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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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







xxBella

25

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 "argument with mum" or "stressful appointment" earlier in the year, to "moving out stress" in the last couple of months, and now to simply "depressed".

Fillet steak with garlic sauce, roast potatoes, steamed carrots and green beans
Teriyaki eye fillet (I completely forgot to take pictures of the appetizers)

xxBella

Steps

Last week I finally got to see my dietician for the first time in three months.

My GP has been working on taking me out for short walks when she does home visits. The idea is that I'll eventually be able to walk to appointments by myself, and although it's not even a kilometer away, I'm still a long way off walking solo.

Even walking alone to the corner of the block is terrifying. My GP found a way I can get to the clinic winding through the laneways instead of the busy streets, but she thinks I need a psych to help me overcome the fears before I'll be able to walk alone.

She was coming to pick me up and hour before she started work, so there'd be enough time to walk me to and from my appointment with the dietician. She was running late though, so she drove to pick me up, and then walked me home.

It was so good to see the dietician after so long. In the five years I've been seeing her, I've never had this long between appointments. She gave me a hug straight away. Thankfully, she didn't push weighing me as she saw me get distressed when she asked, so she focused more on what/how much I've been eating and drinking, and how life is going in general.

My GP made another set of appointments in five weeks, walks included, before she walked me home. The walk itself was difficult - not physically, but mentally - as it's the farthest from home I've walked in many years, but it definitely helps not having to do it alone. Rational or not, I feel so unsafe, even just a short distance away.

Unfortunately, neither of them are sure why I've been feeling so sick the past few weeks. I've been doing liquid days every other day to reduce how often I'm sick, because on days I eat solids, I'm up all night nauseous and usually vomiting. And it's not the alcohol - if I eat early in the day, before I drink, I get sick. If I eat but don't drink, I get sick. If I do liquids only, even with alcohol, I don't get sick.

I asked them both about it, and they said they'll discuss it with each other and get back to me. We went over what I can handle without getting sick, and it's really only yoghurt, iced coffee, supplement milk drinks (Ensure or Milo), hot chocolate, ice blocks, jelly, and thin pureed veggie soup (my current obsession is cauliflower and leek, for only 44 calories per cup - simply a cauliflower, a leek, and a stock cube, boiled and pureed). The current advice is to just stick with liquids and puree as much as possible.


June also marks the end of my traumaversary dates, and is always a very difficult and triggering time. The end date doesn't stop the feeling. I've spent most of this week knocked out on meds during the day and drinking until I pass out at night, which is why it's taken me nearly a week to write about the appointments.

Every day is just trying to get through in one piece, but then I wake up the next morning and have to go through it all again.

I feel so low and hopeless. The overdose urges have been so strong, but I've whittled down my stash by knocking myself out. I'm torn between using my extra meds to avoid the days, or keep stashing them for an overdose, although the latter would get me in trouble if they realise I haven't been returning any leftover meds as I'm supposed to.

I just don't want to be here, stuck in my head 24/7. It's taking all of my willpower (and a shit tonne of vodka) to avoid ending up in A&E.

I can't even enjoy things like TV or movies unless they're incredibly sad. Comedy makes me feel even worse. I can't even laugh if I wanted to.

To be honest, I would actually consider another inpatient admission. Even though the last one was somewhat disastrous, it did keep me safe while I was there. But considering the lack of support at home, chances are I won't even be able to see my GP until the next appointment in five weeks (unless I manage some awful accidental injury like the oil burns), and god knows what could happen in that time.

For today, it's a soup day, with no extra meds up my sleeve until this afternoon's delivery, and counting down the hours until it's somewhat acceptable to crack a bottle of wine.


xxBella

24

It's been a week of birthdays in the house. First with my 24th on April 30, then my mum's 60th a week later.

We'd planned to go out for dinner for my birthday, and while it's something I enjoy, it doesn't make it any less stressful. Between the act of going out, and the hours it takes me to feel presentable enough to, I started getting anxious, edgy, overwhelmed. I leaned on my PRNs through the day, perhaps a little too heavily.

We went to an Italian place that I've been wanting to try. I was still full from the cake, but wanted to go out because I just enjoy the experience of going out for dinner, even if I couldn't eat much. I indulged in linguini carbonara, since I knew I wouldn't eat much of it.

The big highlight of my birthday was, as those of you on Facebook would've seen, I am now the lucky owner of a NES Mini. I was so disappointed when I couldn't get one, but he managed to track one down. I was so excited when I opened it, and spent the next few days playing it for hours on end.



But between the fear from eating so much and wanting to self-harm, it only made me more determined to go ahead with the laxative overdose that's been building for the past few weeks. Plus, I've mentioned before that the only times I don't drink are if I'm physically ill, in hospital, or smoking. Laxatives would mean I'd have some time off drinking due to being physically ill/in pain, and drop some weight (from not drinking or eating much because I'd be sick, not from the laxatives themselves - we all know it doesn't work that way).

I took them across three days, hoping to prolong the pain and sickness without needing to go to hospital from taking a whole packet, as has happened a few times before. I had 20 one morning, but still drank because the cramps didn't kick in until later in the night. The next morning, I took another 20, but still only felt sick for a few hours in the late night/early morning. Then, I took 60. That worked. I was too sick to drink anything or eat much for the next two, two and a half, days. It wasn't fun, but it got me two days off drinking.

Then, it was mum's birthday on Sunday. I had a fantastic homemade Indian dinner planned. Three mains and five sides, but it ended in disaster.

I coped well with most of the day. My dosa batter failed spectacularly, managing to melt the base of my KitchenAid blender in the process (and I was just blending uncooked, cold, soaked rice!). My grandfather's signature sponge cake collapsed. I managed to cope with hours in the kitchen cooking dinner, only to (accidentally) spill oil all over my hand at the last minute.

I got ready to serve. Everything was ready to be played up, and I'd just finished the pappadums.

I think it's probably because I usually use a different pan of the same size, and the usual one is heavier, but I used the old one because I didn't want mine tainted with oil. I just lifted it up on too high an angle, because it poured from the pan and over the handle to my hand. That's what I get for cooking with oil.

Thankfully I turned off the burners before I moved the pan, otherwise god knows what could've happened.

I screamed and ran to the sink for cold water, and my family came in. I felt so bad for fucking up, I just kept apologizing. My brother is good with first aid from his years of volunteer work, so he helped out, and wrapped the fingers in plastic wrap to protect them. They wanted me to to A&E, but it felt ridiculous, so I said I'd just see a doctor in the morning.

Mum went to buy a bag of ice as I'd used what was in the freezer, and Steve started tasting and picking at the food, and I nibbled on the hard-won pappadums with another glass of wine. I ate dinner with one hand with the burnt hand still in water. I kept my hand in water overnight in a bowl on a table next to the couch.

We had to close Billy out of the kitchen, as he kept licking oil off the floor after it cooled down. Not only was there oil all over the stove top and on the floor in front of it, but it spread as mum and my brother walked through it searching for first aid supplies. Between cleaning the benches/stove/floor, it took mum a full day to clear up the disaster.

I have oil burns all over my thumb, index and middle fingers, thumb web and palm on my left hand, despite leaving it in icy water for 12+ hours after the incident. Once I realized it'd take more than a few days to start healing (or stop blistering, for that matter), I started slowly typing this post on my phone instead of the laptop, since I currently can't type with my left hand.

Being a physical injury, mum actually offered to drive me to see my GP and get it dressed without even having to ask. A blister on my thumb had already burst by the time I got to the appointment at 8:45. They popped the others that had come up, and dressed them tightly. I had to get a tetanus/whooping cough booster, and they warned my grandmother's ruby and diamond ring might have to be cut off if it kept swelling.

More blisters came up through the next few days. It happened on Sunday, and I saw my GP and the nurse on Monday, Wednesday, and I have to go back tomorrow too. Yesterday, my fingers were covered with blisters, and again they were popped and dressed, as well as getting a flu shot.

Next week, my GP is doing another home visit, as I haven't had a proper appointment in two months. I'm dreading having to go for a walk, although it'll still be short. For now, I'm just resting and loading up with painkillers.

And, of course, more birthday picture-spam...

More gratuitous selfies from going out for dinner
I don't get birthday cakes much anymore. I used to make my own, but these past few years, it's been too much, and mum never bakes anymore. So this year, mum bought me a lamington sponge cake (for you non-Aussies: a lamington is sponge cake that's been coated with an extremely thin layer of chocolate icing and sprinkled in coconut). Not my first choice, but it was at least something everyone eats. I had a small piece in the afternoon, and the family devoured the rest over the next day or two. I didn't much care to have more than one slice. I just wanted the gesture. (And, naturally, there's no eating in this house without two furry supervisors)
The cheesymite scrolls I made for mum's birthday

The oil burns as of yesterday


xxBella

Facing Reality

Today, I thought I'd finally do a post about something that's been troubling me lately. Alcohol. It's been an increasing problem over the past 6 months or so, but this past month, I've only had a grand total of two days off. Most days, I wake up with no memory of the night before.

I don't like the thought of being labelled as an alcoholic or drunkorexic. When people ask if I drink, I tend to say “I enjoy a few glasses of wine with dinner.” as it seems so much more socially acceptable. But I am an addict, and one addiction became another when I quit smoking synthetics (10 months ago now!)

I've been trying hard to not keep drinking so much. Unfortunately, finishing the day with a few drinks has now become the norm and not the exception. If I have to drink, I've set goals of not drinking until 5pm, instead of starting in the afternoon, and keeping a tighter limit on how many standard drinks I do consume (ideally, 10 standard drinks max, instead of 14, 16, sometimes up to 20 drinks).

I'm eating less as I'm drinking more. The depression isn't helping with either. And with just a few hundred less calories of food and a few less drinks (usually around 500 now, before alcohol, which is usually around an extra 600-700), my weight has started to drop again after being fairly stable for the past few months.

In a way, I sort of justify my drinking to others because it keeps my intake higher. Truth be told though, the only real reason I want to cut back is so I can lose weight faster.

Last week, mum went away to visit friends for a few nights, and I decided to use the quiet time as an opportunity to have a night or two off drinking. I figured that, since I never eat dinner or set meals when I'm alone, as I lose all track of time, maybe I wouldn't drink either. I set myself up on the couch with my cigarettes, notebooks, chewing gum, extra meds, and water, and spent my days on the couch marathoning The L Word for the millionth time.

I can't lie – it was very tempting to get some smoke, since that's one of the few times I never drink (the others being when I'm physically ill, or in hospital), and when I'm home alone is the only time I can get away with it without it causing arguments. But after spending so much money on alcohol recently, I couldn't do it. It's funny. Everyone says I must be saving so much money since I quit synthetics (and rarely smoke the natural stuff), but in reality, I've been spending nearly as much on alcohol, especially in the past couple of months. At least smoke has no calories...

She was away for four days, and on the second day, I managed to get through without drinking – my first day off in a month. The next day, I drank early in the afternoon. I think I'm starting to get withdrawals if I try to have more than one day off. Even the first drink made me feel so much better. Being the weekend, my brother was home. Apparently I passed out on the kitchen floor for a few hours that night, for no apparent reason. I tend to pass out quickly and unexpectedly these days. Just a couple of nights ago, I had my soup heating up for dinner, my toast cooked, but passed out before I could eat it.

The last day she was away, I was sick. And no, it wasn't a hangover – it lasted through the following day. I couldn't even finish ¼ of a cup of coffee, and even cigarettes made me feel sick. I spent the day in dark and silence, my head pounding, quickly throwing up any thing I tried to drink. My body ached from the act of being sick so much. But it gave me another night without drinking.

On a different note, over the Easter weekend, I spent a few days with my friend R. It was so nice to get a break from the day-to-day life at home. I even managed to get out for a walk. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but with the pressure wounds from my last overdose still healing, it was a slow walk. It wasn't easy, but being a public holiday, there were very few people around, which was a bonus. So that was outing #4 for the year. It's the longest time I've spent walking around town in many years. Still, it was a nice little getaway from being stuck at home, and spend some time being social.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm dreading it. Birthdays have usually ended in disaster for some years now. There's a sense of impending doom, and it could go either way. Will I be able to go out for dinner? Will I spend all day drinking myself into a stupor? Will everything fall apart? Watch this space.

I've been terrible with staying up to date on blogs these past couple of weeks, but I'm slowly starting to catch up, so please bear with me.

Easter Weekend supplies
Staying warm in a dressing gown before going out (My black one was in the wash - please don't judge my backup pastel polka dot one!)

xxBella

Difficult Decisions

My baby boy Billy has had a rough go of it this week. One morning, I woke up and his mouth had been bleeding. He's always had trouble with his teeth (and his ears... and his back). The conversation started about that it might be time to think about making a difficult decision. Yes, he's now 14, and after so many surgeries over the course of his life, we don't have that kind of money just sitting around any more.

I froze. My heart jumped into my throat as my stomach sank. I wanted to drink. I wanted to smoke. I wanted to cut and hit my head and overdose. I wanted to do anything to block out this pain. I can't bear the thought of losing him.

Ever since we lost Silky, just over four years ago, I realised for the first time that they wouldn't be here forever. I'd never considered that they wouldn't always be by my side. I've been petrified of losing Billy too. For four years now, I've said I could never get another dog as the pain of losing them is too much to bear. I've always said that it would be the end for me. That I really couldn't go on without him.

That night, he lost a lot of blood. Mum asked if I'd made a decision, and I just lost it. I sat on the floor and started bawling that I can't do this, I don't know what to do, I don't know what I should do. It felt like my heart was breaking. I spent the first few days in tears.

We took him to the vet. Due to my agoraphobia, I usually hold him for the car ride, and stay in the car while mum takes him in. This time, I actually went in for the first time in years.

We got a quote on the surgery, and depending on how many teeth need to be removed, it's going to cost somewhere between $1,400 and $2,000. He doesn't like his mouth being looked at, but it looks like he'll need all of them removed (what's left after the previous surgeries, anyway). I just hope he'll be okay without them. His teeth are diseased, and if they're not removed, it'll go into his jaw bone, which would eventually lead to a fracture.

I managed to find one company that would approve me for a loan while a) on a pension, and b) without going into an office in person. It's going to take a long time to pay off, and the interest rate is ridiculous, but it's worth it. I can't imagine life without him. Besides, after spending tens of thousands on various surgeries and medical issues over the years, I can't just give up. I will do anything I can to keep my baby boy safe.

He's been doing a bit better the past couple of days. His mouth only bled for the first two or so days. But for the first few days, it looked like we were going to have to say goodbye. I fell into mourning even though he was still right here beside me, and it's a hard feeling to shake. He's not a young pup any more. I guess it just reminds you of how fragile life it, and how quickly everything can change.

Tomorrow my GP's coming around for my first home visit appointment. She also wants to try getting me out for a short walk, which scares the shit out of me. I haven't even been able to walk around the block for years, despite wanting to. I know the goal is to be able to make the 5-minute walk solo to get to appointments, but even the first steps are terrifying.

On top of getting out to take Bill to the vet and tomorrow's walk, last weekend we went out for a family dinner for my brother's birthday at his favourite local Indian place. We haven't all been out for dinner since he and his girlfriend broke up a year ago, when we'd all go out together. I haven't had any reason to go out for dinner since then either, so it was nice for a change.

Samosas, Chicken Pakora, and Aloo Tikki for starters

Can you tell my brother loves naan bread?

xxBella

Finding my Feet (and Fabric Shopping!)

I've been settling back in at home and trying to find a routine again.

Last week I had two appointments on Tuesday, first with my dietician and second with my GP, a few hours apart. I figured I'd try to get out and go to my favourite fabric store while I was out, and maybe grab a coffee.

I haven't gone out much at all this year, compared to the past few. I was doing well at going out once a month, until I saw my abusive ex at a restaurant last year.

When I saw my GP, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and blame. Talking about the overdose, she aid she get into as much trouble as I do. That she beats herself up and asked herself “Oh why did I do that?”. She's got me on contract to keep seeing my new psychologist every two weeks, or else she won't keep prescribing my medication. I have to see her for at least six months before I could even make the decision to see someone different.

The fabric store was right across the road to the medical centre. I haven't been for years, and not since they moved shops some years ago. I used to be in there constantly when I spent a lot of time in town. They were closing for good on Thursday, so for the past couple of weeks I've been determined to get in one last time.

When we got there and parked across the road, right in front of the medical centre, their sign wasn't out. I started to panic. After having a mini freak-out in the car, mum walked across to check, as I couldn't bring myself to.

It was a huge knock to find out they weren't open that day, after spending all morning getting dressed up all nice, doing my hair and make-up, and just psyching myself up to venturing forth. Even going for a coffee to kill the time before my appointment was too much, so I sat in the car and smoked until it was time to go in.

The next day, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I kept it in the back of my mind in case I felt up to it, but on Thursday, I pushed myself to try again. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't.

The store itself was very empty. There were maybe eight bolts of fabric, plus some zips and a few near-empty rolls of lace and trims. They even had the actual store fittings for sale. I picked up the last five meters of a black and white lip print cotton, plus 10 various zips, mostly purple. I don't know when I'll use them, but at such a low price, I had to grab some. I also grabbed what was left on a roll of a blue-grey lace, which I'm sure will come in handy for a sewing or craft project one day.

Even just going out for a 15 minute shop was exhausting. It's been so many years since I've gone out regularly except for my appointments. I'm hoping to get back to my 'once a month' goal next year, but I don't know.

It also looks like I'm going to be learning how to drive, to work around mum's new rule of not driving me to appointments or anywhere. Instead, I'll drive and she can supervise. I did get my learner's permit when I was 16, and have a good understanding of the road rules, but driving makes me so nervous. My total experience amounts to five minutes around a quiet industrial area after I first got my permit. I'm planning to get behind the wheel later this week, so this will be interesting...

xxBella

Are you looking down upon me? Are you proud of who I am?

On Friday, I went out to go to the cemetery with my mum. It would've been my Dad's 70^th, but he passed away from a brain tumour at the age of 49, a month before my third birthday.

We picked up some flowers on the way. The cemetery is just down the road from my house, and I should really go more often than I do.

Most of my family is there. The only living family I have left are my mum, my brother, and my Great Aunt. I do have aunts and uncles and cousins, but I've never really known them. I could walk past my mum's brother and not know him from a perfect stranger.

We visited Dad's grave first. Mum wiped the dirt and dust from the headstone and plucked a few weeds peeking out. My earliest memory is throwing sand into the grave at his funeral.

Then we walked over a few rows to where my Grandma and Pa are buried. She died not long before my Dad, and my Pa joined her 8 years ago this Christmas. Christmas was always made special because of Pa, and losing him the day after Christmas changed the holiday forever. I hadn't been back to the cemetery since his funeral.

My Great Uncle, who has always been more like a grandfather to me and a father to my mum as she lost both parents before reaching adulthood, passed away in March of this year. I was quite sick with pneumonia at the time, and put off the inevitable hospital admission in hopes of attending his funeral. That morning, however, I was simply in too much pain to even move, and spent the day alone in the same hospital my Great Uncle had only just left.

His grave is on the other side of a very large cemetery, and I was planning to walk. But already in tears, and knowing it would only get worse, I took up mum's offer to drive around instead.

Usually I have trouble spotting the headstones until I'm right in front of them, but Uncle's jumped out at me from several rows away.

I started bawling and gasping for air. Missing the funeral left a sort of hole in the grieving process for me, and this made it all come rushing in. Mum placed her hand on my back, but I jumped away.

I feel a sort of hatred with regards to my Dad's untimely death. Not toward him, but toward the tides of fate. It was the start of an unfortunate series of events that have led to me being the wreck I am now. Mainly, I believe that if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have been abused as a child. He would've been there to protect me. If I wasn't abused as a child, I wouldn't have let it happen again as a teenager. I wouldn't have had to go through a lot of things, and I wouldn't have developed the mental health issues I have now. 

Not long after getting back to the Clinic, I saw my psychiatrist, which was just a blur. I wanted to go home for a little while to get an idea of how I'd cope with discharge, and we decided I'd go on leave for a few hours at 5pm and come home later in the night.

Billy was so happy to see me. He ran around and jumped up and kept bringing me socks from around the house. He loves socks. He'll pull them from your feet if you give him the chance.

Misty took a while longer, as she was out lurking in the yard. When she first saw me from across the kitchen, her back arched and her eyes widened, but she still let me pick her up for cuddles and we had a good 'meow' chat.

After that, it all went down hill. As soon as I'd said hello to them, I cracked a bottle of wine, which technically I'm not allowed to do, but I didn't really care if they found out and discharged me.

I took five oxazepam at once, breaking another rule. I hit my head against the wall and drove a cigarette into my arm while I had the chance. So far no one's noticed the lumps or blisters.

I got back to the Clinic right on 10pm, the latest I could stay out. I'd had nearly a bottle and a half of wine and too many oxazepam. I stumbled once in my heels, just a tiny bit, after the nurse let me in He commented, asking if I was feeling a bit unsteady, but I just brushed it off. I was in tears from the emotionally exhausting day, so they didn't push it.

I barely slept that night. My head was a mess and my stomach was in knots. I spent most of the night up between vomiting and slugging down Coke Zero. I don't know how no one noticed I'd been drinking. Considering they know I drink a few times a week at home, I thought my stumbling and vomiting would've made them break out the breathalyzer.

It was hard being back home. It'll be no different when I go home than it was before my admission, if not worse. Home does not feel like home. I feel like a stranger, and not a particularly welcome one at that.

I went on leave the next day to go home again, which was even more of a disaster, but I still haven't processed it, so for now I'll leave it here. 

“There's nothing I wouldn't do

To have just one more chance

To look into your eyes and see you looking back”

xxBella

A Rock and a Hard Place

For better or for worse, I've had a few impulsive outings in the past couple of weeks.

Last weekend, I had an argument with mum. I told her I was feeling trapped and lonely, and wanted to go out, even just for a drive in the car. I don't know why, but she started snapping at me about wanting me to be more 'active' and not spend all of my time between the couch and my arm chair on the porch.

I do a lot with my days. She just doesn't see it. Between writing, keeping my notes up to date, reading and commenting on blogs, exercise, self-care, cleaning, reading books, mindfulness, sewing and crafts, not to mention just getting through each day, I actually have very little downtime. I do everything I have the energy for (physical and emotional). She thinks I have no structure or routine, and that the only way to be productive is if you're moving around. 

After crying all morning, I raided my meds. After two mini overdoses in a week, taking over an extra week's worth, mum realized I've been stockpiling my meds.

I tried talking to her some more, telling her how hurtful her comment was, and she backed off. I still don't know why me wanting to get out of the house made her have a go at me for not being more active in the house. She said that I was doing so well keeping busy after she first had surgery, and didn't understand why I couldn't just keep going. Never mind that I told her at the time that it was a struggle, and not something I could deal with long-term.

  “Let's all go out for afternoon tea – the three of us.”

Self-conscious about the newest addition of cuts, and scratches on my face, I said I didn't think I could do it. She had lunch, and came back out and asked again. I'd been thinking about it, and said okay, but that we'd have to buy something and go somewhere like a beach or park – not somewhere busy like a cafe.

And then, she backtracked, saying we should do it the following day. I burst into tears, saying I didn't know if I could. Going out is more of a 'carpe diem' thing. I can't plan in advance and be sure I'll be able to follow through when the time gets here.

Going out at all is getting so much harder. Even walking beyond the house, down the backyard, is hard. I need mum to walk with me. Walking to the garage to collect my laundry from the dryer this week was nearly unbearable. My chest hurt, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was desperate to get out of this house, and after the argument, I started running around manic. After a bottle of wine, I decided to go see A. Yes, I was that desperate. And yes, I told you all to slap me if I saw him again.

When he first asked, I hesitated. I told him I was still trying to work through the cow comment and the subsequent OD. He said he was seriously kicking himself for saying that, and apologised yet another time. I guess everyone fucks up now and then – what really counts is how they follow up.

So I put a caveat on meeting up.

  “Please, at no point, comment on my body shape/weight/size. With an ED, even things that may be intended as a compliment can be received the wrong way.”

And with that, he got in the car and drove the hour each way to pick me up. 

We stopped at a strip club to play pool again, and I had another vodka and Diet Coke. It feels weird being the only girl in the joint wearing clothes.

At his place, I drank another half bottle of wine. My tolerance for alcohol, and how often I drink, has increased exponentially since I stopped smoking synthetics (three months today!). Drunkenly, I told him how negatively I thought of myself around him, which led to more questions and a deep-and-meaningful about my mental health in general. The kind of conversation where you wake up the next day and want to die of embarrassment.

I told him I felt like an idiot for breaking down, but he thanked me, saying he really appreciated me talking, that it helped him understand more. He asked a bit more about the past abuse, the anorexia, the link between, but without a few drinks under my belt, I just sat silently.

I know it's potentially a bad idea, but apart from feeling so lonely and isolated, I feel like I need to keep as many options open as possible. With mum pushing me to move out, and the fear that I'll one day be kicked to the curb, I need friends around to fall back on.

Then, this weekend, I caught up for drinks with R. I now feel like I have to take the precaution of telling everyone who sees me to please not comment on my weight/size. He said I certainly don't have to worry about that with him, and the thing is, I know that I don't.

So I spent all of Saturday trying to make myself look like a presentable human being again, after being a mess when I went out the week before. I straightened my hair, painted my nails, neatened up my brows, did my make-up... I wore a long sleeved cardigan with a tubigrip covering my forearm and hand, with a fingerless glove to complete the illusion of not being a total fuck-up.

I had no idea if I'd be eating with him or not, so I had a little bowl of pasta with bolognese sauce (153 cal) and a dinner roll (99 cal) when my family had dinner. Having not eaten so I wouldn't be bloated when I went out, it was probably a good decision. I'd already had half a bottle of wine – call it social lubricant – and wanted to make sure I didn't make an idiot out of myself by throwing up again. 

On the way to his place, he stopped at the servo to pick up snacks – lollies, chocolate bars, chips, Ben & Jerry's. But I was too scared to eat any of it in front of him. My stomach was burning by the end of the night, and I wanted a handful of chips so badly, but I couldn't. What would people think if they saw me eating such junk?! 

Going to people's houses is a lot easier than going out in public though, so that was at least one less stress.

I've missed more appointments with the dietician since I last posted. After last week I texted her, apologizing for missing so many, explaining that mum still can't drive and the anxiety of catching Uber or a taxi makes me feel physically ill.

She asked me to cancel our appointments until I'm ready to get there again.

It's not like I do it on purpose. Every Monday, I get the confirmation text, and tell myself I will get there this time. But I haven't been in over a month.

I don't know what to do anymore. I feel so alone and abandoned. It's like all of my appointments and support I have are just slowly slipping away. I just wish everyone cared so little ten years ago instead of not giving me a choice in getting treatment or not. Now I'm on my own, and I don't think I want it enough to fight alone. 

To top things off, I'm being pushed back to weekly dispensing, after over a year on daily. Mum won't pick them up on her walks anymore, and the chemist can't keep delivering daily. I've got a week getting deliveries on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but after that, it'll be weekly. I'm afraid, but at the same time, I don't care if I fuck up. I know if I misuse them, my GP will just notify the chemist to give me more, as she doesn't want me going without. 

Everything's falling apart, and with everyone backing off and withdrawing support, I feel like they've all just given up on me and are giving me permission to give up too.

I'm just so very tired. I don't know where my head's at these days. Next time I see my GP, I'm going to ask her about a possible admission to the private psych Clinic. My self-harm is out of control, I don't know how much longer I can fight the urge for another laxative OD, I haven't been taking my meds properly because I'm too scared to sleep, then I take the entire stockpile. I only feel safe from the flashback nightmares if I'm drunk, or stay up for 24+ hours and run myself into the ground.

And thank you for all the support on my last post. I know that my team probably consider it unethical to maintain the status quo, preventing a further decline but not actively seeking treatment, but if that's the case, I feel like I should just stop going. Frankly, my only apprehension about stopping all appointments is my meds, especially the assorted benzos that keep me sane.

xxBella

Clothes, Coffee, and Closure

This week, I went clothes shopping for the first time in quite a while.

Mum was planning on doing some shopping when she caught up with my Great Aunt for coffee. I asked if we could go to a certain shopping center, as it's the only one I've been able to get to in recent years. Long story short, I used to buy my synthetics there, although I never went to any of the other shops. It was like tunnel vision, which was the only reason it was 'safe' for me, so this was different.

First, we met Aunty D at her regular coffee shop. Long black, as always (Americano, for those outside Australia - except a long black has the espresso added on top of the hot water, preserving the crema, which an Americano generally does not).

When we headed to the shops, I stopped by the tobacconist for the first time in over six weeks. It's been on the 'to-do' list ever since, but to be honest, I don't think mum trusted me, as she wouldn't take me out. I wanted to say a last goodbye to the staff that've been so good to me for so long, and to let them know I hadn't just fallen off the face of the earth.
They had to do a double-take when they saw me. Most of the time when I went in, I'd just be in my trackies, cardigan and ugg boots, with my hair tied back and no make-up on.

There were a few others in the shop, so I didn't say all that I wanted to. I kept it vague, and just told them I'd had a couple of really bad episodes on the synthetics, where the police and ambulance had to be called twice in one weekend, and that was sort of 'it' for me. They were happy for me. It's always been the people who sold me the synthetics that were the most concerned, and most relieved when I stopped.

In a way, it was a form of closure on the period of synthetics abuse. I said my goodbyes, and told them I probably wouldn't be in much at all anymore.

Then we headed over to Kmart. I just wanted to pick up a few basics to update my wardrobe a little (pictures below). I had to shop a size or two up for most things, as they didn't have many 4s or 6s, but it's better than nothing. Before my ED, I always shopped a size or two larger to try to get things long enough anyway, so I'm not exactly fussed by them not fitting quite right.

We walked past a Coles on the way out, and mum asked if I needed to pick anything up. Dumbfounded, I just stared and said  "I don't do supermarkets."
If I were to go to a supermarket, it'd be the regular Woolworths we used to go to. It was the last place I went regularly, my last 'safe' place, up until maybe four years ago. For now, I'm more than happy sticking to online orders and getting everything delivered.

AD drove us home. She's so lovely - she keeps offering to help mum with stuff around the house or washing her hair between nurse visits, although mum doesn't want to have to do anything more than she already does, which is understandable considering she's 85.


Back at home, the stresses started again. I'm struggling with the fact I'm doing everything I can to make mum's life easier, but still getting zero support in return. Later that night I had a mini OD on about three days' worth of pills. I regretted only getting my tobacco and Zippo fluid at the tobacconist, wishing I'd snuck in one last gram.

Mum has her own lockbox now, even larger than the one I lent her, with all of her meds inside, after I sorta raided all of her oxazepam the other week.

As for mum, she got the casts taken off on Friday, although she's still in a sling and can't lift more than 500 grams. All the same rules, so I've got a few more weeks of extra responsibilities around the house.

It's having an impact on my own mental and physical health. Aside from the increased OD and SH urges, my weight has been consistently dropping for the past few weeks, after plateauing for a month or two prior to her injury. My intake has dropped further. I've only been losing 0.5kg a week on average, but it's still a change, and I'm feeling it.

I'm not sure if I've posted a photo before, but this is my fabulous Italian leather coat. My brother and I both got one when I was about 13, but I haven't worn it for years because it's too big now and I hate looking so bulky.

With this weather, though, I need a warmer layer, so it's been pulled out from the back of my wardrobe again.

Lace Cami

Plain Cami with Lace Cover

Summer Skirt, from the kids section

Skirt Detail

Longline Tee

Socks and Jocks

xxBella