments), and she said I could go there any time I wanted to. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been spending a few days a week at her unit. Packing and organizing. It's slow going because of my injuries, but I'm nearly there. It's going to be extremely sad once I can no longer go there. Even on days when I have no energy to pack, sometimes I just go over and sit and remember. Losing that will be like losing another part of her. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’m not coping with her loss. Some of you will know that my mum and I didn’t get along for a long time. But in the last few years, since moving out separately, we worked hard to repair that. And once we found out she was sick, I spent every day trying to help her. She told me that she was worried about me, that I was spending so much time and energy trying to support her, and that she was worried about how I would cope once she was gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>But she was right. I feel so empty without taking care of her. It became my reason to live for the time she was sick. Every moment, I was trying to think of what I could do to support her. I can try to fill the void with spending time at her unit, packing and organizing things. But what will I do in a couple of months when that’s no longer there? </div><div><br /></div><div>I still go over once or twice a week, because I have to get it organized. But I only take my night dose of meds with me. I thought it was an issue I was past - I hadn’t misused them to knock myself out in nearly two years. But I was wrong. And I’m terrified it’ll happen again.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>When I was in hospital, I couldn’t help but laugh. Only a couple of weeks earlier, I’d poked fun at my mum for using a walking frame at the age of 64 (because I told the nurses that I thought she needed help with walking). Then I was using one, at the grand old age of 28. And when I was stuck in the wheelchair, I had no one to push me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I went to mum’s funeral in a wheelchair, with my support worker, with day leave from the hospital. As per her requests, it was a very small, private, graveside service. We had my dad’s headstone re-done to reflect them both equally. A few weeks after we found out she was dying, we had gone to my dad’s grave, to mark 25 years since he passed. We spoke about what she wanted it to look like, what she wanted on it, and I noted it all down. When we left, she patted the ground and said <i>“I’ll see you soon, Bob” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>There was just 15 of us in total. My brother, my support worker and I, my 90-y.o great aunt and her son, four of her closest friends… she also wanted an open invitation to our medical center, so both of our GPs, my dietitian (who used to see mum), and 3 of the receptionists came. It was small and simple, but beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>The words that stick with me were towards the end of the service. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“In sorrow, but without fear, with dignity, and great respect...” </i></div><div>Mum might have been without fear, but I'm still scared shitless. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas will be here in 6 hours, but let's just ignore it this year. It feels uncomfortable, not going over to see mum. Not making my roast chook. I've got a leg of lamb, which mum and I used to cook a lot throughout the year, to throw in the slow cooker. Simple. But I don't know if I'll even do that. </div><div><br /></div><div>We never did much for Christmas. Just spent the day together, cook a roast. My brother would visit. It was never anything big or overly special. But this year, I feel like I’ve been falling apart a little more each day. I turn the TV off whenever there’s a reference to Christmas. I hate hearing about it. I try to ignore it. But tomorrow is going to suck, to say the least. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm truly dreading tomorrow. My first ever Christmas alone. I'm scared that it’ll be the hardest day so far, even harder than that first time going back to mum's place. That left me with nerve damage that I'm still trying to recover from after 5 months, and could potentially be permenant. I'm scared of what tomorrow will bring. </div><div><br /></div><div>My piercers offered for me to join their family Christmas at their farm. Which was absolutely lovely of them. But the last thing I want is to be around a happy family, and rub salt into the wound that I will never have that again. I thought about taking myself out to a nice restaurant for lunch. But same problem. Too many happy families. I’d probably ruin the day for anyone I was around. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought about setting up at the cemetery for the day. But there’s going to be so many people there. I’m going to go on Monday. I’ve been on the 27th of every month. This is going to be the six month mark.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I've been trying really hard to start getting back to my daily routine, but even now, a few days shy of 6 months since mum passed and 5 months since I've been home from hospital, it still feels near impossible. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the couple of months after mum passed, my weight dropped by a little over 10%. It's stabilized since I've been drinking more again, but I'm comfortably 'officially' underweight again (forever fat though).</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you to everyone who reached out, both here and on Facebook as well as privately. I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm having a difficult time finding words, hence this post has taken so long for me to write. It's still early days, both in grief and in my injury.</div><div><br /></div><div>To make things harder, my psychologist (who I've been seeing for many years) is on leave until March. She's been away for 3 months already. It took her a long time to tell me that she was expecting, because she was worried about leaving me. But when she did, I was nothing but happy for her, as much as we were both scared about me facing the holidays alone. She emailed me last night with a photo of her beautiful baby boy. I've been seeing someone new, I've only met them a few times, but they seem nice.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>For now, I think I'm going to go have a cry and make a Black Russian. </div><div><br /></div><div>I just want to call my mum. </div><div><br /></div><div>Merry Christmas. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6hWKpmv5sR3IrWCFs3XFfr119xqR1EgEQjrKtL585FaYuSjZ88s3Qowk7Id6sztkkzw0AYMjU5ZcVAukf_ov50m6Q1bw-QYQbJHCoa6lq7QUZt1mMFCTiBkKEOeHs9jzDgMDpvgT6lG6dTrXs4peicF272w_9UJHEv9u596h3vzIquMxwDREuNrgzJw=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6hWKpmv5sR3IrWCFs3XFfr119xqR1EgEQjrKtL585FaYuSjZ88s3Qowk7Id6sztkkzw0AYMjU5ZcVAukf_ov50m6Q1bw-QYQbJHCoa6lq7QUZt1mMFCTiBkKEOeHs9jzDgMDpvgT6lG6dTrXs4peicF272w_9UJHEv9u596h3vzIquMxwDREuNrgzJw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Sitting on the porch, watching all the trick-or-treaters on (a socially distanced) Halloween. My first genuine smile in months. </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3O9TCPLmQDAxLUikMo-92Yipwvgckhv9Um5MQqhoA4jJ5e9Cz3z8D2B5RZYLN8BweKlYG4snH3kTx6VA66npUWnRWWEWZIn3N_MZcYUNJ9AC0-QhrqfS5lbJMa6rY_o7ZTuI6nXnzfWVRNXvvoWhe_feMCqliv6RcIesFyZqhn6E6cZyiggXFKa8z1A=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3O9TCPLmQDAxLUikMo-92Yipwvgckhv9Um5MQqhoA4jJ5e9Cz3z8D2B5RZYLN8BweKlYG4snH3kTx6VA66npUWnRWWEWZIn3N_MZcYUNJ9AC0-QhrqfS5lbJMa6rY_o7ZTuI6nXnzfWVRNXvvoWhe_feMCqliv6RcIesFyZqhn6E6cZyiggXFKa8z1A=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGv7JDnciPDf7A8FnO3rC1b-fkSOe4telqundHbV9tRhQsOp3j2gRpkFsD4KbKQNA2kehA1dW1Fjdzr42w-ADA25Y6QV7nLJV-L1AN5q6QAVKJX-4C0ZrLiTR6evQXUHNKv7NDPGFCH6ueB437OtzyI2gjoUwOms8bNezdVoWkiH-21DFvNXwxpa086Q=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGv7JDnciPDf7A8FnO3rC1b-fkSOe4telqundHbV9tRhQsOp3j2gRpkFsD4KbKQNA2kehA1dW1Fjdzr42w-ADA25Y6QV7nLJV-L1AN5q6QAVKJX-4C0ZrLiTR6evQXUHNKv7NDPGFCH6ueB437OtzyI2gjoUwOms8bNezdVoWkiH-21DFvNXwxpa086Q=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Day 3. The swelling hadn't even hit it's max yet.</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPd2VxlZenzEF_ZcQa0lJ4SjuGho48ACu6d6vaV4CgUJktSfZIbXFtLHynyy0U34IjzQ_Iz88_RiBo9N8fgFnKTak4uZYZ2bYaG98oqXkHYgqm4eRJ1a5BY0Dywb3QfEmwMKtCW9SKENsY-gtJ_8yA5XvdHIhpcurxZ1_wmLGSPiAHtLq2qXFaOoJa3A=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPd2VxlZenzEF_ZcQa0lJ4SjuGho48ACu6d6vaV4CgUJktSfZIbXFtLHynyy0U34IjzQ_Iz88_RiBo9N8fgFnKTak4uZYZ2bYaG98oqXkHYgqm4eRJ1a5BY0Dywb3QfEmwMKtCW9SKENsY-gtJ_8yA5XvdHIhpcurxZ1_wmLGSPiAHtLq2qXFaOoJa3A=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Left – my thigh. Right – my forearm. </span></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrBW0W5Pdv4PUMwnscqmAOyCEaSQyTLirdGgCsUKkcPg0VS4Gv8O2TliINo-MB9qDfyTftXE6wYCMIYNXJKjNwBj_X9VXubOTczGS5_0pJ_OISfHUxDSSVPxMuH_kVdvfto_6kLAgdwhXEQwUMxraDi6TfepkjWvKe7k_Puz-1c52JRaCuwykIg-QQfw=s854" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrBW0W5Pdv4PUMwnscqmAOyCEaSQyTLirdGgCsUKkcPg0VS4Gv8O2TliINo-MB9qDfyTftXE6wYCMIYNXJKjNwBj_X9VXubOTczGS5_0pJ_OISfHUxDSSVPxMuH_kVdvfto_6kLAgdwhXEQwUMxraDi6TfepkjWvKe7k_Puz-1c52JRaCuwykIg-QQfw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Princess Persephone on her Halloween castle (a gift from my lovely support worker)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>xxBella</div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-45229899862012349102021-09-04T09:00:00.005+10:002021-09-04T09:00:00.263+10:0019 Weeks, 2 Days...It is with a very heavy heart, and immense sadness, that I make this post to let you all know that my beautiful mum has passed away, after an 19 week battle with cancer, which was unfortunately found too late to be curable. <br /><br />But we’re all grateful for that extra bit of time that treatment could buy her to slow things down, and for the medical team who made it happen. Things moved very quickly from the start. She fought hard through chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and immunotherapy - even knowing that it would at some point take her life.<br /><br />Through everything, she was brave, strong, and never afraid. She didn't know what – if anything - awaited on the other side, but she found peace knowing that she'd be with my dad again after 25 years. She was selfless until the end, worried about her family and how we would cope, even in her final days in the hospital, when her lucid moments were few and far between.<br /><br /><br />In her last two weeks, she was supposed to just go in for a quick appointment for immunotherapy. Her oncologist said she couldn’t do it, that her blood results needed to be followed by an inpatient admission. Less than 48 hours later, we found out that she wouldn’t be going back home.<br /><br />I stayed at her hospital bedside for her last ten days, holding her hand, as each day she slipped further away. It was the most precious time, and something I'll never forget. Visitors at the hospital were only allowed at this point for end of life. I’m eternally grateful that they were more than happy for me to stay there, and set up a folding bed for me so I didn’t have to leave.<br /><br />As much as we knew it was coming, even her oncologist thought she’d have another week or two before things started to fail. Her oncologist left on the Friday, saying he’d see her on Monday. Sunday, at 1:50pm, she was gone.<br /><br /><br />She’d been mostly sedated for the last few days. But no one was expecting her to pass so suddenly. I’d been sitting by her bed, holding her hand, for days. One minute, she was there. The next, she wasn’t. I’ll never forget the way her face changed, as she stopped breathing and her eyes opened. I yelled for the nurses that something was wrong with mum. I held her hand, squeezing, shaking, telling her I loved her. The nurses came in and stood there. I wanted them to tell me that my worst fears weren’t coming true, not yet. Everyone thought she’d have more time. <br /><br />It was nearly three hours before I let go of her hand, shaking, screaming, hysterically babbling to please wake up, please don’t leave me.<br /><br /><br />For the last few days, she was sedated to the point that the only way to describe it is living death. It was terrifying, but ultimately the best thing for her. As they adjusted the dosages, she would have lucid moments where she woke up, extremely confused. All I could do was tell her it was okay, that her doctor had given her some medication because they wanted her to get some rest, trying to comfort her until she went back to sleep.<br /><br />The day before she passed, she woke up suddenly, looked at me, and asked <div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>“Am I dying?”</b></i></div><br /><br />Since the start, knowing it’d most likely spread to her brain, mum always said that she wanted her body to go before her brain. She didn’t want to go through what she saw my dad go through.<br /><br />They don’t know exactly why her mind started to slip in that last week. The tumor had shrunk. It’s possible that it was a side effect from radiation. Her memory, both long and short term, slipped so far in such a short time. Within minutes, she’d forget what we’d been talking about, and sometimes even that I was there. It was distressing for everyone, especially mum, which is when they decided on sedation.<br /><br /><br />Mum would express that she was worried about me putting so much time and energy into trying to support her, both in those few months after we found out she was sick, but especially as I spent her final ten days staying in hospital with her. It consumed everything. I would tell her <i>“helping you is helping me”</i>. I was either trying to think of ways to support her, or visiting her to cook and make sure she had easy meals to reheat, or even just spending time with her, with no words needed. Watching movies she wanted to see.<br /><br />The only thing I could say to her towards the end, sarcastically, was <i>“Yes, I’m sure I’m going to look back and think ‘damn, I wish I hadn’t spent so much time with mum’”</i>. There was never going to be enough time. No matter how much time I spent with her over those 19 weeks, I knew it’d never be enough, whether she had two months or two years left.<br /><br />I take solace in the fact that we didn't leave anything unsaid. We had a lot of difficult, but necessary, deep & meaningful conversations, even in her last week. She had things to say that lifted weight off her chest, and I had many too. It wasn't easy, and there were many tears, but it gave me a lot of peace and closure, and I hope it did the same for her too.<br /><br /><br />But I can't help but have regrets. She’d told me days before her admission that she had pain, very similar to when she was first diagnosed. Her liver. I couldn’t see the jaundice, even after her doctor said it. I can’t help but wonder - should I have pushed her to go to emergency, as I was worried about her liver? If they caught it those few days earlier, would it have changed anything? Would they have been able to catch it and reverse it?<br /><br /><br />In the end, she was never scared. I can only hope to one day be as brave as her. She didn’t know what, if anything, was on the other side. But she knew that she would be reunited with my dad, who passed 25 years before, and that gave her peace.<br /><br /><br />On June 27th, at 1:50pm, the world became a bit less brighter<br /><br /><br />None of it feels real. After this horrible disease taking over our lives since February 12th, tightening its grip with each week that passed, everything feels so empty. For those 19 weeks and 2 days, almost to the minute since we found out, nothing else mattered. Since mum passed, everything feels so crushingly empty. I rewatch the funeral stream over and over. I listen to the songs on repeat - the songs she'd told us at the start of all this that she wanted. <i>“Imagine”</i> by John Lennon at the start. Then <i>“Love Me Tender”</i> by Elvis as they lowered her casket to join my dad.<br /><br /><br />Rest In Peace, mum. I know you’re back with my dad, the one and only love of your life, after 25 years, and how much comfort it gave you to know that you’d be with him again.<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LU_VhTv7IXsZybkRUZp3wZ_7yxZBE7EpJeIDkTOiDsbVbtmZ67BP2Oz4vsYQFpIwp9CtUznfpQcObbUfcZ4an6JnYd4G4zkDNDMRkkgidEI0n3xA0gZ5TOolSja8ypWjQTzzif7YCWUs/s2048/blog+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LU_VhTv7IXsZybkRUZp3wZ_7yxZBE7EpJeIDkTOiDsbVbtmZ67BP2Oz4vsYQFpIwp9CtUznfpQcObbUfcZ4an6JnYd4G4zkDNDMRkkgidEI0n3xA0gZ5TOolSja8ypWjQTzzif7YCWUs/w400-h300/blog+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The beautiful morning fog, sitting outside the hospital with our morning coffees</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknVaIdz05Fw0djaO-LDr9MBvaNaN44Kc59bMmUe03_jGqKw5u_YhNf5obdr_UV_2ehVjhGqmXGXSxHOsHjftIrFRwEI49DXPRF9YM33RU5qLeMCFpb8pU1YqfQuLtBFxahD9IaC_sLkXU/s2048/blog+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiknVaIdz05Fw0djaO-LDr9MBvaNaN44Kc59bMmUe03_jGqKw5u_YhNf5obdr_UV_2ehVjhGqmXGXSxHOsHjftIrFRwEI49DXPRF9YM33RU5qLeMCFpb8pU1YqfQuLtBFxahD9IaC_sLkXU/w300-h400/blog+2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The big haircut during chemo</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8_a8XROzhsKLOQu_Gkzk15-OGeVDeTlX6HqzrxYISVb9YlMh2vaPrnA2L0GokFGmEB4CIMSoe7tdFlpeqAIfi7hegxFm9y7bo-KU9hTewUbxWzsuC66n7GGVE9rramnpagCi78JFG3Ml/s2048/blog+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8_a8XROzhsKLOQu_Gkzk15-OGeVDeTlX6HqzrxYISVb9YlMh2vaPrnA2L0GokFGmEB4CIMSoe7tdFlpeqAIfi7hegxFm9y7bo-KU9hTewUbxWzsuC66n7GGVE9rramnpagCi78JFG3Ml/w400-h300/blog+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Not the most flattering photos, but some of the most important. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Precious moments, spending the last 10 days staying at the hospital with mum</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FtwWDxL3yVqHwW1cuuTgQFNcSNIlWndBG-qrgD2nWU0CQugfJTaIk7N0kBZl1vRTX5WA-PdC9MTRWcfpksBiYeIS9lv_M1Gv5PHs9f9QPstFMmTn2ulVmL8HMUlfbx_mYMBx8A6VMuF0/s750/blog+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FtwWDxL3yVqHwW1cuuTgQFNcSNIlWndBG-qrgD2nWU0CQugfJTaIk7N0kBZl1vRTX5WA-PdC9MTRWcfpksBiYeIS9lv_M1Gv5PHs9f9QPstFMmTn2ulVmL8HMUlfbx_mYMBx8A6VMuF0/w400-h300/blog+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsm9FAZ5Rv4hU1PMzW32OURnq_uY5Mq2ssDQ1sIAfAezip7tBBLECLSGopdOPWzmaneBOXsQ9SKTqOI9Ad9Kvf25KlqBEKMU-3AJal5MhFesKHwLisTby79sU_siK-TKyJebG2akQtVVf/s2048/blog+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsm9FAZ5Rv4hU1PMzW32OURnq_uY5Mq2ssDQ1sIAfAezip7tBBLECLSGopdOPWzmaneBOXsQ9SKTqOI9Ad9Kvf25KlqBEKMU-3AJal5MhFesKHwLisTby79sU_siK-TKyJebG2akQtVVf/w300-h400/blog+6.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Our last fish & chips at the beach, 6 weeks post-diagnosis</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">xxBella</div></div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-14585681906819502772021-06-07T16:13:00.005+10:002021-06-07T17:50:05.825+10:00I'm Not Ready For This<p>The past few months have been exhausting. Emotionally, mentally, physically.</p><p>On February 12th, we found out that my mum has cancer. Stage Four. Lungs, liver, brain... it's not looking good. Scratch that. We know it's not good.</p><p>I'll try to keep this short as to not bore you all, but it has quickly taken over so much of my life, it'd be impossible to not share here. I've never really had friends in real life, and I don't have many people to talk to.</p><p><br /></p><p>In one week, everything can change. Within days, things changed from <i>"my abdomen hurts a bit" </i>to <i>"you need to start treatment now, or you'll be dead in two weeks"</i>. There were no warning signs. It started in her lungs, but there's still no symptoms. It was only when her liver had swollen to over twice it's normal size, and was already completely overrun by the cancer, that anything appeared to be wrong. Even her GP of 30 years is quite shocked and distressed by it all.</p><p>She went through five rounds of chemo in 12 weeks, faster than her oncologist has ever seen. It's helped. But it's worn her down. She's not the same person she was just a few short months ago. Now, they're about to start radiation on her brain (we only found out that it'd spread to her brain two weeks ago). </p><p>It's scary. My dad passed from brain cancer, 25 years ago, and although I'm sure there's been great advances in medicine in that time, my mum watched him slip away and the awful side effects from his cancer and the radiation treatments. Three grandparents and both of my parents will have passed from cancer (assuming my mum doesn't get hit by a car any time soon).</p><p>From day one, mum has said that she didn't care where it goes, as long as it's not her brain. Unfortunately, Small Cell Lung Carcinoma tends to spread quickly to the liver and the brain. One month ago today, on her birthday, she cried with happiness when her scans showed it hadn't spread to the brain yet. Two weeks ago, it had.</p><p>No matter what treatment they do, the cancer isn't going to shrink much. And we knew from the start that it was never going to get better. All they can do is try to slow it down, and buy her some more time.</p><p><br /></p><p>Cancer is a bitch.</p><p><br /></p><p>There's been a lot of hard discussions. Talking about quality of life. What she wants on her headstone. The song at her funeral ('Imagine' by John Lennon). Things she wants when it comes to her final days.</p><p>I've been trying to keep it together, for mum's sake. My brother lives an hour away, so I've been trying to do what I can to help out. Whether it's looking in to things she wants to do, movies she wants to see, picking up groceries (read: my support worker picking up groceries while I sit in the car), prepping meals for her, doing a load of dishes or laundry, or just being there to talk, or not talk. Things like shaving her head when her hair started falling out. I go to appointments with her and take notes, because there's so much information coming, she can't remember all the details.</p><p>My focus is just on spending time with her, and helping where I can, but it's hard seeing her not being able to do things that were easy a few months ago.</p><p>There's just a lot to deal with, and I'm not prepared for this (as selfish as that sounds). It's hard putting on a strong face for mum, and then just falling apart when I get home. I'm filled with depression, fear, anxiety, sometimes even anger. I feel sick when I think about it. Taking care of myself is the next hurdle. Everything has been so intense, and it's moved so quickly. I know there's usually a point in life where the care-giving dynamic changes, and the children start caring for their parents, but it's too soon. I'm only 28. Mum just turned 64. I thought there'd be another twenty years. Nothing about this is fair.</p><p><br /></p><p>I've spoken a lot to my support worker, even out of hours. She says I'm a friend first and a client second. If I message her at 10pm after a difficult day, she'll always call to check in. I've had many calls to Lifeline, one of which ended with them not believing I could keep myself safe, and sending 'someone' out to check on me. Little did I know, this ended up being the police, who agreed with their assessment, and then paramedics to transport me to hospital. I’ve stopped calling since then.</p><p>I'm trying to get my shit together. I'm trying to link in with a counselling service that specializes in terminal illness and grief ('pre-grief', as I've been calling it), but due to my complex mental health issues, they aren't keen on taking me on. My team are still pushing for it though. I'm also looking into finding an outpatient alcohol program, but resources seem scarce.</p><p><br /></p><p>I know that my mum and I haven't had the greatest relationship at times, which I've talked about here before, but over the last two years, we've gotten a lot closer and mended the wounds. I talk to her every day, and visit her every Saturday (now twice a week). And I'm scared. The only other family I really have is my brother, and we haven't been particularly close. And I worry that, after my mum is gone, the only people in my day-to-day life are going to be those who are paid to be there (support worker ((I only have one these days, and she's become my best friend)), psychologist, doctor, dietitian, etc.). And as much as they mean a lot to me, that seems like a very empty existence.</p><p>I'll try not to let this topic overtake my posts, and as always, I want to get back to posting more. I was going to make this post after round two of chemo, round four, round five, hoping that things would quieten down. But with radiation set to start this week, I've realized it's not going to quieten down. It'll just move from one chapter to the next.</p><p>I know it's going to be a rough time ahead. While mum is still here, I have to keep going. What scares me if what will happen to me after she's gone.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qKkwQyNJjC0w5lezSvGrV-XJ42Nx5K7qer6Zn-BhQlY7tqrCmOGrnahiHCKd53Cicu57-CcDOQOMWR68kXIvsFycRqsproMTLQ1-wGtxoVvkgmRXRqMYFqWK1rc4P4pu2A8SZIGjRaco/s2048/june+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qKkwQyNJjC0w5lezSvGrV-XJ42Nx5K7qer6Zn-BhQlY7tqrCmOGrnahiHCKd53Cicu57-CcDOQOMWR68kXIvsFycRqsproMTLQ1-wGtxoVvkgmRXRqMYFqWK1rc4P4pu2A8SZIGjRaco/w300-h400/june+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfOEdrIQLzdBeqLpJkl6GnqaNa-FtdIA3vhDiosF1vI3BmRcT7V8vvsuDFNIus6X_5Z5NJ_gmVMZYqy4rryoQS_NRElzHzDFoGbWTJf-IPDL3NkmO1ted_j-SBiOYmpzaL5w3SqTyczdt/s2048/june+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfOEdrIQLzdBeqLpJkl6GnqaNa-FtdIA3vhDiosF1vI3BmRcT7V8vvsuDFNIus6X_5Z5NJ_gmVMZYqy4rryoQS_NRElzHzDFoGbWTJf-IPDL3NkmO1ted_j-SBiOYmpzaL5w3SqTyczdt/w400-h300/june+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Birthday Dinner at the local steakhouse</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhRC7ArXiIspA7k2wk6awF0l7kt9PCUvlzqMwoWvnZAvkh_YLMswmWgKD5jsAayZ7TUODnWEfOLeKcSAhQXpeYgO8BBlBbIcqZ-sJ9oVaHcThVXPxEQ4jozqG_m5heMGFvm35JZ30MZW9/s1333/june+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhRC7ArXiIspA7k2wk6awF0l7kt9PCUvlzqMwoWvnZAvkh_YLMswmWgKD5jsAayZ7TUODnWEfOLeKcSAhQXpeYgO8BBlBbIcqZ-sJ9oVaHcThVXPxEQ4jozqG_m5heMGFvm35JZ30MZW9/w360-h640/june+3.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Mum was worried about being turned away for having no hair, and wanted to take a hat with her. She's done amazingly at not feeling like she has to cover up to make others comfortable (she really didn't want to), although it took a lot of convincing. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">She didn't take a hat, and there were no issues. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">When the waitress saw me taking photos of my mum and brother (I'm taking a lot more photos these days), she asked if we wanted a photo of all three of us.</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53-5QwOfdHznSB_RTDPVFC9CjgpEBO03xackbJ70Te6xZvUmp_ykhyphenhyphenjX8ORrzuganjkoS4kKz-Mt0M8VlKen8T4Ci48ddo5g766MXIj2RQsbfTFLPYLXVz657KHdu8lZiRRlMtFV-YvbQ/s1104/june+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53-5QwOfdHznSB_RTDPVFC9CjgpEBO03xackbJ70Te6xZvUmp_ykhyphenhyphenjX8ORrzuganjkoS4kKz-Mt0M8VlKen8T4Ci48ddo5g766MXIj2RQsbfTFLPYLXVz657KHdu8lZiRRlMtFV-YvbQ/w300-h400/june+4.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLX1-3tfrIHYNtBPcSN4gTsF0je6bW1xlppCQPIp3kxewqi_lXBAvhwNJhlPRVPwa6dYBffxFaM9CUzubalM946x_DhyCp2WAtvfHQZNeVmhzW7Pn8dZBqplDGZNvHVwki_4VI8MHHyvof/s2048/june+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLX1-3tfrIHYNtBPcSN4gTsF0je6bW1xlppCQPIp3kxewqi_lXBAvhwNJhlPRVPwa6dYBffxFaM9CUzubalM946x_DhyCp2WAtvfHQZNeVmhzW7Pn8dZBqplDGZNvHVwki_4VI8MHHyvof/w400-h300/june+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Wagyu eye fillet. When it's potentially our last family dinner out, why cut corners?</p><p style="text-align: center;">(It was amazing, btw, and I had leftovers to bring home)</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>xxBella</p>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-11308351031464307472021-04-16T16:50:00.000+10:002021-04-16T16:50:58.149+10:00Meanwhile...My world was turned upside down a few weeks into the new year, in a way I’ve never experienced before.<br /><br /><div>Things have been a bit crazy these past few months. I’m trying to put a post together, when I’ve got the time and energy, but I’ve been struggling to even keep up with journaling. <br /><br />I know this isn’t a proper post, but I just wanted you all to know that I’m still around. I’m okay. Things are hard right now, but I have to just keep on going, day by day. <br /><br />Sorry for going 'ghost' again. I know I’ve said that I’d get back to posting at least monthly this year, but the last few months have changed so much in my life.<br /><br />I don’t mean to vague-post, but there’s so many thoughts to compile before I can do a proper update, and I’m having trouble coming to terms with, and being able to articulate, everything that's going on. I <i>am</i> working on a proper post, I promise. But I’ve been stressing a lot that I haven’t been able to post an update, so I also wanted to post this in hopes of alleviating some of the (self-imposed) pressure and guilt. <br /><br />If I haven’t posted in the next month, please definitely do send harassing emails until I get off my ass and actually do it (looking at you, Shelby!)<br /><br />Again, I’m sorry for the vagueness. I just wanted to post something to let you all know that I’m working on it, and will hopefully resume our regular programming soon. <br /><br />Love you guys. Thanks for putting up with me. I'd be so very lost without the community and friends I've found here over the past 9 years <3<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">In the meantime, random recent pictures...</div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYhZ3OckclUwlJh1wWwX42nPKsKzhhUhrK1M0Z6Atn083F_kWQUaW79S5t5s8z6eAM1PfV784H1o3eA0h8yWC1dJ5fNRz0F9I544nrIMlUgqxd7VeRcYfCysF0HETC7EZHC6E45Tl4oTX/s2048/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYhZ3OckclUwlJh1wWwX42nPKsKzhhUhrK1M0Z6Atn083F_kWQUaW79S5t5s8z6eAM1PfV784H1o3eA0h8yWC1dJ5fNRz0F9I544nrIMlUgqxd7VeRcYfCysF0HETC7EZHC6E45Tl4oTX/w400-h400/unnamed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">My new, very appropriate, slippers</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDxq0z8rZDSI-_G9bI78qyuIR6coeobetN1Ds7a0uxt5_U-rSYhtzLr2dGFiWH204kpBahHOQMq1iIH6ZI9vg_zMoEhGUSN6gInKqYW0-mjeI49oNbS-1MXwKtPeG0_-EPwJTjN7E-1OZ/s2048/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDxq0z8rZDSI-_G9bI78qyuIR6coeobetN1Ds7a0uxt5_U-rSYhtzLr2dGFiWH204kpBahHOQMq1iIH6ZI9vg_zMoEhGUSN6gInKqYW0-mjeI49oNbS-1MXwKtPeG0_-EPwJTjN7E-1OZ/w300-h400/unnamed+%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Sitting on the floor, next to a case of diet Mountain Dew, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">blowing my cigarette smoke through the screen door, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">because why not</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTsvoGWRH2ZSqYFqz2rhnRwZu3haguNaQHDJ0UKcvLYCofzC6bLHJR3WaApQ9va4fJA9tJxTEeE5utGCJf7Y4-1asjwbixvNv0cfgj7SZkwJDr15e0OFK5ST5fdjlntpkbJh9ekFnZIVx/s2048/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTsvoGWRH2ZSqYFqz2rhnRwZu3haguNaQHDJ0UKcvLYCofzC6bLHJR3WaApQ9va4fJA9tJxTEeE5utGCJf7Y4-1asjwbixvNv0cfgj7SZkwJDr15e0OFK5ST5fdjlntpkbJh9ekFnZIVx/w400-h400/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="text-align: start;">Hey look I’m alive <strike>and fat</strike></span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><strike><br /></strike></span></div><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zbmh-quJVnbZsk2Z9JKLOfkE7raCpuaYk8xLf7PY35HeyVLJkw1v-IZTjrEO3odWnPg9aTJ9JzFMT-IrRmN50HPVGQuhWp4-kiGfY5HA2OavoHeCeDCghfZ91YvwR2EGLmNqcQbb45cC/s2048/unnamed+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_zbmh-quJVnbZsk2Z9JKLOfkE7raCpuaYk8xLf7PY35HeyVLJkw1v-IZTjrEO3odWnPg9aTJ9JzFMT-IrRmN50HPVGQuhWp4-kiGfY5HA2OavoHeCeDCghfZ91YvwR2EGLmNqcQbb45cC/w400-h400/unnamed+%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The fluffy babies who keep me alive</div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>xxBella</div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-32943940555164398382020-10-30T16:39:00.002+11:002020-10-31T10:05:55.925+11:00" We are not lonely, because we chose to be alone"Hello, my lovely blogosphere! <div><br /></div><div> Again, I'm sorry its been so long between posts. I'm okay, or at least doing as well as I can be. I've been trying my best to keep up with reading, and trying to comment, on everyone's posts as best I can. But in the past year, I've found myself overwhelmed by even the smallest things. It's been hard to find words for the past couple of years, and I find it happening more often these days. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> First of all, I just want to say that I hope everyone is staying safe. I know that many of you are from areas in the world where the pandemic is running rampant. </div><div><br /></div><div> We've had quite strict social distancing and lockdowns here for a while now (Victoria, Australia – although I'm in Geelong, so it's a bit more relaxed than metropolitan Melbourne, which is about an hours drive away). And as hard as it's been on a lot of the local community, I know that we have it better than a lot of other places around the globe. </div><div><br /></div><div> For the most part, it hasn't really effected me. When my team ask how I'm coping with lockdown, I just jokingly say that I've been social distancing my entire life. But really, it hasn't effected my day-to-day much at all (hooray for agoraphobia and anxiety). </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> So. Food has been shit in recent months. I was able to stop the alcohol gains around the start of the year, but for the most part, I've just been maintaining, which is frustrating. I had nearly a year around a borderline healthy weight. But about three months ago, I ran into a big C-PTSD trigger, and my weight and calorie intake have been dropping ever since. </div><div><br /></div><div> I feel so anxious and afraid, sometimes I just can't push myself to eat. I'm still drinking as much – actually, even more – but my food calories have dropped even further. For a long time, my calories from food (excluding alcohol) averaged out around 600 a day. Sometimes 800 one day, and 400 another. It varied. But since the Big Trigger, I've been averaging closer to 400 (425 for September), with about 2/3-3/4 of my total calories coming from alcohol. </div><div><br /></div><div> There were a few really hard weeks. I spent a couple of nights a week crashing mum's couch, because I didn't feel like I could stay safe at home. The first really bad night, the first night I crashed there, it was the middle of the night when I went over. She was obviously asleep, and I couldn't reach her over the phone. But I felt like I was going to hurt myself. So, around 2am, I made sure the cats had what they needed for overnight, grabbed my handbag, and just got in a taxi. I sat on her porch, and rang the doorbell, still in tears. Thankfully she woke up, and let me in. On my way over, all I could think was;</div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span> </span><i>“If I have the sleep on the porch, I'm still safer than I'd be at home.”</i> </div><div><br /></div><div> It was not my finest moment. </div><div><br /></div><div> After the initial Big Trigger a few months ago, I self-harmed for the first time in many months. It was nothing that needed emergency treatment, and I won't go into detail because I know it can be triggering, but it took nearly two months to heal. I even had a couple of overdoses on my medication (relatively minor) for the first time in about a year. It didn't do any damage or require a trip to hospital, but did knock me out for a couple of days. I'm doing better now, as far as self-harm and overdoses are considered. </div><div><br /></div><div> I still feel really bad for putting so much stress on mum for those few weeks – constantly crashing on her couch, having breakdowns and crying and blubbering to her. It was starting to effect her. Our relationship has improved a lot since moving out, but this episode put a lot of stress on her, and that's not something I ever wanted to do again. Things have been bad again trigger-wise in the past week or two, but I haven't told her. There's been such a strain in our relationship over the past 10-15 years because of my mental health issues, and it took a big toll on her. So, if possible, I try my best to hide it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> I'd been doing so well with my drinking, having about 10 days (give or take a couple) without drinking each month. But for October, it's only 1 dry day. September, it was 3. Pathetic. </div><div><br /></div><div> I know how quickly the alcohol calories add up, even when drinking wine, which has no fat and little sugar – not many more calories than vodka. But I just need the escape, and weed just isn't an option for me (for those who don't know, I was a 24/7 stoner for just under a decade, with a couple of those years on synthetics. I couldn't control it. Now, I haven't had a single puff on non-tobacco products since last April). Just like anything I consume, the alcohol is measured, weighed, and accounted for. I suppose a lot of alcoholics wouldn't have a solid idea of how much they consume. But I can look back and go <i>"yep, I had 19.2 standard drinks that day". </i>So at least that's something.</div><div><br /></div><div> I need to get my shit together and get back on track. I'd planned to be down to only drinking twice a week by the end of the year, but a spanner has been thrown in the works. For November, I'm going to aim for seven dry days, just to get back into the groove of things.</div><div><br /></div><div> The past few months, I've been drinking 25,000-35,000 calories a <i>month</i> in alcohol alone. That's like, 3.2-4.5kg (7-10lb) each month. It makes me feel sick, disgusted and ashamed, to think about. The calories and potential weight loss are the only reason I even want to cut back/quit. And I wish it was enough to make me pour the wine down the sink and go cold turkey. It should be enough. But I've gone so long relying on addictions to get me through the day, and weed/synthetics transitioned seamlessly into alcohol, I don't know how to get through without it. </div><div><br /></div><div> On the upside, it's not like I eat more when I drink. Just like the 'weed munchies', it's never really had an effect on what or how much I eat. I might eat different foods after I pour my first glass though. For example, even if they're the same calories, I'll take air-popped popcorn over an apple, because foods like popcorn seem to encourage me to drink faster, but apples really don't. </div><div><br /></div><div> I haven't been exercising much since everything hit me. A lot of the time, I feel frozen on the couch, paralysed with anxiety. Usually, exercise helps. But at the moment, it just isn't. </div><div><br /></div><div> It's just hard to find the motivation to eat (or do anything) since the Big Trigger. Most days, I haven't been eating until after I start drinking, and even then, it's only because I feel too nauseous to drink without something in my stomach, but I just need the alcohol to numb the pain. </div><div><br /></div><div> I'm torn. Don't get me wrong – I love seeing the number on the scale dropping. But I hate that I have no control over it, and that it's come from something so negative.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> I seem to actually have a tonne of things I was to say, that have built up over the past few months. I'm going to keep it short(ish) for today, just to give a general update, but I'm going to try to do at least one post each month. </div><div><br /></div><div> I've only just started typing up my scribbles and journal notes and figuring out what I want or need to say. And there's still so much to say, so fingers crossed it's a sign that I'll be more regular with posting in the next few months. If I disappear, feel free to give me a kick up the butt in comments or email (shout out to Shelby who emailed to check in on me last week). I've always leant on this community so much for support, and it means a lot to know there's still some people out there (even if it's a bit quieter in recent years). I'm going to really try to update more often, like I used to. </div><div><br /></div><div> I know I've also already got a few of you on Facebook, but if not, feel free to add me (just search for the email in my blog's sidebar – <i>too-much-not-enough@hotmail.com</i>). </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> Sorry for the cat spam you're about to see. But these girls have been my rock, and a lot of days, they're the only thing that keep me going. It's only about 1% of the photos I've taken since adopting little Sephi (Persephone) back in April, but they show her blossoming personality, and how she gets along with Misty. </div><div><br /></div><div> As many of you know, when I lost my dog of nearly 15 years, Billy, two years ago, it very near destroyed me. I didn't know if I could get through it, and didn't know if I could bear to adopt another furbaby with the knowledge that they'd one day leave. </div><div><br /></div><div> I always said he was my reason to live. That Misty would be fine without me, but Billy needed me. He was so co-dependent, with bad separation anxiety. But in that first year without him, Misty became closer to me, and I came to realise that she now needed me too. I think she knew I needed that. And now, little 9-month old Sephi has become even clingier. </div><div><br /></div><div> Little Sephi is an absolutely angel. For a couple of weeks, I had my doubts as to if I was ready to adopt another furbaby, or if I'd made the right decision. But now, I can't imagine life without her. Every morning, as soon as she hears me move, she bounces up and gives me a cuddle before I can even open my eyes. After that, Misty sits on my lap while I have my morning coffee. For the rest of the day, I've usually got at least one of them on my lap. They really are keeping me going. </div><div><br /></div><div> Some days, I still want to harm myself to the point of hospitalisation. When it was just Misty, I knew she'd been okay for a day or two without me (with someone checking in to check on her). But with clingy, needy little Sephi, it's enough to stop me. And if needed, like I mentioned earlier, crash on mum's couch, where I don't have access to excess medication or blades. </div><div><br /></div><div> This has ended up longer than I was planning, so I'll wrap it up. If I haven't posted again by the end of the year, feel free to give me swift kick in the behind. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzCTqjWm9xFjem3Tsp0ekAZ3k1LdQmu6r952aVeV1qlrVzBWTdqx2igM_kTT47EWw47SilFUjgCxpiIYtulxnwD3K_zOwG3iuMBxA22VUruUVvGoH2PJBE6Reh1OI2YOoktcenV9pJhFK/s2048/oct+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzCTqjWm9xFjem3Tsp0ekAZ3k1LdQmu6r952aVeV1qlrVzBWTdqx2igM_kTT47EWw47SilFUjgCxpiIYtulxnwD3K_zOwG3iuMBxA22VUruUVvGoH2PJBE6Reh1OI2YOoktcenV9pJhFK/w300-h400/oct+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> Taking Sephi outside (on her harness). She's only been outside </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">a few times, and tends to stay close because she doesn't like </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">the noise, but I still want her to have some sense of where </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">she is in case (god forbid) she gets out one day </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqThv9EkjugOeLwZJd5LiyNwgCIXiO16M24M8TnbhNJeLevwxGbgVvgINEyU8lgtorr0U3aF8hjrfYRpPFEZQJQhDolYePhFkyQhmU32b3mvN3EOOaRIyKLbFlI3A0FEiLzSjh1D0L4RS/s2048/oct+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqThv9EkjugOeLwZJd5LiyNwgCIXiO16M24M8TnbhNJeLevwxGbgVvgINEyU8lgtorr0U3aF8hjrfYRpPFEZQJQhDolYePhFkyQhmU32b3mvN3EOOaRIyKLbFlI3A0FEiLzSjh1D0L4RS/w400-h300/oct+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> They don't always get along. Sephi wants to play, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">but Misty just wants to snooze. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">But when they do get a cuddle in,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> it always melts my heart. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aHCmOXGd_7pEXThyphenhyphenT7Jpb7cC26CgpO5EADQrQ4lfofm_80vVXh-wzRfhf-o6L3_ff6t59k1d3vVDwTLdDXIPcupkGfKXrNO_AKKuZBLlUcHSwi8HLw_VvV9BJkqdgTA-i897WwOyhyGh/s2048/oct+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aHCmOXGd_7pEXThyphenhyphenT7Jpb7cC26CgpO5EADQrQ4lfofm_80vVXh-wzRfhf-o6L3_ff6t59k1d3vVDwTLdDXIPcupkGfKXrNO_AKKuZBLlUcHSwi8HLw_VvV9BJkqdgTA-i897WwOyhyGh/w400-h300/oct+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<table><tbody><tr><td><img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQObtAXAl8nm7in0wR2G2sq9EYQ3IdA4YTwdbosKGvEUgJ53o8YVb8a-Xy2M1c_LXHDIhiWwdvEi0c652mcsdRNkEdasAj6an5YhxhwRme6FwHz1vbbsiyKwrQupxWb42RGfLi9iQueuuC/w300-h400/oct+4.jpg" width="300" /></td><td><img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXy8CKKEL9KAziTyl8GFa_7oFB1AEAmG2vLKrGDox5RS_6SK-6GV0opkHp_mssMUaiFOLHJRcrgnZTRWlBsJvKyfcXY10mJimCbtZc5_Vv0LgVemWXm2b9yJ97YU-gb9iZi1TnCnVT0-O/w300-h400/oct+5.jpg" width="300" /></td></tr></tbody></table>And these are just to show just how clingy Sephi is! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If she's on my lap/next to me, she needs to have </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">at least one paw on me at all times.</div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWACaeLIXg6cGoBNqnsS5zcS8YKZeA-uus6O88x-siX7mZm5N6b4k6hidaP57tblxTJwdD7xXTE7RUm4y7FXFgWwZz34CqYPlGIe3nb2A4mw0NT0vo4xyI9Di_DMzLGM-bjpF9kh5zVHwB/s2048/oct+6.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWACaeLIXg6cGoBNqnsS5zcS8YKZeA-uus6O88x-siX7mZm5N6b4k6hidaP57tblxTJwdD7xXTE7RUm4y7FXFgWwZz34CqYPlGIe3nb2A4mw0NT0vo4xyI9Di_DMzLGM-bjpF9kh5zVHwB/w400-h266/oct+6.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> A typical Misty & Sephi interaction – War of the Box! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwLMkz_mIz0i_ft-qU8-YGM2suR7ylg4aXa8xANK9apxEDFQbtCNd7RqiA0-Hi5tD2-rJmRvO5bhIe0sBX4eSUsQrv4nbV2KGyZH2GuY4Sos2jwstPZzWgMEZVZvwWVIKHtVvcvpmWVXD/s2048/oct+7.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwLMkz_mIz0i_ft-qU8-YGM2suR7ylg4aXa8xANK9apxEDFQbtCNd7RqiA0-Hi5tD2-rJmRvO5bhIe0sBX4eSUsQrv4nbV2KGyZH2GuY4Sos2jwstPZzWgMEZVZvwWVIKHtVvcvpmWVXD/w400-h266/oct+7.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sephi won... this time</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i> “We are not lost, because we chose to disappear.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> xxBella</div>Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-48031870684454716322020-04-25T17:18:00.001+10:002020-04-30T13:25:15.396+10:00PersephoneMeet Persephone, the newest addition to my little family.<br />
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After tragically losing Billy 18 months ago, I still don't know if I'll ever get another dog. My heart just can't bear it.<br />
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But with Misty getting older, and being an only pet for the first time in her life, I decided some months ago that I wanted to look into getting her a little buddy. I didn't want to end up alone, and potentially risk the same situation that I'm in regarding dogs (not knowing if I could bear to get another cat, after I one day say goodbye to Misty).<br />
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So, last week, I had an appointment with my local rescue, and came home with a gorgeous little tortie.<br />
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Persephone (or 'Sephi' for short), is an absolute sweetheart. She has a squeaky little meow, and an endless desire for affection. At the rescue, they called her 'Cruella', but I can't possibly imagine why.<br />
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I was initially planning to rescue an adult cat, but after a lot of thinking about it, I decided that a kitten would be much less stressful for Misty. Her only experience of other cats is when the neighbourhood cats back home used to attack her, and I didn't want her feeling intimidated by introducing another adult cat.<br />
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Even going to the rescue was a big step. The last time I was there, Billy was at their attached vet clinic for his surgery. That was the last time I would ever see him alive. A lot of sadness and memories came up as I walked in to adopt Sephi, but this has helped add some more positive associations to the location.<br />
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Misty isn't 100% on board with her little friend yet. After slowly introducing them over the first week, there is still the occasional hiss or growl from Misty, especially when Sephi chases her around wanting to play. But a few days ago, Misty was curled up snoozing on my lap, and Sephi snuck up for a cuddle with her. They stayed there for well over an hour! They're getting along better every day, and that's the best I can ask for.<br />
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So far, I have felt better than I have for some months. Watching Sephi as she snoozes on my lap makes me feel like I'm floating. There has been so much stress going on lately - both in the world at large and my own life - it's made a welcome break to take some time and just enjoy the moment.<br />
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I'll update on everything else soon. My laptop has been in for repair for a few weeks (it's complicated, and potentially a lost cause), so I'm just writing this quick post while I visit mum.<br />
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I hope everyone out in the blogosphere is doing as best they can. Take care of yourselves <3<br />
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xxBellaBellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-40541774097474155702020-02-27T13:40:00.000+11:002020-02-27T15:49:53.461+11:00Make Them Never Want to Hurt You Ever AgainThis weekend will mark <b>six months</b> since I moved. The time seems to have flown, but at the same time, it feels like I've lived here much longer.<br />
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I'm making progress of making my unit a home, and trying to figure out how to feel safe and secure. It doesn't help that I made the mistake of letting someone in (a friend who was struggling with a depressive episode, and wanted someone to talk to) about 6 weeks ago, and they ended up hurting me. I haven't told my psychologist or GP about it, but my support workers know. Talking about it just seems pointless. Talking about it never helps. I spent the first couple of weeks afterwards staying at mum's every other night, just because I didn't want to be alone and stuck in my head. I barely ate unless I was at mum’s place for the first month or so, but now it’s starting to even back out into a more regular restriction.<br />
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There are also a lot of C-PTSD traumaversaries at this time of year, so it's all just piled on. I put a note on my fridge, for the first time ever, which reinforces why I <i>need </i>to get this weight off, that says;<br />
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<i>"<b>MAKE THEM </b></i><br />
<i><b>NEVER WANT </b></i><br />
<i><b>TO HURT YOU </b></i><br />
<i><b>EVER AGAIN!!!</b>"</i></div>
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It's funny how people assume that everyone wants to lose weight to look better, or that EDs are about vanity. But for me, it's always been the opposite. My driving force is the need to be unattractive, even repulsive. The only time I'm ever happy with how I look, is when others aren't.<br />
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It all seems futile though. The same force also drives me to drink more, which makes it all counterproductive. Although I managed to stop in the alcohol weight gain last year, it's taking forever to come off. At least two thirds of my calories come from booze, and basically any deficit comes from exercising, and since I've gotten back on track with my meds, some days I just don't have the energy to get on the bike. And I know that sounds like an excuse, but some days my medication makes me whole body tired. That said, a lot of the time, I will exercise <i>while</i> drinking, whether on the bike or the step. I’ve exercised while drinking for years, but now it feels like a necessity whenever I drink.<br />
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That said, I <i>am </i>doing really well with my medication. I haven't overdosed since I moved. Sometimes I'll take a few more PRNs in a day to zombify myself, but not taking weeks' worth of medication and passing out for days like I used to. My GP has finally agreed to take me off Webster packs (those blister packs where my morning, afternoon and night meds are all separated into individual doses for the week), and start transitioning to just picking up whole prescriptions like a normal person.<br />
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I'm not saying it'll never happen again. It's been one of my coping mechanisms for 15 years now, since I was 12, and it's not going to just disappear. But it's not happening multiple times a week like it was a year ago.<br />
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I'm having more days off drinking, but still short of my current goal of two dry days per week. Some weeks I get there, some I don't. I wish I could say I was motivated for health reasons, but really, it's mostly the calories. Even one day's worth of drinking calories could equal 0.2kg/0.5lb on the scales. I wish that were enough to go cold turkey, but the withdrawals just become too much, even with extra medication. And sometimes I just <i>need</i> the escape so badly. I've thought about going to treatment, but I can't leave Misty. After losing Billy two weeks after I initially became homeless and went into Supported Residential, I'm scared that if I go away, something bad is going to happen and I might never see her again.<br />
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Fun Fact: After totaling everything up from last year, I consumed a total of <b>305,645 calories</b> in alcohol (99% of which are low calorie/sugar/fat, like vodka and dry wine, with the 1% being the occasional sugary cider). That's <b>39.7kg</b>, or <b>87.3lbs</b>, worth of calories. <strike>kill me </strike>I'm relieved I more-or-less maintained my weight last year, but it really hits hard the extent of the alcohol calories I consume.<br />
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I've started DBT with my psychologist. It's been on the to-do list for quite some time, but things have been so chaotic over the past couple of years, it just hasn't been a priority. Most of it just seems logical, but now that we're edging towards the whole 'changing behaviour' side of things, I'm panicking a little. I know what triggers my negative behaviours, and I know what happens because of it, but figuring out how to stop them makes my brain want to explode.<br />
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I was planning to just update on life in general, but it seems to be a mess of the links between trauma and weight and drinking, although that does pretty much describe my life at the moment. So, to lighten the mood - pictures!<br />
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Halloween!</div>
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We never used to get trick or treaters back at home (Australia, etc), </div>
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but my new neighbourhood was swarming with them! </div>
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I was completely unprepared, but after seeing all the kids in costumes walking by outside my window, I sat on my porch having drinks, handing out whatever goodies I could find in my cupboard</div>
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(sorry to the kids who got Fibre One Brownies and snack packs of rice crackers!). </div>
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The lady in the unit next to me, who I'd never met before, actually raided her pantry and gave me a heap of Freddo Frogs to hand out.</div>
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First body check in new home, with and without jacket</div>
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The beauty of having my normal dishware back after a year (especially the tiny dishes)</div>
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- 22g taco shells (103 cal)</div>
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- 50g chicken breast, cooked in mexican seasoning and water (68 cal)</div>
- 10g low-fat cheddar cheese (31 cal)<br />
- 30g salsa (9 cal)<br />
- 150g lettuce (21 cal)<br />
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From the same lovely neighbour who saved Halloween. I always thought that neighbours randomly bringing over cakes etc. was just something that happened in movies!</center>
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xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-84413147557129209532019-12-01T13:53:00.000+11:002019-12-01T16:14:31.142+11:00It's Always Darkest Before The DawnThe past few months have been very,
<i>very</i> busy, but for the first time in years, it's mostly been for
positive reasons.<br />
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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 <b>I have a place of my own for the first time ever!</b></div>
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At the end of August, one of the units
I'd applied for finally gave me approval, after endless unsuccessful
applications.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 <i>my </i><span style="font-style: normal;">home
for the first time ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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 </span>77 days <span style="font-style: normal;">drinking
in a row, which I think might be the longest bender I've had.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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
</span><i>am</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>anything</i>, but now that I've got stable and safe accommodation, that's starting to return.<br />
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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.</div>
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For now, I'm off to start a long
overdue catch-up on everyone's blogs.</div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Misty is loving having huge windows to sit and watch the world go by. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Without a courtyard, she can't roam in and out as she pleases, </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">but she's adapting well. I take her outside in her harness </span><span style="text-align: start;">when </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">it's quiet outside, as my street can get very busy and loud, </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">but she seems content just snoozing on the windowsill. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">I have most things set up and unpacked. The only things </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">left are half a dozen random boxes, and </span><span style="text-align: start;">my sewing room. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">When it's all done and looking nice, I promise I'll post some photos.</span></div>
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xxBellaBellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-28221113613272885842019-06-28T16:40:00.000+10:002019-06-28T16:40:43.656+10:00"You don't have to be invisible to disappear."In the months since I last posted, my support team has basically tripled in size.<br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <i>“have you had something to eat?”, “aren’t you having lunch?”, “are you sure you don’t want something?”</i> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-69506654679139495692019-01-19T14:43:00.000+11:002019-01-19T14:43:51.913+11:00Where's Bella?I’m sorry that I’ve disappeared for
the past few months.<br />
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There has been a lot going on. Losing
home, and then Billy barely two weeks later, has shattered so much.
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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).</div>
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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.
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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.
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Then, she held my hand,</div>
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<i>“I’m very sorry...”</i></div>
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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<br /></div>
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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.
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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.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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 <b>too-much-not-enough@hotmail.com</b></div>
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To end this post on a less negative
note, a few pictures.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZzFaQF0ZiIV8SVVEGxtIBkg8QoZsLS5Mh85XRX7gyQ0cwzHqXXnOiPDBRGNaLv3ND13cmmp9huP5Yf_9sWMwJdbkqhv4GEkjKfn_65wZktX_k6YUG8qWdYlM2_KfFLKQz9nRhkvm5v8u/s1600/IMG_2497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZzFaQF0ZiIV8SVVEGxtIBkg8QoZsLS5Mh85XRX7gyQ0cwzHqXXnOiPDBRGNaLv3ND13cmmp9huP5Yf_9sWMwJdbkqhv4GEkjKfn_65wZktX_k6YUG8qWdYlM2_KfFLKQz9nRhkvm5v8u/s400/IMG_2497.jpg" width="300" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunweNMi6MOt_JD1XWNyzRuRn-kaYxtiJIo0ut3HgFqsvuhblVgU9iqFGkU4C4M_-4wwi8cwn9NFsZyJDguBsReEDvYbGHS5OxjNDXI0ce1mtl1a29SwFFZCY0eY1ybUgLu4LC6hY7td9i/s1600/IMG_2509.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunweNMi6MOt_JD1XWNyzRuRn-kaYxtiJIo0ut3HgFqsvuhblVgU9iqFGkU4C4M_-4wwi8cwn9NFsZyJDguBsReEDvYbGHS5OxjNDXI0ce1mtl1a29SwFFZCY0eY1ybUgLu4LC6hY7td9i/s400/IMG_2509.PNG" width="225" /></a></div>
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When I ventured down to a pub a block
away shortly after moving to the share house.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIHAlG7Ivw0mhWyStHvAhlw_sqVlNerVhbaWoNNEqTbi5o-sEPncCAlQeds2HSqXtldJ0Gz36U3M5gzD-sJJbABFUPZz42l1G3cHas1iku2VdMl5zn2lssixw5ReRWYynbkbCyUzUILSh/s1600/IMG_2738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="729" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIHAlG7Ivw0mhWyStHvAhlw_sqVlNerVhbaWoNNEqTbi5o-sEPncCAlQeds2HSqXtldJ0Gz36U3M5gzD-sJJbABFUPZz42l1G3cHas1iku2VdMl5zn2lssixw5ReRWYynbkbCyUzUILSh/s400/IMG_2738.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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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...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVidQhcs3yLRYkZc-_ME52LY8PTobUeLr5soBmOGKKh18d12R2Gxe5jJyJ_iHdhGOzjnW4Ry-mRaNS6_Y2XwX3qLMjrkxMV71r80UtTFG871RzFYg__h6faYcnDCtv9yuROMLi_cTHij2T/s1600/IMG_2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVidQhcs3yLRYkZc-_ME52LY8PTobUeLr5soBmOGKKh18d12R2Gxe5jJyJ_iHdhGOzjnW4Ry-mRaNS6_Y2XwX3qLMjrkxMV71r80UtTFG871RzFYg__h6faYcnDCtv9yuROMLi_cTHij2T/s400/IMG_2001.jpg" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_T0j3UQhNnGX3Hg3Axx-YXC4XACI7ah6Nbgj4IqlWGtx1V-_CGZnLXB_BqzhTrug1Wjospws9JILrO2KoUguGR1_tRoxNo6cpZP7FUQjL9dU5VnmHqZcmdzmA1lTzkoXRgb4gZZQ4pxSD/s1600/IMG_2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_T0j3UQhNnGX3Hg3Axx-YXC4XACI7ah6Nbgj4IqlWGtx1V-_CGZnLXB_BqzhTrug1Wjospws9JILrO2KoUguGR1_tRoxNo6cpZP7FUQjL9dU5VnmHqZcmdzmA1lTzkoXRgb4gZZQ4pxSD/s400/IMG_2012.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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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.
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xxBella</div>
<br />Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-84785001929576376202018-10-19T12:27:00.000+11:002018-10-19T14:12:32.455+11:00EmptyIt's been nearly weeks since Billy passed, and it's not getting any easier.<br>
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I'm sorry for disappearing, both after moving out of home and after losing Bill. I'm having trouble finding words lately. My phone is full of notes of keywords and jumbled thoughts from the past few months, and I've been trying to compile them into something halfway comprehensible.<br>
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When mum came down to visit, she brought me some of his things. The pillow from his dog bed stays next to me on my bed, and I've been holding that instead of my stuffed toys, which have been demoted to the foot of my bed. His urn stays on my bedside table, with his paw prints on the wall, and a mini shrine on the shelf above. When things get rough, I lie there holding him. Billy used to always sleep behind my knees, and I spend the night hugging his pillow with him nestled behind my knees. Just feeling the weight against me, when I close my eyes I could nearly pretend I'm back home in my bed with him there.<br>
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But that can never be again.<br>
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I've lost all care for where I end up. I don't care about having everything I own locked away in storage, or when I'll be able to have my sewing set up again. I don't care about finding my own place, because I know that when I do, and when I get Misty back, it's going to hurt even more. The emptiness will be amplified. Being in short term accommodation, it feels a bit like being in hospital and only being away from him for a little while. When I'm somewhere permanent... I don't know how I'll cope.<br>
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Some days are worse than others. I'm completely overwhelmed by life, and I'm not coping as well as I could be. There isn't much support around at the moment - my case manager has disappeared, and my GP is away for six weeks. My psych has been calling me at least once a day (and yes, I've actually spoken on the phone with her). The past few days have been particularly rough. She came to see me for an emergency appointment yesterday, and the first words out of her mouth were <i>"I think you need to go to the psych ward."</i><br>
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I have never felt as alone as I do without him.<br>
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Even writing this, I kept breaking down in tears, hence it's taken so long to post an update. It has even made me physically ill. A few days ago, I was sitting outside with my second coffee of the morning, trying to write this. Then I started getting a headache and feeling sick. I went in to have my meds and lie down, and I threw up all of the coffee along with the meds. I've felt ill from emotions before, but I don't think I've ever thrown up from them.<br>
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I am full of grief. There is no room for food. There is nothing I want. I just want him back.<br>
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<br>My world is empty. Everything seems pointless. I don't game. I don't read books, or watch movies. I don't do any sewing or crafts. I don't cook or bake. I go outside to smoke cigarettes, and I lie in bed. My psych wants me to give myself permission to be happy. But how can I ever be happy without him?<br>
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I'm not okay. But my heart is still beating and I'm still breathing.<br>
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I don't want to make this post into an epic, so I'll leave it here for today. I'll start drafting a post to update on the big move (and several subsequent smaller moves), and hopefully get it posted in the next week. I just wanted to quickly check in and let you all know I'm still here.<br>
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<i>"She was tired, with that tiredness that only emptiness brings."</i><br>
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Those who have me on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/isabellarayne" target="_blank">Facebook</a> will have seen these already.<br>
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My boy has had a beautiful send off. The urn is beautiful, and I also have a necklace that holds a tiny part of his ashes, so he is always with me. I'm so grateful to the Cherished Pets Foundation, not only for taking care of him and Misty when I ended up homeless, but also for funding Billy's vet care, and for helping make arrangements and supporting me through such a difficult time.<br><table></table>
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When I have the money, I'm going to get his paw prints tattooed, either on my ankle or the back of my leg. I've been meaning to get a couple of different tattoos, but having to go out into town and find a tattooist I like has been too daunting. But now, the want is great enough to do so.<br>
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I couldn't bring myself to throw out the flowers Cherished Pets gave me. By the time I thought to press them, they were already too dry, so I kept the whole bouquet. At some point I want to cut them down to a smaller bouquet, and find some sort of container to keep them safe in, but that's a project for another day.<br>
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xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-3532311013454133742018-09-11T12:50:00.000+10:002018-09-11T13:03:41.233+10:00Forever my Sunshine<div>
It is with a heavy heart that I write this post, to let you all know that my baby boy, Billy, passed away on Sunday night.<br>
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After a lifetime of health issues, his little body just wasn't strong enough to recover from another bout of surgery.<br>
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On Thursday, I found out that he'd injured his eye, and it had to be removed. There were concerns as to whether or not he'd make it through the anesthetic, given his age and plethora of health issues.<br>
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I went to see him on Friday morning before the surgery. His eye was entirely dark red, and he was very confused.<br>
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He made it through the surgery. I went in the next morning to see him before he went back to stay with the vet nurse who'd been taking care of him. As much as I'd tried to prepare myself, I was shocked by the amount of swelling and bruising on his little head. I gave him cuddles, and took him for a little walk. He seemed to be doing really well.<br>
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Someone anonymously offered to pay for all of his vet bills, which was a huge relief. At nearly 15 years old and tens of thousands of dollars put into his medical care, it was at the point where I couldn't afford any more surgery.<br>
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On Sunday night, I was outside having a smoke. I saw the vet walking up, and I knew something was wrong. We went inside to talk, and I was already crying. She said she had some really sad news, and I just lost it. Crying and screaming hysterically.<br>
<br>
Even though the surgery went well, they took him to a 24hr vets for the weekend because they were concerned about the swelling and his pain levels. He had a cardiac arrest and they tried to resuscitate him, but couldn't. He just wasn't strong enough.<br>
<br>
My brother came down so I could go see him. I was told it could only be 20 minutes, but I was with him for 1hr 15mins until my brother gave me a nudge to let him go. I just held him and lay on the floor next to him and sang <i>'You are my Sunshine'</i>.<br>
<br>
I've chosen an urn, and am also getting a locket with part of his ashes in it. The vet said a lot of people put something special in to be cremated with them, like a flower. Since I want so badly to be with him, I put in a lock of my hair, so I'll always be with him. He went on his final journey with my hair nestled by his heart.<br>
<br>
<br>
I don't have words right now.<br>
<br>
I am staying in supported accommodation until I find somewhere longer term. It's basically like a nursing home for all ages. I will update more at another time.<br>
<br>
My GP, psych, and the people from the organization who were taking care of him were all writing letters and working to have him classed as a therapy dog, so he could be here with me. He was supposed to be here this week. And now he's gone.<br>
<br>
<br>
There are no words for how heartbroken, devastated, and destroyed I am.<br>
<br>
<br>
Rest in peace, my best friend, my strength, my everything.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">20.01.04 - 09.09.18</span></b></div>
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<td><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctTHfpjePSlW2DYvpgP4kH2baqfxwmTij9NvKu3P7vTO7-X29x_FuFymZe7FpkYx-N-RuIveHSOkgY9x61hFRLGKPxLtEujH_pzAlKj9ZAt2Atpn9wH9cPNMugj0u6grW8YRIb9OsGWSw/s640/blogger-image--678983191.jpg" width="476"></td>
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<td><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNi_3QA9tKysjiCZ2r8Ggm4ZNnc_I-SxDnEdjMP8_ZeJYrpErCcb_KJ21F35A6PlUS4fJZ0sHkl1BZVouEYySOtoVO3kzrI1jRfFFjUlqQZJpOxu3B_lE4-7Pnipqh2P5Yg0kVcZNXK8-E/s640/blogger-image--1918778599.jpg" width="480"></td>
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<td><img height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDyuQ1ApIPkfC3uaJ5ETxaEnTe4PHQkRb35Kz2S6WwtVSjS4rm4l6QQKSL0V70hLTv_rqtqOULgSO5fJfTbVjRohpBXOVK6V6BBSgF8AeGJ3k63aRkhhmXTNMImptvQz1_PEXX6kWQZyRB/s640/blogger-image--76180565.jpg" width="640"></td>
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<td><img height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4ooWdEpXFBlKA41olKIjzaf1tzY8asgc5BIaaCABxgLmEEsB1iDMZToeAbtIPMSI_ArYe2qwBUr8d-zmHCa_9E5br9s9LB7HkiOnjGiE5pyX2R4Ohf4sFIK-ehgtCDqADZH_fjPhpmLR/s640/blogger-image--146542017.jpg" width="640"></td>
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<br><br><br><br><span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">Post-Surgery</span></span><br>
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<td><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzDtzwoNdL0Ou4aIVKUlqTM_Kf3KKqJy3uvCA076Cv-pMozsBzNXe0JwMn2C3aNiEhBB9jptAfLimfZ_tbxzUZTcs5rzdaJOZh0nEf6B0b04PNoGo5tiO1qbgrseqJWb8zdBMnpMlzkvb/s640/blogger-image--60514539.jpg" width="478"></td>
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<td><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7-AA4wyFeadlH-hywPG8yjyrezcMfpcCR9-RvNrNhbGR7n5TEx2TrVvw9CII5-ecSVOLzZJs_044qzy12m82Gkf4X5T1kEcQutDjhEalb5NRR9w_eOcV2lnz1tNhmecbGtJQeEjkgRID/s640/blogger-image-437451374.jpg" width="478"></td>
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<br><br><br><br><span style="text-align: start;">Last night, the vet brought over a beautiful bouquet of flowers, </span></center>
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<span style="text-align: start;">a book of poetry, a card, two blocks of Lindt, and some tea.</span><br>
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<td><img height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLz7oT8HghiESE3v1mJwzJoAruUsm9eCsWCOXr_moWFejuCDAUNidFWTeGOsHxc87mWPHkav_jb3cq8jRiNCo38qChqqqWBeybIxPG4GOyOFx0xqsOEF8bXBV5gK_Z38pqNKReVogvdIY9/s640/blogger-image--688143924.jpg" width="478"></td>
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xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-19569138890785660892018-08-24T10:52:00.001+10:002018-08-24T11:54:30.300+10:00Homeless<div>
I didn't get an apartment in time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm writing this to you from a cheap motel room. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've cried so much this week, I ran out of tears. I've been retching because the stress is making me feel physically sick. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The mental health case worker assigned to me after my last hospital trip visited me every day this week. He said he'd gotten in contact with someone who could help me with housing, and seemed optimistic. That never led anywhere. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday mum was locking up the house and leaving to stay with her friends. She'd been planning to leave by midday. But no one could find me a place to sleep. I've gone through three different services this week, which is all that's available. I'd even gone into the Salvation Army in the morning, but by the end of the day, they couldn't find me anywhere either. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
By 4pm, with no where to go and time running out, mum decided to pay for a motel for me to stay at for two nights. Her friend helped me move my things in his ute, because it wouldn't fit in a car. He'll even help me when I leave the motel, and when I find an apartment. They both sat with me for two hours, smoking and chatting outside, trying to help me settle in. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Billy is with a pet sitter. Letting him go yesterday was excruciating. I cried my eyes out handing him over, and spent the next few hours lying on the floor, crying with his blanket. I'm very worried about him. He's nearly 15, has a hoard of medical issues including anxiety, and whimpers and howls and panics whenever I leave the house. At least he has a person around though, and won't be outside in a noisy, cold, lonely boarding kennel. He'll be warm and inside, sleeping on the bed, being loved and cared for and getting cuddles. If Billy can't be with me for now, it's the best place for him. She's a vet nurse who volunteers for people in crisis, and she specializes in dogs with acute anxiety. I don't really care where I end up. I just worry about him, but am glad my case worker listened when I told him that Billy <i>needs</i> a person and cannot go to a kennel. Misty is much lower maintenance, and is staying with a vet (at her house) for a few nights before going to a very nice cattery. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are a couple of leads for places I might be able to go tomorrow, and I'll be in contact with my case worker today. If it doesn't lead anywhere, I go back to the Salvos at 4pm, and they'll try again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'll update when I can. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I never thought I'd be homeless. </div>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-4329550372309854422018-08-10T10:31:00.002+10:002018-08-10T10:31:23.020+10:0014 Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Things have been hectic since I last posted. Everything's coming down to the crunch, and I have exactly two weeks until the family home transfers over to the new owners.</div>
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I've currently got two applications in for houses, and am working myself into a tizzy trying to sort out loans, setting up, and hiring movers, plus still packing up the last few bits and pieces. I looked at three places earlier this week, plus went to two shops to get prices on secondhand whitegoods and furniture (all split across two days). </div>
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<br /></div>
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I did find the perfect place, not long after I last posted. I went to an inspection the day after it was listed, and sent in an application... but didn't get it. Now I'm looking at places in the not-so-nice neighbourhoods (to put it politely). The big problem is that I'll be too far away for my GP to walk with me to get to appointments. My psych has said she can do home visits, at least to start. But my GP and dietician? </div>
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<i>"Well, I'm sure we can organize something every couple of months."</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I really need to get one of the places I've applied for. I'm quickly running out of time, and everywhere my team have inquired with have been hopeless with finding emergency accommodation.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's been hard, to say the least. A few weeks ago I had two breakdowns that resulted in ambulances taking me to emergency for assessments. My psych has also gone away for the month, which is the <i>worst </i>timing, so I have little support during all this change. When I last saw her a couple of weeks ago, we did a safety plan to help me deal with crises. It was very depressing. My only Reasons to Live were Billy (my 15 year old dog) and not wanting to die fat.</div>
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My lips got a little too lose after a few drinks last week. I admitted to a paracetamol overdose I took over a month ago, and hadn't told a soul about at the time. It scared me, not necessarily because of the overdose itself, but because I didn't ask for help. I didn't care what happened. I took more than what nearly killed my liver back in February, but in the end I was fine. I also admitted to having quite a large stash, which was subsequently taken to the pharmacy to be destroyed.</div>
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On the upside, I did get some good news. In the last few months, my team have been working on applying to the NDIS, to get more support and funding. I wasn't expecting to be approved, but two weeks ago I got a letter saying my application had been successful. I still need to wait for a plan to be sorted out, but hopefully it will lead to something good.</div>
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For now, I am off to spend yet another day packing and sorting. Keep your fingers crossed that next time I post, I will be living in my own place.</div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Misty 'helping' with packing</span></center>
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<span style="text-align: start;">My current pile of Crap To Move in the garage - with more to come!</span>
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xxBellaBellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-33952983049348444732018-06-21T14:55:00.001+10:002018-06-21T14:55:37.338+10:00Going... Going... Gone.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There has been a lot going on here in
the last month or so, and I've been avoiding writing about it because
it's been a bit overwhelming.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Firstly, I've been having a lot of
trouble with PTSD issues. There's a lot of trauma-versaries at this
time of year, and it's always hard to deal with. This year, though,
everything feels so much more intense. It's ten years since the
trauma occurred, and I haven't been coping very well. Ten fucking
years. A decade of my life, gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Last week, it all hit me really hard. I
had an overdose on Monday. It was my regular psych meds, not
paracetamol, but I can't remember what or how much I actually took.
I've been slack with returning my unused meds, which I'm supposed to
do twice a week, so I had a bit of a stockpile. I don't remember any
of Monday, or most of Tuesday, which might be for the best.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It happened at some point in the
afternoon. I don't know what exactly triggered me. Maybe it was just
all the trauma stress building up. Either way, it was bound to
happen, and I was pretty sure something would happen before the end
of the trauma dates.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I ended up in an ambulance later in the
day. The next thing I knew, it was Tuesday morning. I kept drifting
in and out, waking up and realising I was in hospital, but for the
first time ever, I had no idea how or why I was there. They kept
asking if I knew where I was, what day of the week it was, what year
it was. The only one I ever got right was knowing I was in hospital.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After ECGs, blood tests, IVs, a very
snooty mental health team came to talk to me, none of whom I'd met
before. They let me go home on Tuesday night as long as I followed up
with my team, although they wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist, as
they didn't think I was getting enough support. When I talked to my
GP<span style="font-size: small;">,
she said she'd spoken to a psychiatrist she knows about it, but that
the psychiatrist was happy with how my current team are managing
things. So, so much for that.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After that, I've tried to cut back and balance out my
drinking. It's a fine line between self-medicating and relief, and
making myself vulnerable and ending in utter disaster. I've just been
trying to get through each day intact, and drinking can potentially
do more harm than good. I still drank, despite the fear of losing
control and hurting myself, but I've been trying to use medication a
bit more often (another a fine line between relief and disaster).</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm worried that the pain was dissipate with the dates
as it has in previous years. I'm worried that this feeling will just
keep on going, and I don't know how to stop it.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Wednesday, things started building
again. So I started drinking. I started walking laps of the house to
try to block it out. Fill a water bottle with vodka, blast music
through my headphones. Walk, drink, walk, drink, don't think don't
think <i>don't think. </i>After 3
hours and a dozen drinks, I started cracking. I was visually upset,
and I didn't dare stop walking lest I break down completely. Mum got
concerned. She tried to stop me walking. I snapped</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>Well, it's either this or take
every pill I can find. I can't stop.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Queue yet another
team of paramedics trying to talk to me and calm me down.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Last week brings to light one of my
biggest fears about moving out. Being alone. While I'm sure I
would've been fine without medical intervention this time, and just
slept it off after a day or two, that isn't always the case. There
have been several overdoses where I haven't been able to communicate
or walk, or have just been unconscious for a little too long, which
triggers mum to call 000.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A year or two ago, there was one where
I was unconscious for nearly 24 hours before mum noticed and called
for an ambulance. At the start of the trauma dates this year, I
inhaled 70-something paracetamol and nearly destroyed my liver, as
well as a cocktail of psych meds. I couldn't communicate. I couldn't
speak clearly. I couldn't walk, and didn't have the coordination to
use my phone. What happens then?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And, of course, the house has been
sold. The auction was at the end of May. My brother came down to
support mum, and brought his housemate's son (his pseudo-son) down
for the day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The worst part of the day was waiting
for the auction to start. Mum and I had taken Billy for a drive as
the house was open for a bit before the auction started. When we got
back, she went inside and I waited in the car with Bill, as there
were still people around. Neither of us thought that people would be
looking inside the garage, but oh boy were they. Every minute, there
was some new person sticking their nose in. I just buried my head in
my hands and held onto Billy. After texting mum that people kept
coming in, she sent out my brother and pseudo-nephew to keep my
company, which made things easier as people would see us talking and
close the door.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When the auction started, we sat in her
bedroom at the front of the house with the window open so we could
listen in. The house sold for $120,000 above reserve, which none of
us were expecting. Mum looked like she was about to faint when the
bidding jumped above $700k. As a bonus, the new owners have met Misty
a few times, and will know whose cat it is if she turns up there
after I move.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now I'm in a frenzy of trying to find
somewhere to move and get everything organised, which has been
difficult as getting through each day has been enough work as it is.</div>
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<td><img height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Evy3uoPNNw5oVal03-JpPN5X3tzEJZc0JS1zL39RBZfsdSViJbehHml1VNro3vSR9HBpZfuCxbBmp3qNMCWwkEKs-AdQyN-gWCC3U9HX6GprCJN6tHapCXqEQt4Qku1kYeGrXw5N6sgn/s640/blogger-image-1298695867.jpg" width="640" /></td>
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<span style="text-align: start;">With Billy and Pseudo-Nephew. I look awful, and didn't know my brother was taking photos, but I did like this one.</span></center>
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My first ever tub of Halo Top</center>
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<center style="text-align: left;">
xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-78916126744471315542018-05-17T12:54:00.001+10:002018-05-17T13:00:11.882+10:0025<center>
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It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I got depressed. About my birthday. About having no one to share it with. About being stuck in bed instead of going out, like a normal 25 year old would do. I feel like I'm losing so many years, and now I'm closer to 30 than I am to 20. I wanted to cut. So badly. I ended up drinking at midday, and although it's not a healthy coping mechanisms, I managed to get through the day relatively unscathed.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As always, people seem to connect birthdays with food. I didn't have cake or anything like that, but mum wanted to cook fillet steak for dinner. I don't eat red meat much, but it was still nice. I had a small piece (80g raw weight) with garlic sauce, roast potato, steamed carrots & green beans.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then, a few days later, my brother came down to go out for a joint birthday dinner (mum's birthday is one week after mine) at a Japanese place we used to go to quite a bit.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Whenever I get dressed to go out, my stomach cramps up. I feel bloated and awful, even though I hadn't eaten all day. I hate the way I look. I hate the way my clothes feel. Switching and swapping outfits, four tops, three skirts. I ended up wearing the baggiest ones so I didn't feel quite as bad with the feel of the fabric on my body.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Thankfully, the restaurant was pretty empty. For appetizers, I had two mini vegetable spring rolls and a pork dumpling, then teriyaki eye fillet for mains. Especially after having steak a few days before, this was unusual. I don't eat steak much at all - maybe once or twice a year - but their teriyaki chicken had been disappointing in the past, and I don't like trying new dishes/sauces. My brother ended up getting most of it anyway.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Appointments have been routine, and mostly uneventful. We've started applying for the NDIS (National Disability Insurance Scheme), for a variety of reasons. Basically to get me extra support, both professionally and with day-to-day life. They provide funding for a variety of things, with the goal of helping you function better. They can help with the costs of appointments, and also with things like transport, which will be a huge relief.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After getting a comment from Shelby on my last post, about social workers and the fact I should probably have one, it got me thinking. I mentioned it to both my mum and brother on the day I got the comment, and they both agreed I should have a social worker, and are surprised it's never come up during one of my many hospital admissions. After bringing it up, my team all agree I should get one, and are now trying to organize it. Basically it means I'll have help with coordinating everything, which will be a huge help, especially with moving out and living alone. Between that and the NDIS, hopefully I'll be getting some more support soon.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As for moving out and finding a place of my own, progress is going very slowly. I've still not found anywhere to live. To be honest, I've been putting it off a little bit, even though I've only got a month (maybe two) to find somewhere. It's just been too much to cope with. I did go to an inspection a couple of weeks ago to look at a place nearby, but it just wasn't what I'm looking for. It was stressful. It was the first time I've gone out in public (excluding appointments) in around 6 months (going out for dinner being the second). There were 10-15 other people there, and I got out of there as soon as I could.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After finding out that the NDIS can help organize someone to transport me to appointments, I'm no longer limited to living so close to my team's offices. Even still, there's just not much around at the moment, unless I want to live in the more notoriously unsafe neighborhoods.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The house has been on the market for a few weeks now. There have been open houses three times a week. Since Billy can't stay at home (although Misty is loving having so many people coming through and paying her attention), we take him in the car and he curls up on my lap while we go for a drive for a while. Next weekend is the auction. It's getting down to the crunch, and I'm freaking out.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Everything feels so uncertain. So I drink and I drink and I take too many meds and I drink. Trying to block it all out. I'm more depressed than anxious, because it all feels so hopeless, and I have no idea where my life will be in one, two, three months. On the calendar I use to keep track of when, how much, and why I drink, the most common reason has changed from <i>"argument with mum" </i>or <i>"stressful appointment" </i>earlier in the year, to <i>"moving out stress" </i>in the last couple of months, and now to simply <i>"depressed".</i></div>
<br /><br /><table>
<tbody>
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<td><img height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeE212SdGALOGmAD7-q-PjJ5rQNZryNK-m62QjLcTn-K8T3g7sdC8uui1QSMJNekpwaMgBavarKt6gO65g3nO1fkgnxVY_-I8txzZpPPwTkE7QKAXd6dsgD-1yAul6JBpo9x_8e69aE2Jt/s400/blogger-image--348436385.jpg" width="400" /></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td><img height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM87Qdw2DXvjG2QRR29yAfYMyUsr3jjv6aXZ4OSMNusABuUP2EsBtasNc4XSrBL6a9pN2GFI-Qim3C998zVPpVIpGUJcdW3ycuwrWQOBzVT4DoVhCgBLaWf03U8TV9xMPO6p1oRjZGfemV/s400/blogger-image-1000212967.jpg" width="400" /></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Fillet steak with garlic sauce, roast potatoes, steamed carrots and green beans<br />
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td><img height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcK9QeHK385t4SyrJQNnpodls89Xf_Sm9dHcL79jVIXFsMgsJh8YrWBvzLMUMS2hTCzweLLIykZwdh8wIvp_ufvRqL3ksi3pFLlY_Q_rpuKjO-D34YsDpbvCE1_pPMEIZDLJIPIDRKtp8/s400/blogger-image--862891664.jpg" width="400" /></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Teriyaki eye fillet</center>
<center>
(I completely forgot to take pictures of the appetizers)</center>
<center>
<br /></center>
<center>
<br /></center>
<center>
</center>
<center>
</center>
<center style="text-align: left;">
</center>
<center style="text-align: left;">
</center>
<center style="text-align: left;">
xxBella</center>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-36455054311669657982018-04-08T10:07:00.003+10:002018-04-08T10:16:33.291+10:00A Series of Unfortunate Events<div style="line-height: 22px;">
First off, I want to apologize for taking so long to update after
my last post. The last couple of months have been intense and
overwhelming in so many ways, and I've barely been able to gather my
thoughts enough to even write in my journal, let alone blog.<br />
<br />
My liver function has returned to normal. One of the levels is
still elevated, but not hugely concerning compared to how it was
after the overdose, and may not go back to normal until I stop
drinking (even though I'm drinking much less than I was a few months
ago). I only got the good news last week, and I wanted to wait until
I got the all-clear before I updated so I at least had something
positive to say.<br />
<br />
That said, that's about the only positive thing that's happened.<br />
<br />
<br />
Moving out looks like it'll be happening earlier than I thought.
This week, the real estate agents came by to do a valuation. I spent
days worrying about where to hide, knowing that I couldn't escape
them completely, and wondering where they'd spend the least time. I
ended up curling up in my armchair on the porch, trying to read, but
being distracted by their voices analyzing the house and trying to
hear what they were saying. They're now planning on putting the house
on the market by the end of the month, having inspections for four
weeks, and auctioning the house to have it sold by the end of May.<br />
<br />
I'm scared about having strangers snooping through the house.
I'm scared about having to go out for half an hour each week, even if
I'm just sitting in the car. I broke into a panic after mum told me
the plan. I have to start getting things boxed up and tidy for the
end of the month. Not only will there be strangers, my biggest fear,
in the house, but there'll be photos. That terrifies me. Both feel
like such big invasions of my fortress, the place I never leave and
never let people in to.<br />
<br />
<br />
The past couple of weeks, I've been extremely depressed,
about everything. When I saw my psych on Thursday, I was in tears for
most of the session and couldn't make a single second of eye contact.
I just can't cope any more. Even at home, I find myself in tears
every day. I've had two psych appointments where I've turned up with
fresh black eyes, not to mention other hidden bruises. It's not even
just self-harm these days. It's attacking myself.<br />
<br />
Between her, my dietician, and my GP, I haven't had many
appointments in the past month. Everyone seems to be away for one
reason or another. By the time I see anyone next, the house will
probably be on the market.<br />
<br />
I've given up on going to The Clinic. I decided a few weeks
ago that I'd decided I did want to go, but it ended in a huge
breakdown and a lot of vodka. Mum said she wouldn't even drive me to
the admission, even if my psych handled the phone and admission side
of things. It's not even that far away – maybe five minutes. But I
can't get there by myself, and I can't get in a car with a stranger
to take a taxi. Everyone agrees I need a higher level of care, but
right now there's no way for it to happen.<br />
<br />
I've also given up on my plan to get a car loan and do a few
driving lessons before moving out. Mum had originally said I needed a
couple of driving lessons before she'd take me out. Then she said I
needed my own car. I finally came to terms with both issues and had
sorted out a way to afford it, but then she said she just wouldn't
take me out driving at all.<br />
<br />
I'll have no license, no car, no way to get Billy to the vets,
and unless I somehow manage to find somewhere affordable in the area,
no access to appointments.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've also been feeling very physically unwell the past few
weeks. I think my intake consisting of mostly alcohol is catching up
with me. I've been doing okay with drinking for the most part. So
far, since New Years, I've been mostly meeting my goal of only
drinking every second day (on average), although this past week I've
been drinking every day. But I feel dizzy, light-headed. I'm
exhausted all of the time. I constantly want to throw up. My heart
races and everything blurs when I stand up. Yesterday, I tried to do
some walking, panicked about the crap I've been ingesting. The day
before, I managed 35 minutes before my body gave up. Yesterday, I
could barely get up and get started. It was a push to even keep going
for 10 minutes. My shoulders ached as I walked, like they were too
heavy for their sockets.<br />
<br />
<br />
On top of everything else, my laptop is broken after only
having it for three months. I don't know how it happened. I put it
away safely one night earlier this week, and when I turned it on the
next morning, there was a big ugly black circle in the corner and
white lines radiating. It looks like the screen has actually been
physically damaged, but I can't figure out how. Apart from the
obvious issue of sorting out a repair and finding the money to pay
for it, it means I've also lost my main coping mechanism of gaming.
And so this week I've been drinking every night for the past six days
(although last night I only managed two vodkas before my stomach
wanted to reject them).<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, and that most of it
is just whining. But I do want to say thank you to those who've
contacted me to check if I'm okay. It means a lot, especially when I
have so little social contact outside of the blogosphere. I'll try to
make my next update more cheerful.<br />
<br />
<br />
xxBella</div>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-2803717712177349782018-02-25T13:04:00.001+11:002018-02-25T13:13:54.675+11:00Poison<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Thursday last week, I had one of the
worst overdoses I've had in years. Recently, they've usually been on
psych meds, but not this time.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I took roughly 35,000mg paracetamol (70
tablets), many of which included codeine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd been drinking and reading through
my old journal entries and notes relating to the abusive relationship
when I was a teen. The day marked the 10<sup>th</sup> anniversary of
when I met him. It's been ten years. Ten. Fucking. Years. A decade of
my life lost.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd had an overdose on oxazepam the
night before. An amount that has landed me in hospital many times,
but this time, I just woke up the next day as usual. I don't remember
much of the day. By the evening, I started looking at when I had left
in my stash. My usual go-to, an over-the-counter sleeping pill, had
disappeared. I had a box of paracetamol/codeine (500/30mg), and a box
of cold & flu that had both paracetamol and codeine. There was
also a sheet or two of plain old paracetamol.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a rule, I generally don't keep
paracetamol around. I know the dangers all too well. I had a bad
overdose when I was 13, with hundreds of pills, everything in the
house (including paracetamol, ritalin, post-surgery painkillers –
anything I could find). Two weeks in hospital, one week in the ICU,
most of that week in an induced coma. Since then, the cupboards are
kept bare and everyone stashes their medication where I can't get to
it.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After taking them, and writing down
what I'd taken, how much, what time, and how many drinks I'd had
(because not knowing/remembering just makes things more difficult for
everyone), I drifted off to sleep.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I woke up on Friday, the room was
spinning as I lay in bed. I got up and stumbled to the bathroom.
Trying to pee, I instead puked black liquid all over myself and the
floor.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">#imsogothipukeblack</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I rinsed myself off and changed into
clean clothes, and made my way to the kitchen, desperate for
something to drink. I measured out my low calorie cordial into a
drink bottle, topped it off with water, then sank to the floor. I
called out to mum, who was outside with her coffee, that I thought I
needed help.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I gulped down the cordial, desperate
for water, and threw up again. Mum was on the phone to 000. They told
her not to let me drink anything. All I wanted to do was chug down
the entire </span>liter<span style="font-family: inherit;">, even if it came back up again. Soon, three
paramedics arrived and whisked me off to hospital.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't remember much of this day,
either. A doctor gave me a lovely speech about how paracetamol can
cause liver failure, and liver failure requires transplants, and most
people who need new livers don't get them. I had to have the antidote
drip for the next 24 hours. They put the drip in, moved me to the
short stay unit, and I slept for most of the day, only waking up to
throw up.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Saturday, they took more bloods. An
hour later, the doctor came back with the psych with the results. I
thought it'd be to plan discharge. But they told me my blood tests
showed my liver function was still declining, and was worse than when
I was admitted. They'd be talking to doctors at one of the biggest
hospitals in Melbourne to get advice. I thought I'd be out after the
24hr drip, but with my liver getting worse, they told me I needed
another 16hr drip after the first one finished, and see where things
go from there.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd been watching the time on the IV
crawl down, my countdown for when I might be able to sneak out for a
smoke. Not having smoked at all the day before, I was gagging for
one. I asked the nurse, and after checking with the doctors, the
nurse unplugged the heart monitor and let me outside, where I sucked
down two before going back in.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When the psych came to see me (who is much nicer than the Horrible Psychiatrist who used
to work there), he asked the general questions – are you still at
risk, do you think you'll do it again, do you have any more at home.
I told him I feel more passively, not actively, suicidal, but that an
overdose will probably happen again. Whether it's in a month or a
decade, it's probably going to happen again at some point. But it
wouldn't happen again as soon as I got home, as there wasn't a single
pill of anything in the house outside of mum's (heavily guarded)
lockbox.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After maybe four hours on the second
drip, I was sent home to follow up with my GP on Monday. A GI doctor
had come in and poked at my gut, and apparently that was enough to
counteract the whole <i>“your liver function is declining” </i>thing.
I wasn't exactly filled with confidence, and couldn't help but worry
about the test results. As it turned out, I was right to worry, and
all was not well.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Sunday, I slept most of the day. Mum
said I looked like I should've stayed in hospital. Everyone seems
frustrated at the hospital for discharging me when they did - myself
included - as things got worse after I was discharged.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By Monday, the nausea had started to
ease off, which they said was a side effect of the drip. I still felt
sick though. It was like I had a lump in my abdomen.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I went to get the follow-up blood test,
wondering whether my liver had kept getting worse, or had started to
recover after the doctor poked and prodded at me. I'd written a note
for my GP, explaining what had been going on, asking her to arrange
an appointment for later that week. Although she'd have a letter from
the hospital, I felt it important to explain myself.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I gave the note to reception, asking if
they could pass it along, and went to get my bloods. On the way out,
my GP was at reception, holding the note. She booked an appointment
for me, but didn't have any gaps until Friday, but I ended up seeing
her before then anyway. Mum even agreed to drive me to blood tests
and appointments as it was follow-up from the hospital.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Tuesday, my GP texted in the
morning, asking for my mum to call her. I immediately panicked. When
she called, my GP told me I needed another blood test that morning.
My liver function had gotten a lot worse since the hospital
discharged me. She told mum to keep an eye out for signs of
confusion, as my brain may start to swell.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On admission, my ALT level was 76, when
it should be under 45. When they discharged me, it was 132. By
Monday, it was up to 1,237. As of my last blood test it had come down
a bit and was at 1,066, but I'm not out of the woods yet. I've had
bloods every day this week, except for yesterday and today, being the
weekend.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wednesday, I had an awful headache/neck
ache. When it started on Tuesday morning, I thought it was just
stress, until I woke up in the middle of the night in pain and
couldn't move my head without my neck hurting. When I was getting my
bloods done, mum went to the pharmacist to ask about painkillers.
They couldn't give me permission to take anything, and my GP had the
day off, so I just had to wait it out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I saw my GP on Thursday, she told
me that the pain was my brain responding to the paracetamol. She gave
me paracetamol/codeine (500/30), to take one at a time, four times a
day. I've actually been taking them as instructed. This week, I should be able to wean off them. She thinks my
bloods should be improving this week too.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My blood pressure has also been very
low. I've been checking it at home, but it's not changing much. On
Thursday at my GP's, it dropped from 104/59 sitting to 72/50
standing. I just feel like crap physically. She said to drink more water, as my organs are holding on
to it, but it's proving difficult to get more than my regular 3-4 </span>liters<span style="font-family: inherit;"> a day.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mum even asked me if I wanted to set up the couch with pillows and blankets, which I did. I think she wants to keep an eye on me for signs of confusion or anything like that. She's even checked on me when I'm asleep in my room in the middle of the night. I think she's scared too, but it's nice to feel like she actually cares. She actually visited me in hospital a couple of times, and picked me up when I was discharged, which she never does anymore. During a breakdown on Tuesday night, she actually gave me a hug. I can't remember the last time she did that.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br></span></div></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since the overdose, I've just been
taking it slow. I'm completely exhausted, mentally and physically.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been told to try not to drink as
it could make my liver worse. I've had drinks three nights since the
overdose, but only 4-5 drinks, instead of 10-15. I know I shouldn't,
but I need an escape, and my only other coping mechanisms are
self-harm and overdosing. And I'd be lying if I said part of me
doesn't hope it'll mess up my liver even more. By the fifth drink, I
end up feeling sick and giving up, despite how much I wish I could
just get drunk.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't necessarily want to die. I
wanted to hurt, which is why I take most overdoses in the first
place. It's self-harm, not a suicide attempt. Thinking of taking the
paracetamol did worry me, knowing the dangers, but I was desperate.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But between things like drinking in the
hopes my liver will get worse, and the fact I'd do it again if
someone handed me a 100pk of paracetamol, it's got me thinking. I
don't think my suicidal ideations are are passive as I thought they
were.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not coping with life,
traumaversaries, moving out, medical issues, depression in general.
Part of my is scared I'll do it again. Part of me wants to do it
again. Mostly because it was very effective as self-harm, but part of
me hopes my liver fails, and the decision to live or die will be
taken out of my hands.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I also saw my psych on Monday. We spoke
about the trauma for the first time, as it's always a difficult time
of year. She wants me to do 10 appointments in the next eight weeks
because I'm 'suicidal' (I really don't know if I am or not). I want
to ask her about an admission to the Clinic. This week, I'm seeing
her on Wednesday, which is the worst trauma date, then again on
Friday, plus my GP and dietician on Tuesday. We made a safety plan,
which I haven't done for years. Is it sad that my only 'friends and
family' contacts are my GP, dietician, and psych? Or that my only
'reason to stay alive' is <i>“I don't want to die fat”</i>?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know this post is long, but there's
been a lot going on. I haven't been talking to people about it,
because I didn't want anyone to worry, but since my liver seems to
have turned a corner, I thought I better update.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br>
</span></div>
<br>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">xxBella</span></div>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-81832004376016550832018-02-15T14:06:00.000+11:002018-02-15T14:16:00.383+11:00“Nothing is so Painful to the Human Mind as a Great and Sudden Change.” <center>
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In my last couple of posts, I briefly mentioned the fact that I'm trying to cut my drinking back.<br />
<br />
Trying to drink less has been a huge challenge. For the first five weeks of the year, I was doing well. I have having a 50-50 balance of drinking and sober days, and which that mightn't seem like much, it's a big step from only having one day off each week (if I was lucky).<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the last week and a half has been a disaster. Mum announced that she was planning on downsizing for a smaller house later this year, and I will have to find a few place to life.<br />
<br />
I've been drinking every day since (11 days, so far. 12 if I drink tonight.)<br />
<br />
And I cannot function. I try to distract myself, but I can't focus. Every little thing triggers more worries and problems, and there have been too many days that I end up in tears.<br />
<br />
How do I afford to get furniture and appliances and even the little things like getting a kitchen stocked with utensils? How will I cope taking care of Billy and Misty by self? How will I cope with being so isolated, more so than I already am? How will I find a place that allows pets? How can I even afford it?<br />
<br />
Most shopping, I'll be able to do online, but I feel I'd need to venture into a supermarket for the first time in years, so I can peruse the aisles to make sure I don't miss any essentials, and that is terrifying.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am scared shitless.<br />
<br />
<br />
So I drink.<br />
<br />
<br />
At least, I do feel like a piece of shit and a failure when I do drink, and while it's not exactly a healthy thought, it's reinforcing that it doesn't make me feel good anymore. If anything, sometimes it just numbs the pain a little.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to drink only when I'm distressed, depressed, or have breakdowns, and medication doesn't help – I very rarely drink out of boredom or fun anymore. But this past week or two, sometimes it's hard to get through until midday before I hit the bottle.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to limit myself to one bottle a vodka a week (a 1L bottle, mind you), instead of 2-3. Again, this was working find for the first five weeks of the year, but this week, I've already been through two bottles.<br />
<br />
<br />
There was one thing that really helped in the first couple of weeks of trying to cut back on drinking. Gaming, my other true vice. And now with a new laptop, the world is my oyster. The first week I had my laptop, I gamed for roughly 70 hours, although it's cut back to a more reasonable amount now. But being able to get sucked into that world, it just makes everything so much easier.<br />
<br />
I did in fact renew my WoW subscription last week. I was playing 8-10 hours a day for the first few days, but again, it's cut back. Sadly, even gaming can't help me escape from having to deal with moving out right now.<br />
<br />
(If any of you lovely people use Steam or play WoW, drop me comment (or email, if you'd prefer, which is on the side of my blog)).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I know blogger's been quite lately (where's the annual New Years flood of new people?), but I'm always glad to know that you guys are still sticking in there and not just gravitating to instagram and whatnot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, and on a final note, this year I ended up as #15 on the</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blog.feedspot.com/anorexia_blogs/">Top 30 Anorexia Blogs And Websites For People Living With Anorexia </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
so now I have a shiny medal to show you all.</div>
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<a href="https://blog.feedspot.com/anorexia_blogs/"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWJHojwtRn2JRtWLRTu7z3rGp06V16qn8VK5JFLdG8vRhCPHBqklQwFzmQ1OS2yHsPOCSvommTqaOtmeC68KxTb1hSFLKxiF_CbJ4lJhYYmPxzKwlI33nqJlP5Ti6OOQqNm1PYvmrCNXc8/s1600/blogger-image--948662377.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">xxBella</span></div>
Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606734429657625929.post-24720297371010397412018-01-14T12:41:00.000+11:002018-01-14T12:41:30.467+11:00New Year, Same Old Me<center>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, it's the start of yet another year. Unfortunately, I don't have much positive to look back on from the last year. Usually, one of the big things I look back on is the progress I've made with my agoraphobia, but this past year, I've barely left the house – even less so than usual. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I went out for dinner with the family twice – once to an Indian place in March for my <a href="http://bella-anorexia.blogspot.com.au/2017/03/difficult-decisions.html">brother's birthday</a>, and once to an Italian place in April for <a href="http://bella-anorexia.blogspot.com.au/2017/05/24.html">my birthday</a>. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I also went to one of <a href="http://bella-anorexia.blogspot.com.au/2017/03/difficult-decisions.html">Billy's vet appointments</a> in March, which mum usually does solo. As it was a consultation for his most recent lot of surgery, and as I've taken on 100% of his financial burden, there were big decisions to make (if I couldn't pay, it looked like he may have had to be put down, although fortunately I managed to secure loan, which I'm still paying off).</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I did go for a <a href="http://bella-anorexia.blogspot.com.au/2017/04/facing-reality.html">short walk in town</a> (somewhere I never venture) with my friend R when I was staying with him in April, although thankfully it was quiet as it was a public holiday and everywhere was shut.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's it. So, basically, I haven't really ventured out in public except for March and April. I have done 8 or 9 walks with my GP to go to appointments and as a form of exposure therapy, but it's still not getting any easier. I've also visited friends – R three times, and A three times – which never involves going out in public. They pick me up and drop me off. The latter, I shall not be visiting anymore, due to an unfortunate incident the last time I saw him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://bella-anorexia.blogspot.com.au/2017/01/2017-resolutions-and-2016-in-review.html">Last year's resolutions</a> are pretty much pointless to even mention, but here we go. </span></div>
<div>
<br />
<ul>
<li>I wanted to start some form of online study, although I came to the conclusion I'm better off expanding my sewing skills myself. </li>
<li>I wanted to learn tightrope walking, but the agoraphobia aspect made that impossible. </li>
<li>The same goes for wanting to learn to dance.</li>
<li>I never got my probationary driver's license, as mum refused to keep taking me driving, and it's only now that I'm starting to find the finance to pay for lessons, so I hope I'll get there this year.</li>
<li> I certainly didn't get back to monthly outings. </li>
<li>The only one I did achieve was reaching a year off synthetics (June 27th).</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This year, I'm setting very basic resolutions. I don't want specific goals and deadlines, but rather small things I'd like to achieve.</span></div>
<div>
<br />
<ul>
<li>I want to cut back my drinking to a more appropriate level, instead of drinking most days, and I want to drink less when I do, and start later in the day. More on this another time.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I want to sew more, and learn more. Since some of the larger financial hurdles have now been taken care of (such as saving for a laptop), I've finally started ordering what I need to finish furnishing my sewing room (mostly storage items).</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I want to finally start driving lessons once I have a bit more money to do so (when the sewing room is done, when Billy's surgery is paid off, and/or when my drinking cuts back further).</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>But probably most importantly, my New Years resolution is to not spend time with people who treat me poorly and/or do not value me, just because I have no friends and am desperate for human interaction.</li>
</ul>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Christmas, to put it succinctly, sucked. The few days beforehand were busy, getting baking done for the day. I didn't feel like making anything, but mum had a few things she wanted to make. If I did it, at least I could weigh everything up and make sure I had accurate nutritional info. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, on the day, I was up at 8am, alarm set. I had an hour for my coffee and to do my usual morning notes, blog checking, Facebook, etc, and then I was in the kitchen 99% of the time from 9am through 2pm, when lunch was served.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After lunch was done, I was exhausted. I had a mini breakdown from stress and just feeling so overwhelmed. I spent most of the afternoon alone outside, drinking and smoking while my mum and brother sat inside talking and laughing.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Feeling so overwhelmed, I did something stupid, and got sick for a few days.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd been wanting to take a laxative overdose since the week before Christmas, but had too much to do and organise. Between the stress and nibbling on homemade goodies, the urge built. The tipping point, ironically, was when I had too many sugar-free sweets on the weekend, trying to avoid the homemade goodies, and ended up with a disgustingly bloated stomach. I just wanted to cut it off.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of Christmas Day, with my to-do list quieter, I decided to take them that night. Although I do enjoy seeing the water weight drop (even though the gain after they lose their effect and I find myself blocked up is distressing), it's more of just another form of self-harm for me. And sadly enough, it gives me an excuse to spend a couple of days doing nothing, without beating myself up for being lazy, and it makes me too sick to even consider eating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">4 senna is the standard dose. My usual overdoses are 100. This time, it was 200 – 100 one day, and 100 more the next. It's addictive, the pain. Next time, I want to do it day after day for an entire week. I want to see how much it would hurt, how much it would harm me.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There's much more to say, especially about appointments and my goal to cut back on drinking, but this post is already more than long enough, so I'll leave that for next time. For now, Christmas photos.</span></div>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2KG1Th_b-X4PrVGEaxzk2mtFsIGG61jumkQlpih5E7iu6izmyH1dryB_s4jkJZrYiC3L_MxQ7DXn1w35TOUBUsZWnSvrN47l_9QYBh31Gv4onk8jSR6BpHQSOzHIb4hvwcFXfi2lx5D-/s640/blogger-image--2009223961.jpg" width="500" /></span></td>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For Christmas lunch, I made my usual garlic & thyme
stuffed roast chicken, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">with roast potatoes, steamed carrots and green
beans, bread rolls, and of course, home made gravy. </span>
</div>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Ns35mLaeEZs-1bT9KxU8UBG06okY-e3Pgd5cIBtZNl7of9pArsOq7Ug_RxfOaH48K1yktk25BkpKZPuhgldIE41hcdCnbKBSzJfq0xipyFKnnaf9D8nHicLrtrMYjkvXRHuiE1NgbFc8/s400/blogger-image--1858137921.jpg" width="500" /></span></td>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHD8iBzAAWQl52TeBQuIdNBPEJuUqKbeMMZF2wn7-YVBJML4_-DyX9AkX9n3vceEgBIusb9DUHkzXFLfzwryuj_i0PoJlgVBRRzRwyl51dyu8t5l8Cl41PZkTsxaUI3z9kHVTYK7dCMNC/s640/blogger-image--1696884593.jpg" width="450" /></span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tbody>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1MGX3GRMXyHw7vDqEukZHHl-m3xg_XZxh7NlbxiFiRc5l6455JackbdFDbEVdgmN6_F-C7JqZoTGlBsfQbfYyoLQ8xSb7MbdeBZzmZ3FTfjlYz8OCuLB0feMoINIhd78LbyjJ6OZuT4j/s640/blogger-image--1359905740.jpg" width="500" /></span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My baking spoils. In the end, I made caramel slice, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Mars
bar slice, chocolate truffles, and shortbread.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<table style="text-align: center;">
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></td>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohPcD0g9urZObkb0Jxm-U401HdLetDrMa-Lf7LEi13zzxPEpDKORo1zMY1hZjFo9a_Q8UYh1K4pTdMw_-_x3shbaV2JKOE-dXu7bHQtsyoarrcRQxki62L1Zdndjj_zlcdyZvYeA1xqyA/s640/blogger-image--1379375142.jpg" width="400" /></span></td>
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</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">One of my new favourite things.</span></div>
</div>
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<tbody>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEJLEs-ooCPfCm0dZWtD8mQw_35HZXQojyTe0xG5q35rCVQPw1QTy7QQBW_WXREMfvHzYlYQCBPZmrQ4fLtKO-LBCEUodABBQL-dyZx9eIGQ31P7oOp4YYRltKgqTVotyAeZpKnF_wE46/s640/blogger-image--1211130299.jpg" width="450" /></span></td>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Because I know at least one of you will be curious about
the nutritional info.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<table style="text-align: center;">
<tbody>
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<td><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHKR6fFczz2onrEKoGq6yWtZ7Kt2MtPO2MvZurIH6u1_BN08wECVFGI3fCWc15TQPv3P5S4o_Jxnm0Z0sYdh2F5FhZP0h5y_zkehMlE1EXz1a4jmMtg925PJK23AdnDIve_my04mD9E7D/s640/blogger-image-1144557885.jpg" width="400" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My treat for the day, which used to be my favourite
drink. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Now, even with sugar-free lemonade, I find it sickeningly
sweet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">xxBella</span></div>
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Bellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07544398450025713725noreply@blogger.com3