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

I've Lost my Fear of Falling

Next week, I'll be seeing the dietician for the first time in... about three months, I think. It's been hard. Before that, I'd been seeing her every Tuesday at 8:10am for five years. I've only seen her once since I lost transport, and that was because I had to see my GP to dress my pressure wounds from a hospital admission, and I managed to sneak in an appointment with the dietician at the same time (evidently, only physically injuries are worthy of helping me get there).

My GP's such a dear. She's going to pick me up and walk me to and from the appointment, all in her own time. We've done two walks on home visits so far – once just to the corner of the block, once just under halfway to the clinic. I've got to admit I'm nervous. Partly because walking around in public is one of the biggest challenges with my agoraphobia, and I haven't walked that far in years (excluding the occasional quiet bushwalk).

The other factor is that I also really don't want to get on the scales, but I'm worried she'll want to weigh me having been so long. I just don't want to be weighed and monitored any more. It's just stressful and pointless at this stage.

For the past week or two, I've been feeling awfully sick whenever I consume solids. It's like a cross between nausea, cramps, and heartburn. I've only been eating a small dinner so I can have the first part of the day without feeling sick, but I'll wake up two or three times a night with my stomach screaming at me.

I had a strange incident on Friday. Mum woke me up at 11am, thinking I'd overdosed as I never sleep that late.

I have to stress – I hadn't taken any extra pills or smoked or anything like that. But I was completely out of it. And I have no idea why. I was confused, panicked, crying hysterically, unsteady on my feet... I ended up having one smoke and a few sips of coffee before going back to sleep.

When I woke up again three hours later, I felt fine. It's a complete mystery as to what happened that morning, but mum later told me that she was about to call an ambulance, as it took her 10 or 12 tries to wake me before I even opened an eye.

Then, on Saturday, I had one of the worst breakdowns I've had in a while. Just the usual crap – crying about being worthless, useless, a failure and a fuck-up. After beating myself up, both mentally and physically, I went into the kitchen in a fury. I destroyed a heap of food, throwing the packets on the floor and stomping on them, throwing tubs of yoghurt in the sink. It was... not my finest moment.

A couple of hours later, I lay on the couch and took the stash of meds that I technically was not supposed to have. Judging from what I took compared to previous overdoses, I was expecting to probably wake up in hospital again. Before I passed out, I locked and hid everything self-harm or overdose related, and this time hid the keys where no one could find them, just in case. I've only just finished replacing everything after my last overdose, when the police found the keys in a drawer and confiscated all of my tools and meds. Since a lot of the time I'm still actively self-harming and being generally non-compliant by the time the ambulance gets here, they always seem to be accompanied by police these days.

Amazingly enough, I still woke up early the next morning, at home, with no emergency services. I was just a little wobbly on my feet and uncoordinated, and all I could think was regretting wasting my stash on a failed overdose.

To end on a positive: 

Over the two weeks between May 15th and 28th, I had six nights off drinking, which is better than I've done in a while. Given, I did smoke for a couple of those days, but hey, a win's a win. If I can stick to roughly every second night instead of every night, I think that's my goal for the moment.

With any luck, I should be able to get a new laptop in the next month or so, which will make it easier to keep up with blogging (mine died just before Christmas, so I've had to rely on when I can borrow Mother Dearest's computer).

The Aftermath...

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

Christmas 2016

YChristmas has finally come, and more importantly, gone. It was a mostly uneventful day. I'd had another terrible night's sleep and was up at 2am, and despite trying to get back to sleep, my head was running and I just couldn't.

I've taken charge of organizing food for Christmas for some time now. Due to last year's breakdown on Christmas Eve, involving the raw garlic and thyme roast chicken I'd just just stuffed and trussed being thrown across the kitchen, followed by a mini overdose, my mum does not want me cooking my signature roast any more. Looking back at my old journal, she told me the next day that the only reason she didn't call an ambulance was because it was Christmas Eve. It was not my finest moment.

Mum never really made roasts. We'd usually get a pre-cooked roast chicken from the supermarket the day before and reheat it as she threw some potatoes in the oven. There was never really anything special about our Christmas lunch/dinner, or the day in general. But having made extravagant spreads for the past six years, it had started to feel special to me. I would spend a week preparing and baking and cooking, and even longer planning.

This year, I still wound up doing most of the food prep. By 5:30am, I was in the kitchen, preparing the menu mum had planned. I was even grinding coffee and whipping cream, and somehow managed not to wake anyone with the noisy appliances.

By the time the family surfaced, everything was ready, and all I had jkmmymmmmmmmmmmmto do was warm the croissants in the oven and cook the pancakes. The table was set, condiments were out, everything was taken care of.

Before cooking, I did presents.u I gave my brother a to et 18 Year Old scotch, and a leather band for his FitBit to match the more professional image he's been cultivating. He doesn't drink often, but he does like his scotch. To my surprise, he had a glass at 10am as I was finishing breakfast. For mum, I gave her a weather station, which is already getting great use in a household of weather watchers. I also managed, through the power of the internet, to source a vintage bottle of Yves Saint Laurent Opium, which was her signature scent until they changed the formulation a few years ago.

Personally, I didn't get anything. But, as my laptop died a couple of weeks ago, my brother has offered to put in for a new one as my present, so at least that's one less stress. It was just horrible timing having just drained my savings on things for my sewing room and Christmas.

As for food? For brunch, we had ham & cheese croissants and pancakes. For dinner, we had a mini indoor BBQ – just sausages, burgers, and steak. I also made chocolate truffles and caramel slice a few days in advance. I did eat some of it, though I'd be lying if I said the majority of my calorie intake didn't come from alcohol.

I got a text from the dietician on Friday, wishing me a Merry Christmas. It made my day. I know they say emails etc. have taken the magic and personality out of sending cards, but to me, it was still special. I'm eternally grateful that she gave me her mobile number. I didn't see her last week, and they were closed this week, but I'll catch up with her next Tuesday.

All in all, there was no major disaster on the day, unlike previous years. Maybe next year I'll be allowed to cook my roast, especially after still doing all the cooking this year.

It was only the next day that things really started to go downhill, something that still hasn't lifted.

Mum left in the afternoon for an impromptu overnight trip to surprise her friends. I shut myself inside, closed the curtains and doors. I revelled in being able to smoke cigarettes on the couch.

I went overboard with exercise. Across three sessions, I did two hours of walking laps around the house. Just like I did in the Clinic, albeit a much smaller loop. Even at 11pm, I kept going to burn off everything I'd eaten. The next day, I walked for two hours again. Since that first day doing loops, I've been making it to 10,000 steps a day, which isn't the easiest thing while confined to the house.

After walking, I spent most of the day gaming. I started getting distressed, and over the day I took 9.5 oxazepam. I slept a lot. I couldn't keep my eyes open, but I justified it to myself as keeping me safe.

Recently, my head's started planning another overdose, despite my GP's lecture. Laxatives have been on my mind a lot lately, with strong urges nearly every day. I can't stop the intrusive thoughts, and it feels like it's only a matter of time. I think about the oxazepam stockpile that's slowly been building due to missed dosages here and there. I was in ICU after 20 oxazepam, and I have just as many in my stockpile. I don't want to risk my GP refusing to prescribe them any more, though.

Yesterday, I was having constant thoughts to overdose and self-harm. I was tossing up between drinking or exercising to keep myself distracted. Result? I did both. I walked laps of the house, listening to music with a glass of red. I drank half a bottle and was quite tipsy by the end of my 45 minute walk. I never drink that fast. Maybe I should walk and drink more often.

I've been drinking less recently, which I suppose is a good thing, except for the fact it has been a huge part of keeping my weight stable the past 6 months or so (although, admittedly, that is one of the reasons I've cut back). After I stopped smoking synthetics (6 months, 3 days, and counting!), I started drinking two, three times a week or more. Now, I'm down to once a week, and when I do, I drink a lot less than I was. This week I've admittedly been drinking more, although hopefully I'll get back on track in the new year.

There's no doubt that my stresses, with food and weight, the OD & SH urges, the trauma issues, have gotten worse since Christmas, despite the day itself going relatively smoothly. I don't even know why exactly. Maybe the fear of a new year? I really don't know.

I hope that you all managed to get through the holiday unscathed, and maybe even enjoy it.

See you in 2017...

Chocolate truffles, plus a few random things mum grabbed  from the confectionery store (the only one that particularly  interested me was the peppermint creams).   Sho  Brunch   Dinner   As it was a toasty 38°c, I drank Midori and lemonade (sugar-free, of course)  through the afternoon. I did have some wine with dinner though,  and a small Black Russian for dessert.

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

Still Alive

2016 is not a good year as far as health and hospital goes.

I've lost count of how many ambulances and trips to A&E I've had, but it's definitely a new record. 

Six months ago, the closest I'd been to an ambulance was patient transport and a couple of paramedic call-outs that didn't require transport. In previous emergencies, it's been quicker to drive the 5 minutes to hospital than to wait for overworked, understaffed paramedics. But between seizures and self-harm and smoking and starving, I've had at least 6 emergency ambulance rides this year, with two in the past three days.

The first was on Friday. I'd been messing with my meds and literally attacking - not just self-harming - myself with steak knives. Mum went for a walk, and as soon as she left, I deadbolted the doors and grabbed a knife and my stash of razors and tore my arms to shreds, stabbing, slashing, slicing, and emptied the medicine cabinet. I don't think I've used knives before, but it seems to be my current weapon of choice.

The whole day was just a mess. I pretty much had to beg mum to call someone since I can't talk on the phone and I needed to see my GP. I texted the dietician saying I was mid-crisis and asking if she could please contact my GP to phone mum. Mum wanted to call either an ambulance or her psych, but no one for me. When I told her I'd texted the dietician, she called my GP herself, and I went in to get my wounds dressed and have a chat.

It was only the day before I had to get dressings for more self-harm. On Friday, I saw her around 11am, and she gave me extra meds to replace what I'd taken, but they didn't last the day. I actually asked if she could give me any sort of sedative just so I wouldn't do more harm and wouldn't be so distressed, but there wasn't anything she could give me. 

At home, the day just kept escalating. I was cutting and hitting myself more and more, absolutely hysterical, crying and screaming. Not my finest moment, by far. Two knives snapped clean off their handles. Mum got tired of putting up with me so she went out for a drive.

I locked the doors, wrote a short note (in case of emergency) and emptied the (sparse) medicine cabinet. 

I'm still on daily dispensing, but I ended up taking two days of lorazepam, oxazepam and seroquel, plus a couple of day's worth of leftovers I hadn't taken this week because I'd been smoking and sleeping so much. I also took random painkillers (ibuprofen and 500/30 Panadeine) and leftover cold & flu meds just because I wanted to hurt myself. I've not used painkillers or codeine for self-harm in a long time, and I have to say, it scared me. I was also supposed to have my MRI later that day, but obviously it didn't happen. Partially because my GP gave me an extra 3mg lorazepam for it, but I'd scoffed them down as well. 

Around midday, mum and I started seriously clashing. By 1pm, I'd taken nearly a whole week's worth of meds. This was the third day in a row I'd overdosed to some extent. I had too many leftovers I didn't take from daily dispensing. We don't keep much in the house, for obvious reasons. Even basic painkillers are kept hidden from me. 

Mum got home and saw the carnage.

"Oh, Jesus!"

She called my GP straight away. She suggested calling an ambulance, and since I was so distressed and actively self-harming, it's protocol for the police to come too. 

Next thing I know, the house was invaded with not one, not two, but seven strangers - 3 or 4 cops and 3 ambos. It was absolutely terrifying. Obviously lunchtime during the week isn't an overly busy time. I should note: guests stopped being welcome after a particularly horrific assessment by the emergency mental health team several years ago. That was the final trigger, and I've barely let anyone in the house since.

I hid in the garage, in the car, with all four doors locked. Head in my hands, eyes closed, crying, I just kept saying "Please just leave me alone." 

The police all had cans of mace in their hands, ready to go. Given some of the shit I've done over the years, this was actually my first encounter on the other side of the police.

In the end, I had no choice. I could either go willingly with the paramedics, or go in the police car. I told them I wasn't harming myself anymore (true) and just wanted to lie down and cry. Since when is depression a crime?

"Well, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

In the ambulance, I mentioned my GP, who shares a first name with the Horrible Psychiatrist. The ambo with me asked "do you mean the Horrible Psychiatrist?" and I totally freaked. But it turns out he no longer works in A&E, which takes a lot if the fear out of the public emergency room (the private hospital, where I go for COPD exacerbations, doesn't do psych). 

At the hospital, I turned out my pockets before going inside. I'd accidentally left a razor in my pocket, and sliced the tip of my finger. I spent from about 1-4pm in A&E, but ultimately left without a fuss. I'm not quite sure how I managed to escape even just a 72-hour hold after pressing a knife to my throat twice in three days. Probably only because I'm meeting this new psych soon, and have regular appointments with my GP and dietician.

At home I had a little bit of chicken and rice and polished off my last bottle of red, knowing it'd be coming back up anyway and desperate to get out of my head. Today's the first day I haven't thrown up everything I tried to eat as soon as I swallowed it. It's like my body knew I was poisoning it, just from that one lungful of smoke. 

Saturday was probably the worst day in my head, although it didn't last long, and I managed to avoid the emergency room. 

I had a big mess this morning. You know how I smoke those legal synthetic cannabinoids**? Never ever again. I scraped down all of my containers to find traces of powder for one tiny smoke that morning, since I had no actual meds left and was desperate. I either mixed the wrong trace chemicals or plastic/metal scrapings or something, because within a minute I'd fallen over and dropped everything I was carrying. 

Mum found me sat on the kitchen floor with my trackies around my ankles, talking utter nonsense. I didn't know where I was or what was going on. She asked me something, and I told her to check with J (my non-abusive ex). This was bizarre. Mum screamed "That was over four years ago!"

Thankfully it doesn't last long before it starts to wear off, so I avoided mum calling another ambulance, and was back in my head within 15-30 minutes. But I'm never touching those chemicals again. I've said that before, and they've nearly killed me before, but I think this is it for good.

I went to the bathroom and turned the cold tap on full blast, folded up my towel to give me some padding to sit on, and emptied all of the ice cubes from the freezer into the tub. I sat clothed in the bath until it was about halfway full when mum convinced me to get out. Then I went into the kitchen and pulled the bottom three drawers out of our upright freezer, then sat in and pulled the door shut with about an inch open. That's also a new one. 

I'm also getting scarily good at suddenly turning cold and saying calmly to mum "Oh, but I'm fine!" with a shit-eating grin. She did call for help, but my creepy calmness meant there was little they could do. 

Yesterday (Sunday) involved more police and paramedics, and was probably a worse situation than Friday.

The morning went okay. At midday, I asked mum if I could please have privacy to eat my 170-cal cheese & Vegemite sandwich, as the lounge is the only room I eat in. I spent 25 minutes nibbling  at it, trying not to throw up, and it was over. Mum came back in, because I had apparently had more than enough time, but I'd not even made it through the third quarter. 

I lost it. I was darting around the house screaming

"You don't want me to eat, you just want me to die and then you'll be happy."

I threw out most of my food and semi-trashed the kitchen. 

I locked the back door with the only key, threw it into the garden, and gussied up all of my strength to drag the heavy chimenea in front of the side gate to stop anyone coming through.

I gave Billy a hug and cried "I'm sorry, I can't do this, I love you."

Next thing I know, I've got three cops staring out the kitchen window at me, then coming around the side gate with the paramedics. Three of them watch and try to talk to me while the rest scour the yard for the key (the only key). 

They ask if I have blades or knives. I say I do, and reach for one to give up, and he grabs my arm. I try to stand up to get my purse of razors from behind my armchair cushion. And he grabs my arm again. 

The other day, they just asked me for my sharps and turned out my pockets. This time, although I was much calmer, I got a full bloody frisk for the first time in my life. I wasn't even allowed the safety pin to hold up my trackies, or the disposable chopstick holding up my hair.

I kept telling them I'm fine, I just want to be alone, I just wanted to eat my sandwich in peace, I'll be fine, just please leave me alone and tell her to let me eat my sandwich.

It's scary how strongly I believe I have a right to self-harm or die if I want to. 

My new favourite line seems to be

"It's no one's business if I want to hurt myself, it's not illegal, if I want to die, it's my body."

Then they throw the 'duty of care' line.

Damn.

"I just want to be alone and lie down. I'll be fine if I can just lie down quietly."

"It's too late for that,"

Again, "we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

The policewoman held my elbow as I took the walk of shame out to the ambulance, crying with my hand covering my face. Mum says she wouldn't notice emergency vehicles parked outside houses in our neighbourhood, but I know I sure do - especially when it's an ambulance and two police cars, one of which was parked right outside the neighbour's window, and especially if it happened multiple times in a week. As if I'm not the neighbourhood freak enough as it is. This is why mum parks in the garage and I won't go out to the street to get in the car for appointments.

"I'm not a horrible person" I cry to the paramedic, trying to convince myself it's true.

In the back of the ambulance, I apologize for wasting their time and money and resources. 

I texted the dietician again from the ambulance. I told her I was sorry for texting again, but I'd fucked up again, and mum doesn't want anything to do with me and that I was just totally lost and alone. She was wonderful, and asked me to go see my GP the next day with mum to make a plan. 

I sat alone in the bare interview room of A&E crying, scared and alone with the police guarding the door, watching to make sure my multiple school friends that work there wouldn't see me in such a state.

Stomach acid and bile kept coming up. Eventually someone from the mental health team came to talk to me for an assessment. Mum never came in, and I dreaded the conversation when my brother came to get me, so I babbled randomly on the drive home to avoid a conversation I desperately didn't want to have. 

And that brings us to today. This morning was rough, with another meltdown full of self-harm and locking myself in the backyard so no one else could get to me. I got a text from the dietician first thing, again asking me to make an appointment to see my GP. When mum called to make an emergency appointment, she was booked out, and instead I saw the nurse for dressings, as they didn't do them in A&E yesterday.

When my GP came in to have a quick look, I asked if I could go on her cancellation list to possibly see her before Thursday, but she said no.

"I'll just see you on Thursday."

As soon as we reached the car, the mental health team from the hospital called for a follow-up,  and were worse than useless. For the first time ever, I'm begging, pleading to talk, but no one cares to listen. This is my comeuppance for not taking the help that was offered for so long, for keeping my mouth shut for so many years.

At home things just got worse. I needed so badly to talk to my GP, and her refusal to put me on the cancellation list drew me to the conclusion that she must want me to die so she doesn't have to deal with me any more. Took the whole day's worth of meds, slept, and here I am now. It's nearly 10pm, and I've spent most of the day writing this post.

After smoking synthetics on-and-off for a little over 6 years now, it's not the first time I've had a scare. They've nearly killed me more times than I can count. But I think this is it. I'm done. If I touch them again, I hereby give you all permission to bitchslap me until I come back to my senses. 

For the next week, I intend to do nothing but lay on the couch watching silly movies, writing in my journal and trying not to think.

Tomorrow, I see the dietician in the morning. Then on Thursday I'll see my GP, and hopefully work out where to from here.

A lot of this is very embarrassing, but I've got nothing to lose. If my experience in the last six years of synthetics hell can some day be put to good use, help legislate against them, or even just in research, I'll be happy. Nothing can make it 'worth it', but I really hope at least one of you read this and think twice before trying it just because it's not technically illegal.

Apologies for going AWOL again, especially for so long. Everything's a bit of a blur. Most days I couldn't even bring myself to open Blogger, but I think I'm all caught up now (although I haven't had the energy to send as many comments as usual). My memory of the last week is very fuzzy. I've tried to piece it together as best I can by looking at dates and times on messages I sent, notes I scribbled and asking mum questions. I've tried to post for the last few days, but more and more crises have kept popping up.

And an extra special thank you to my two lovelies who were constantly spammed with my panicked messages over the past week or two - my English Starsister and my Bahraini Sweetheart - especially at the times when my family weren't there. The dietician will be getting a massive hug tomorrow, too.

** I don't talk about my smoking a lot, mostly because it's a very complicated issue once synthetic chemicals are involved, but I did write a bit about my experiences after they gave me my first seizure. 

The offending cheese & Vegemite sandwich (170 cal)
I managed to eat a little less than 3/4 before the defecation hit the oscillation
(Sunday)

Never let anyone tell you that instant coffee (black with liquid Stevia - no funny business)
doesn't add up to anything significant

Backward handwriting skills are on point, though
(Friday, before the first 000 call out)

In A&E
(Friday)

Sat alone in the interview room with police by the door
(Sunday)

xxBella

Bushwalking and Baking

It's been a while since I've gotten out and about in the great outdoors. So when my brother mentioned heading out to the You Yangs for a walk this weekend, I decided to keep him company and go along. It has been over a year since I've been on a decent walk (this sounds terrible, but I just don't get that much walking in around the house).

The three of us headed out, and spent a little over 90 minutes doing a trail walk. Mum threw in the towel at halfway, and waited for brother and I to come back with the car after we were done.

And for once, I actually managed 10,000 steps in a day! Most days, I'm lucky to make 500.

I've also done a bit of baking this week, for the first time in ages.

In hospital, most days there would be fresh scones for either morning or afternoon tea. When I got home, I found I really missed having my scone with jam to look forward to, no matter what the other meals may be like. As far as baked goods go, scones are probably one of the least scary, so I decided to keep them as an occasional part of the plan.

I bought a few scones from the bakery for the ease of having nutrional info provided, while I brainstormed how to get an accurate count on homemade ones. Kneading, sprinkling with flour, even just touching dough, all make an accurate calorie count difficult. Then I had the brainwave to use our Magimix food processor. I could weigh all of the ingredients straight in, dump the dough out onto a baking tray, and just pat it together gently with gloves on to shape it, and I could weigh all the dough that got stuck to the food processor, gloves, knife, etc..

I also made ANZAC biscuits, which went down very well. For you non-Aussies (a.k.a, 99% of you), ANZACs are popular biscuits dating back to World War I (supposedly sent to soldiers by their wives) made with oats, flour, coconut, sugar, butter, and golden syrup.


Tomorrow is ANZAC day. I was considering going to a dawn service for the first time, but given my lack of outings in the past couple of years, it might be a bit full-on with all the people (tempting as it is to drink booze at dawn).


xxBella