Make Them Never Want to Hurt You Ever Again

This weekend will mark six months since I moved. The time seems to have flown, but at the same time, it feels like I've lived here much longer.

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.

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 need to get this weight off, that says;

"MAKE THEM 
NEVER WANT 
TO HURT YOU 
EVER AGAIN!!!"

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.

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 while 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.

That said, I am 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.

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.

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 need 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.

Fun Fact: After totaling everything up from last year, I consumed a total of 305,645 calories 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 39.7kg, or 87.3lbs, worth of calories. kill me 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.

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.

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!

Halloween!

We never used to get trick or treaters back at home (Australia, etc), 

but my new neighbourhood was swarming with them! 

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

 (sorry to the kids who got Fibre One Brownies and snack packs of rice crackers!). 

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.

First body check in new home, with and without jacket

The beauty of having my normal dishware back after a year (especially the tiny dishes)

- 22g taco shells (103 cal)

- 50g chicken breast, cooked in mexican seasoning and water (68 cal)

- 10g low-fat cheddar cheese (31 cal)
- 30g salsa (9 cal)
- 150g lettuce (21 cal)

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! (Although lovely neighbour has just moved out. Boo.)



xxBella

Pneumonia

For the past week and a half, I've been in hospital with pneumonia.
I put off hospital for as long as I could, but last weekend, it reached the point of being unbearable. With my GP away for two weeks over Easter, I came straight in to Private A&E last Monday. My O2sats were dipping as low as 75%, and no amount of painkillers would help me move from my armchair.
I never know what to say when I first come in to A&E for my lungs. I started telling the triage nurse that I thought I had a nasty chest infection brewing, following a cold going around the family, not to mention the six consecutive courses of antibiotics from my GP. First, my brother had tonsillitis. Then, my mum got bronchitis. And although I didn't know it then, I developed pneumonia.
They ask a few questions, I say a little more. Then, they ask,   "Any history of asthma?" And I laugh, assuming they'd have seen it in my notes.   "No, but I have COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) and Bronchiolitis Obliterans." Wide-eyed, they ask,   "How old are you?!"   "22, 23 in a month. I was diagnosed just after I turned 20."   "...and what caused it?"   "I don't know. Smoking. Bad luck."
Lungs of a 60 year old, bones of a 70 year old, pressure wounds to rival an 80 year old's.

The Lung Doctor Man came by later that night, shortly after I'd settled in and mum had gone home.   "So... You haven't really progressed since I last saw you." I'm still smoking much the same amount, still struggling to deal with my mental health in non-destructive ways, still self-harming, still starving.
The x-ray showed further thickening of my bronchiole walls. As is the nature of Bronchiolitis Obliterans (which I swear sounds like a spell from Harry Potter), they'll just keep shrinking and constricting until one day I won't be able to breathe any more.
Not one to dance around the facts, The Lung Doctor Man said I'm on the path to an early death. It's easy enough to do the routine treatments when I have exacerbations, but it won't change where I'm headed unless I start making big changes. This is my third admission for COPD exacerbations. 2013, 2014, 2016 - I got lucky last year, as they're all around March-May.
Part of me is relieved to have a serious issue with my physical health, something I can't be sectioned for for making it worse or refusing treatment. The words "consistent downward trajectory" were strangely comforting  to hear. Unlike the AN, where my GP now warns my BMI is approaching a point of being "no longer compatible with life", they simply can't force me to stop smoking and take better care of my lungs.

The Lung Doctor Man asked about my weight, and I told him that when the dietician last weighed me, I was around 44kg, but that I was working with her to get my intake back up to maintenance. All in all, I'm down about 10kg from when I saw him for an outpatient check-up last year.
Over the long weekend, they were renovating the ward I was initially admitted to. Wanting to make sure I got a private room, they transferred me on Thursday to avoid the stampede of patients being shuffled.
The first thing I noticed in my new room were a little set of devils lurking in the corner - bathroom scales. Despite being in the afternoon with a belly full of food and drink, clad in warm pyjamas and a cardigan, I couldn't resist. Before my bag was even unpacked, I stepped straight on them.
The next morning, they'd been moved. I shuffled my way to the tea & coffee room to make my first coffee of the day. On the way back, I got lost, and a nurse found me wandering and helped me back to my room. I casually asked if I could borrow the scales quickly, and I've weighed in every morning since. They're analogue (why?!), and hard to read from 186cm away, but with the aid of my phone camera, I've gone from roughly 44-45kg to 41-42kg in just under a week. If they're accurate, I'm close to the lowest weight I've ever been. 
I should note, I've been eating a lot more in here than I was at home, although I haven't been taking Ensure or any other supplements. I've been eating 5-6 times a day, compared to 2-3 at home. Most meals have been a slice of toast. With a poached egg for breakfast, with Vegemite for lunch, and sometimes dinner too, although I've had a couple of the simpler hot meals - grilled chicken with potato and veggies, things like that. Snacks have been fruit, dairy, dry biscuits. My kitchen scales were one of the first things to hit my suitcase, which always makes things a lot more manageable.
Unlike previous admissions, I've been skipping the nightly quarter bottle of wine. I've only had it the once. All I can think about it how much weight and bloat it'd add to the scales the next morning. A few days ago I got really anxious about my intake, and ended up stuffing my suitcase with blankets and using it as a makeshift aerobic step to burn 100 cal in 15 minutes. My lungs may not have thanked me, but apart from smoking, weight loss is the only thing that'll help me feel better right now.
It's the beginning of the end. I hadn't stepped on real scales outside of the dietician's office for the longest time. But for now it's keeping me sane, keeping me receiving treatment for my lungs. It's just one less worry, one more coping mechanism, while I'm in here. I have every intention to continue once I go home, with my old reliable digital scales.

I've been feeling very lost and alone. I'm getting more familiar with the staff by now, and getting my bearings as to where exactly I am, but to start with, it was just like being dropped off on the side of the road in the middle of town. It's not a very safe feeling. For someone who leaves the house so rarely, let alone by herself, being in here has been scary as hell. All of the staff in here are really nice though - everyone from the nurses to the PSAs to the cleaners.
I'm trying my hardest not to hit my head, mostly because of the seizures, but I've been scratching and hitting other body parts a lot. I have a 3-hour EEG and a MRI coming up in the next month. Not wanting to make a fuss, I hide in the bathroom because it's the quietest place, and sit under the sink so I don't bother anyone. It feels safer to hide in the corner, less overwhelming. Considering there's not a psychiatrist in the building, they're being really good about the self-harm. They just bring me meds and warm blankets and a cup of coffee, and gently remind me they're here to help and want me to feel as safe as possible. 

I've been waking up with nightmares a lot. It doesn't help if I wake up to find they've turned the lights out. I swear it happens at least once each admission. But this time, the nurse just apologized and bought me more meds, a warm blanket and a cup of coffee, and it hasn't happened since. The nightmares are chronic though. I must be screaming or making some sort of noise, and I think I'm kicking the end of the bed or flailing about, because most nights when I wake up from nightmares, it's enough to make the nurses come rushing in.
They're so real. I think it's because I'm so isolated, I don't have a lot to influence my dreams. They're always about the few places I go (mostly in the car en route to appointments) and the few people I do see, it's hard to identify it as just a nightmare and work through it like I used to. 
Even if I've only had my bedtime oxazepam a few hours prior and a PRN shortly before that, they bring me more without even asking to make sure I can get back to sleep.   "Can I get you anything else? A cup of tea?"   "A coffee would be good - black, no sugar."   "Coffee will keep you awake. What about warm milk?"   "I'd rather stay awake than keep having nightmares." For the record, last night I had two cups shortly after midnight, and was still back asleep within the hour.
I cannot wait to get home to a real coffee and a cigarette. After spending the last several months brewing my own coffee fresh at home, the instant stuff is like lolly water. I'm not exaggerating in the slightest when I say I had 20 cups yesterday. It's like I've replaced each cigarette with a cup of coffee. I am allowed to go downstairs to the cafe and gift shop, as long as I don't smoke (I'm not that daft - although admittedly I did on my first admission), but without mum visiting much, I haven't really made it further than looping around the nurses station to the tea & coffee room.

When I first came in, The Lung Doctor Man wanted to call this new psychologist I had an appointment pencilled in with and get her to visit, but I haven't even met her yet. I was supposed to be going with my GP to meet her today, but obviously, that's not happening. It's been hard when, some days, mum won't even answer the phone. My first day in here was long and empty, with the home phone ringing out without going to the answering machine, and her mobile phone not ringing at all. Maybe the last mental health nurse was right, and she really is tired of me.

This morning, The Lung Doctor Man said my chest is sounding a lot better. Although it took its time, I've finally turned a corner. He was hesitant to send me home while my mum and brother were still sick, but they seem to be getting better now too, so I won't go straight backwards when I go home. With any luck, I should be home in the next couple of days.
After more than a week, I'm finally starting to breathe on my own again. Not perfect, but no where near as bad as it was. The biggest struggles are when I'm eating, sleeping, and moving about. They've taken me off the two different IV antibiotics and put me on oral, and they're tapering back the steroids slowly. After three cannulas and as many collapsed veins, I'm glad to be off the IV. It's terrible. I have 18 piercings, not counting the ones I've taken out over the years, and I still have to close my eyes tight to even have bloods drawn.
I'm supposed to be up and moving around more, but with the agoraphobia and anxiety in general, I'm having a lot of trouble getting further than making myself a coffee and doing a u-turn back to my room, which is about 150 steps for the round trip. Even when mum has come in and I've ventured downstairs, I haven't quite been able to get to the cafe to get myself a proper coffee. It's been too busy, too loud, too much.

I don't know how I'm supposed to even want to fight it when it's been confirmed I'm well on my way.

Apologies for the epic length of this post. Gold stars to anyone who actually waded through all this crap. For now, pictures.

One of the nurses had a pair of bunny ears over the long weekend, and on Sunday, he even had a tail and a basket full of chocolate eggs to hand out to the patients. Mine are still sitting at my bedside. Funnily enough, he's the first male nurse who doesn't automatically scare the shit out of me. Everyone always comments on how well-loved my stuffies, Boo and Hazel (both gifts from my amazing Starsister) are. They're always shocked to hear I haven't had them since I was a baby.

And my collection of the world's handiest measuring cups/shot glasses is growing. I have 100s of them at home.

And I know hospital food gets a bad rap, but St John of God have always been a cut above. There's something about ordering and analyzing and dissecting the hospital menus that I just love. It's nearly therapeutic. I won't bore you all with pictures of bread and eggs, but here are some of the more notable things that've come up from the kitchen. I've also got a little stash of coffee and Vegemite and random bits 'n bobs in my bedside.
The biggest disappointment food-wise - a Caesar salad, though Caesar Cardini would be turning in his grave. I'm very picky with my Caesars. Unfortunately, this one had the wrong lettuce, plus grated carrot, tomato, red onion, and sardines.

xxBella

12.6

It was the longest five minutes.

I jumped up at my 5am alarm. I dashed down the hallway, went to the toilet, then lit a cigarette. 

I never could weigh myself without a smoke first.

The familiar white box peeked out from under the counter. Mum had pulled it out of hiding yesterday. 

I strip and rest my cigarette down on the counter. 

I step on the scales. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Thrice. 

43.7, 43.7, 43.7

Too much.

I don't much like to weigh myself these days. It does nothing but make me want for the number to be lower. I can run through it in my head without even stepping on the scales. 43 becomes 41, becomes 39, 37, 35, 34, 32, 30, 29... It's all a numbers game, and I know I can't win. It will never be enough. I will always need to be less. I will always be too much.

This is the first time I've weighed myself at home, first thing in the morning, looking at the number, properly weighed myself, for 18 months.

After so long of being kept up to date by my dietician, wearing the same weight of clothes and drinking the same amount of fluid every Tuesday morning for nearly two years. Though there's always room for error, I estimated I'd be around 43-45kg, so I wasn't far off. 'You've lost Xkg since June 2012' just wasn't doing it for me anymore. I needed a true update. I've tried to weigh myself several times over the last 18 months, but every time I chickened out, scared of what I'd see.

It's been a while since I've posted body-checking photos, though I still take them nearly everyday. I think it's because there've been no drastic changes to my weight for the last two years. But, since I'm updating on my weight and measurements, it seems like an appropriate time to post some.

An interesting note is that my bust measurement has gone up 1.5" in less than a year, even though my bra size and weight has gone down. It's the only measurement that's larger, most have gone down 0.5-1". I'm 99.9% sure that it's because of my lung disease, that I'm getting a barrel chest. 

(The rest of my measurements are updated here)

It's now 7am. I'm going to see the dietician in an hour. Then, I'll have to figure out the answer to the tough question. 

Where to from here?

I don't know. 

I just don't know.

xxBella

I saw my dietician yesterday afternoon, and my weight had dropped again this week.
I honestly don't know why she keeps seeing me.

I've told mum that I want to weigh myself at home soon, just once to see where I'm at, though I haven't mentioned it to my dietician yet. I don't have an appointment next week, but I'm back to my regular 8AM Tuesday appointments as of the 15th. I'm going to mention it to her then, and am planning to weigh on the 22nd before I see her, as well as a full set of measurements.

A little random, but I told my dietician how I weigh my clothes as to not effect the scales. All of the outfits I've worn to be weighed in for the last 7+ months, weigh within 10 grams of each other. I don't think she'd heard that one before!

I'm sorry I've been so absent. I keep trying to post, but I end up spending hours trying to write something, working myself into a frenzy and breaking down. I still feel manic, and I'm simply not functioning at all.

I'm feeling confident about my weight loss, though. I don't care if I lose 0.5kg or 5kg a month, I just want to be constantly shrinking.

xxBella

My hand is edging further up my arm

Hospital-free for a year

A year ago today, I left hospital for the last time (so far). A section had fallen flat on it's face, and I walked free. Since then, I've successfully dodged hospital and psychiatrists.

Since my first psychiatric inpatient admission at age 15, I haven't been 12 months without hospital (either inpatient at various units, or general hospital for ED-related issues). 2011 was completely hectic with six admissions in a year and two sections/Involuntary Treatment Orders. I've been counting down the days to my 'year without hospital'!

Last November and December, I had two admissions in a very short time. I'd had no more than one weak black coffee each day for two weeks, and on my presentation to Accident & Emergency I had blood sugar levels of 2.2 and very low blood pressure which were the cornerstones of my stay.

Room with a view
Looking out over Geelong, towards the bay

I was endlessly, constantly hooked to IVs - two lines at once in A&E. Dextrose, Potassium, Saline, Magnesium. They froze me from the inside out, the bags presumably stored next to the stephoscopes.

You've all heard of the horrible psychiatrist. I've written about what he said/did before, so I won't repeat it all here, but this was where he came in. He was always head-to-head with my endocrinology team, and they never agreed on a thing. My medical team were lovely, as were the nurses. They'd praise me for eating 1/4 of an English muffin for breakfast, instead of an 1/8th, while my psychiatrist would yell at me, getting angry and telling me I wasn't really trying.
"You're playing Brinkmanship"

My first admission was voluntary, for about a week and a half. The psychiatrist let me do my own thing mostly, and didn't really do much though I had to see him every day. One day, I told him that the endos wanted me to have more overnight dextrose drips. He protested, saying that he was putting it on record that he didn't agree with it, that it was like "giving a credit card to someone with a gambling problem". If I couldn't keep my blood sugars up myself, I don't deserve a drip. I discharged myself, my doctors warning me I'd be back within a week.

I was at the GP three times in five days before she sent me back to hospital, unable to walk more than 10 steps. I fought it the whole way, and the psychiatrist in A&E sectioned me. I cried, I wanted to go home. He told me I belonged in the psychiatric ward, and I cried more. The endo team fought him, saying I was too unstable (at this point, I had two IVs at once - I'd had to have them removed to go to psychiatric). The IVs stayed and I was put back on the medical ward under an Involuntary Treatment Order, en route to the EDU in Melbourne once a bed became available.

I cried a lot, and the psychiatrist yelled even more. The nurses were wonderful. They'd sit next to me and hug me while I cried about the horrible psychiatrist. Many of the nurses remembered me from the February admission, and it made me feel at home. I was wheelchair-bound of both admissions, and still had to have stable blood sugars to be wheeled downstairs for a cigarette. One nurse in particular, bribed me with going downstairs in my chair, if I ate a slice of toast so I wouldn't hypo off the wing.
"Do I have to eat the whole slice? Or just a quarter?"
"I think you should eat all of it."
On the second admission, the psychiatrist (wrongly) told me I couldn't leave the wing, whereas on my previous section I could if I was escorted. Sometimes the nice nurses would let me boyfriend wheel me downstairs on a 15 minute time limit, unbeknownst to the psych. I'd set a timer and hold on to the chair, and we would speed through the halls while I pre-rolled cigarettes.

 The story with the section? He had the weekend off, and was to organize someone to review me within 24 hours. Long story cut very short, he didn't. I was there for four days, sectioned. When he realized I hadn't been reviewed, it took a couple of days for him to figure out where I stood legally. Since I hadn't been reviewed, the section lapsed, and I walked free. Just like that.
"What's the plan?" I asked him, when he told me this
"No plan."
I discharged myself Against Medical Advice that evening, signing forms I'd never seen before.

It was a miracle, truly. I feel so lucky. It hadn't happened in the history of the hospital, to have a section 'lapse'. I was on my way to inpatient and force-feeding and 20kg+ weight gain, and I walked free. And I could keep starving. I'd never be so lucky for it to happen again, but I'm so grateful it did. It was the most amazing feeling, to magically be no longer sectioned.


And here I am a year later. Still running, avoiding doctors and hospitals and psychiatrists. Mum's said to me countless times, that I should be in hospital. But I never want to see a psychiatrist again, as long as I can help it. Fingers crossed I can keep having such a good run.

xxBella

...

I'm yearning to get this weight off.
I need people to stop telling me that I look healthy.
"Really healthy", even.

I always find that rings are a good indicator of weight loss. I was given a black diamond ring a couple of years ago, and when I put it on, it was a snug fit. I broke down, swearing that one day it would fit on my thumb. It did eventually, until it fell off and I lost it.

At the moment I only have one ring, and I haven't been able to take it off in nearly a year. Until today.
After so long of punching walls and the like, the knuckles on my right hand (several fingers and one on my  hand) are kinda deformed and mis-shaped. And one day early this year, the finger that my ring was on got injured (at the same weight I'd maintained most of the year). Ever since, I could pull and twist at my ring, but it wouldn't come over my permanently-swollen knuckles for love nor money.
Today, though, it just came off. And I put it on my left hand instead - it looks much nicer.

I'm not 100% sure that it's an indicator of weight loss, or just a coincidence. My knuckles still feel 'locked' and look strange, so I doubt that the problem's mysteriously fixed itself.
My weight had dropped for three weeks in a row, until last week when it stayed the same. However, I'm hoping that was just food/water weight, and it'll drop again this week. I'm having a slightly lower intake next week anyway, just for a 'boost'. I need my weight to go down now, and I need it to go down a lot. I just want to tear off my skin. I'm far too big, and much too much. Until no one can tell me I look 'healthy'. I won't stop until they do.
It's needs to go. I need to go.

No being productive today. Right now I'm sat in bed, procrastinating the massive amounts of lettuce I need to wash and dry.

Currently drinking anywhere between 4-5 liters (16-20 cups) a day, sometimes more. At least 3-4 liters (12-16 cups) of that is from black coffee. It's insane.

Beat the heat

It's 37 degrees today. Only a few days ago, it was 18. Sigh. Hypothermia to risking heatstroke all in a matter of days! Ah, Australia.

xxBella

Dear World: go away.

I've spent the past week avoiding everything. Hiding in my room, taking constant naps, curtains shut. Pathetic. I haven't cooked a proper meal in a week. Sigh.

So it's Tuesday. I've lost more weight this week, though I still don't know how much. Enough for it to be certain weight loss and a concern, apparently. "Hospital is looming" she says, if I keep losing weight. My dietican, mum and I all share the goal of keeping me out of hospital. However, they want to avoid the need to go to hospital. I just want to avoid it, regardless of need. If that means running and dying alone, so be it.

After she weighed me and we got back to her office, she looked at me and said "What do you think I'm going to say?", whereas normally she'd tell me if my weight's gone up or down. I spent most of the appointment in tears, still keeping my head down except for when she asks to see my eyes. I've always been horrible with eye contact. Of course since I've been hibernating, I didn't get my OBs done this week (cancelled Saturday's appointment). I feel so horrible every time I have to tell her that I still haven't seen a doctor.

There was lots of talk about hospital. She said if my weight keeps dropping, I'm gonna end up there again, and they're going to make me gain weight. Like I said, I'm avoiding hospital at all costs. I would rather die than have to face any of that again. I'm still exploring my options for moving out, and I really need to get onto it soon. The appointments tend to blur. There was lots of talk about OBs, doctors, hospital, weight. At one point she said "...unless mum takes you into Emergency to get OBs..." I sprung out of my chair and walked to the car in tears. My last GP gave me an ultimatum of "I'm calling an ambulance, unless your mum takes you straight to Emergency." I will not be cornered like that again. So I run.

Mum (who stays to wrap-up after I panic) told me that she still wants me to come back next week, even if I haven't had my OBs done. I just feel like a huge disappointment, I'm such a waste of her time. I told her that I feel like I need to lose weight, that my friend keeps calling me healthy, that I can't stop it. I'm just in a different place to where I've been the last 6 months. Que sera sera.

On an upside, I'm noticing physical differences from the weight loss already. My leggings are looser, and I have a new concave forming on my side/back that I haven't noticed before My fingers now overlap when wrapped around the very top of my thigh, so I guess that's something. And my shoulders feel less 'flabby' which is lovely. I think I'm noticing things like this quicker at a lower weight, maybe because there's less to get rid of.

Sorry I haven't been commenting all week, but I've still been reading everyone's posts. I'll get back on track with commenting tomorrow when I have a little more energy.

xxBella

Side - taken this morning

\Stopping running has been so worth it for
slimming down that muscle!

Floating

It's Friday. I still haven't made a GP appointment. I've just been floating through my days, still and numb. I think I'm more quiet lately. There's not really a point in saying anything. There's nothing to say.

I'm not sure what to do with doctors. I'm definetly not seeing either of the GPs I've seen before. At the same time, I don't really want to see a new GP because of all the goddamn talking. I tried to see a new GP last month, and I left in a panic attack after 10 minutes because she just kept asking why I was seeing a new GP. We didn't even get to the "what's wrong?". Mum had a suggestion, though. Basically, I'm always the first appointment at the clinic on Tuesday mornings (8:10am, every Tuesday, for 5 months now, and booked until the end of the year - lucky her) and the waiting room is empty. There's two GPs who work Tuesday mornings, though they usually don't have appointments first thing. So mum suggested that we could ask my dietician & the girls at the desk if one of the GPs could come in just to quickly check my OBs during my regular appointment. It's a possibility but it makes me feel like a huge bother. Pfft, like I'm not already.

I told mum that it was just pointless to do any of it. My intake's falling back and I need to get this fucking weight off. I said it wouldn't be long until my dietician said she couldn't see me any more, if I'm just gonna do this. It'd be a waste of her time and it's easier for me just to cancel my appointments now, so I don't have to see how disappointed she'll be. Mum disagrees that she'll stop seeing me, but I don't know where she gets that from. I guess I'll see what happens next week.


A little off topic: Misty (my cat) caught a bird yesterday morning - twice. Normally it's up to my brother (though it was originally my ex-boyfriend's job) to take care of birds & rodents that she might catch. He wasn't home, and it was just my mum & I. Last time this happened, we were on the porch and mum screamed "Misty's got a bird! Misty's got a bird!" and I just screamed back "I don't know what to do!".
Yesterday, though, I jumped up and started chasing her around the yard. I'd taught Billy (my dog) to "go get the cat!" when they'd be playing lately. So I got him to chase her, and we eventually caught her and pried the bird out of her mouth. It flew off, but an hour later she got it again. Same routine, and it flew off again thank God.

Anyway, after jogging after her for a few short minutes, my heart rate hit 180+ and it was pounding out of my chest. I am so goddamn unfit. Over 9 weeks since my last run and feeling weaker by the day. The less I move, the less I am able to move. Three months ago I was on my feet all day and running an hour every day, and now I have to sit down to prepare anything in the kitchen and spend most of the day in bed.


Like I said, I really don't have anything new to say. Everything is just "same old story". Boring babbling bullshit. Sorry guys.

xxBella

Lying Down Thigh Gap

Goodbye, calf muscle

My calves have definitely atrophied after a month of bed rest.

My left calf does still bulge when I flex it, but it's minimal, and it's like the bulge is moving further up towards my knee. You can't tell unless I flex, which is what I wanted. Unfortunately, it's not like I'm about to start running again tomorrow, which isn't what I wanted. I miss running so much. But at the moment my heart rate is still sitting at 140+ resting (it was in the 80s resting when I last ran), and I'm not feeling too strong right now. Either way, I think a lot of the reason I've lost weight this past month is due to muscle wastage in my legs/bed rest. My thighs have gone down a little too, but they weren't muscular to begin with.

It was also a nice sunny day the other day, so I put on shoes and took photos. 

Probably the most energetic I've been all month.

Bed rest legs & measurements

Yesterday was 4 weeks since my last run. Lost most of the muscle in my legs, though my left calf still bulges when I flex. I feel like they're still a lot bigger than they used to be at the start of the year, but the numbers say different. Also did my measurements yesterday, for the first time since I've started to up my intake. My weight is roughly the same (started 47kg/BMI 13.7), maybe a pound lower, but moreorless the same.

Neck 11.5"
Bust 27.5"
Waist 21"
Hips 30.5"
Upper arm (below shoulder) 9"
Upper arm (above elbow) 7.5"
Forearm (below elbow) 8"
Wrist 5"
Thigh (top) 15.5"
Thigh (bottom) 11.5"
Calf (below knee) 11"
Ankle 7.5"

I've lost 0.5" each from my bust, hips (I've always had big hips), upper arm (below shoulder) and calf (below knee), 0.25" from the bottom of my thighs, and 0.75" from the top of my thighs. So 3" total loss in the past four months. To my knowledge, these are the smallest measurements I've ever been. I'm 'smaller' now than I was at 43kg, and I don't have measurements for 41kg. I don't fully understand it, but I'm not complaining.

Will post with more of an update later, just felt like sharing this right now. Not a good day so far at all.

Leg comparison, and other photos

Hey guys. Tomorrow marks two weeks since my last run, and to be honest I'm going a little insane. I haven't gone this long without running in close to a year. Anyway, the reason that I've stopped running is to try to slim down my legs - specifically my left calf muscle. So here's a little bit of a comparison to try to keep me motivated.

Thigh gap September '12

Thigh gap May '12

Yes, it's an old compassion photo, but my body hasn't changed much since May/June (in weight or measurements). To be honest, I think I can see a bit of a difference. My calves are definitely slimmer, and maybe my thighs are a tad less 'bulky', but I can see the difference in my calves already. Sorry for the crappy photo quality - in both of them, really - but it's damn hard to get a straight-on leg photo when you're 6'1" (I nearly fell over, multiple times).

Flexing calves

My right calf has lost basically all of that 'bulge', but it didn't have that much to begin with. My left calf, of the other hand, is a piece of work. It's still progress, though. Hopefully I'll see that bulge slim down a little more at the one-month mark. I'm just so frikkin' over this muscle. It came up basically overnight in February, because I fiended my aerobic step and calf raises (to keep moving when standing still) way too hard, and bam! Muscle. Sigh. So once they're back to how they used to be (there's pics in one of my first posts, of my legs in January), I'm dying to get back into my low-impact, no-resistance elliptical training, and potentially some flat-track walking. I dunno, I'm just dying to move! But I f'ing want this muscle gone. I hate muscle. It is so foreign, they aren't my legs. I don't want to claw and scratch at them in disgust anymore. Ugh. Two more weeks, then I can run again. Just two more weeks.



xxBella

More pic-spam

Just some random pictures of me from the last couple of weeks... Wearing a belt that I last wore when I was 5 years old & one of my arm because I thought it looked thin. Sorry for looking so scraggly and derp - they were both taken straight after running.