D-Day

Over the last couple of months, there have been certain issues bubbling to the surface. On Saturday, everything came to a head.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to happen until I was inpatient, safe and supported.

I've been putting off writing for nearly two weeks now. Even in my journal, it took days of writing to get it out.

There have been a lot of trauma issues rearing their ugly head of late. Things from my childhood that I've never gotten help with, things I've only started telling people about this year.

On Saturday, disaster struck. D-Day. Everything came bursting out from a deep, dark place inside me, and tore everything to shreds. I'd spent most of the day crying. When I made a coffee to go outside for a some, mum came out and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was scared about going inpatient, about opening up about everything. I didn't want to hurt my family. I told her I thought I'd be better off keeping it to myself. After all, one person suffering is 'better' than all of us.

We ended up clashing about the abuse, again. She thinks I'm angry/blame her/have a 'hidden agenda'. I tried to tell her I'm not, but that I'm scared and don't understand.

After a while, she decided to ask said abuser about it. I blocked the back door with my armchair, and dragged the chimenea to the side gate to blockade myself in the backyard.

Things got messy. Apparently those years are a 'black hole' for him.

I climbed through the kitchen window, grabbing a couple of bottles of liquor, my bag of self-harm tools, and the rest of my week's meds.

Panicking, I stupidly cut my head, right near the top. I lost a chunk of my hair, and now have a mini mohawk. I held my hand to my head, and when I looked at it, it was dripping wet. I panicked. Mum panicked. I had blood running down both sides of my face. Mum passed a wet face cloth through the window, and when it started to slow, I moved my chair from the door and she came outside.

I spent the night crying and screaming “Why?!”. Everything had blown up and fallen apart


Backtracking a little, last weekend, I had a clash with mum over said childhood trauma
  “Why didn't anyone pick up on the signs?”
  “Why do you want to just stay in denial?”
  “Why did no one ever ask me if I was okay?!”
She told me to move out if I think she's such a horrible mother.

I raided my stockpile and curled up on the couch crying
  “I don't understand.”
  “It's all my fault.”
  “I need to go away and leave my family in their blissful denial.”
My fault for letting it happen. My fault for being too scared to tell anyone. My fault for being so selfish for now needing to talk about it.

I slept longer and deeper than I have in a long time. Usually, I wake up somewhere between 4-6am. If not, the sound of the kettle boiling when mum wakes up always makes me jump up. But the next day, it was after midday before I even stirred. The whole night before and that day was just a blur.


Yesterday, after D-Day, I awoke with most of my hair in a knotted clump. I had bags under my eyes like I'd never seen before. I felt sick. Scared I've destroyed everything with the truth. I soaked in the bath for an hour, washing my hair three times, plus a moisturising treatment, combing and trying to untangle it. Blood plus restless sleeping equals a mess. In the end, I had to cut a chunk of it. Even once cut, the knots were impossible to seperate. Now I have an emo side fringe.


After I last posted, that night, I had another laxative overdose, triggered by all of this mess. 116 this time. I know it's probably not a lot for some of the more regular users, but after not having misused them for years (before the other overdose in August, anyway), I have no tolerance for them anymore.

I wanted to avoid public A&E, as they were clueless and I didn't want to talk to anyone from their mental health team. I asked my brother to drive me in. I went to A&E at the private hospital, but was turned away.

I told the triage nurse that I'd taken too many laxatives. She asked if I'd done it before, and I said yes, about two months ago (6 weeks if you want to split hairs). She told me they don't have psychiatrist facilities, and I said I knew that, and I'm getting help, but I just needed help with the physical side of the overdose.

She went back to check with one of the senior doctors. When she came back, she told me the doctor said I couldn't be admitted, as they were obligated to take care of the psychological side too, and I needed a mental health assessment that they couldn't provide.

  “You're obviously upset, and you need to talk to someone. There's obviously something going on if you've done it twice in two months. I think you should go down the road to public and talk to someone on the mental health team. I'm really sorry.”

I went home. The night was rough. I found leftover painkillers and Buscopan to help with the cramps.


The next day, Wednesday 28th, I got an emergency appointment with my GP to get bloods done and check in after not going to A&E. I also had a double appointment with her on Thursday anyway. When I saw her, we talked about going inpatient at the Clinic for a little while. I was hesitant to put the referral through straight away, and she said to contact her this week if I wanted to go ahead.

It's been made clear to everyone that I'm not going to the Eating Disorders program. It's mostly to deal with the trauma issues, the flashbacks, nightmares, not taking my meds properly because I'm too scared to sleep, then stockpiling them to knock myself out when I get desperate, the self-harm, overdose urges...

My GP is all for it. When I tried going there earlier this year, I had a seizure in the waiting room and they couldn't admit me. But I've been cleared by the neurologist, my GP, my dietician, and I have a psychologist on the team now (granted, I've still only seen her the once). She also wants my meds to be assessed, as she's been in charge of them, with advice from a psychiatrist she consults, for years now. I'm worried they'll change everything and I'll lose my benzos.

It's not so much for active treatment as it is to stabilize me and keep me safe, as well as trying to work through some of the trauma issues for the first time, not to mention getting me back on track with my meds. It could be anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. I've not had a great track record with following though on admissions there - out of several attempts I've never made it past 24 hours. Even on medical wards for my COPD exacerbations, I'm not the best at staying put. I go in with the best intentions, but I get scared quickly.

Once the pain and discomfort of the overdose wore off, I was slapped in the face with all the reasons why I did it in the first place, the reasons why I need to go inpatient.


I finally saw the dietician last Tuesday (the 4th), after missing 8 weeks of appointments. I'm going to try to get in to see her tomorrow too.

After the appointment, as mum and I were waiting for the Uber driver, my GP came in. I'd had mum leave a message for her the day before, wanting to clarify a few things about the inpatient referral. She apologised for not calling back the day before. I asked if she could make sure the admission would be to a private room (sharing is just not possible, whether in medical or psych, I just can't do it), and was wondering if I could be referred to the psych who initially diagnosed with with C-PTSD when I was 16/17.

Unfortunately, his books have been closed for a year now. I told her I just wanted someone who understood C-PTSD, and wanted to avoid my old ED psychs. She said she could do that, and I didn't have to worry about my ED psychs, as one of them didn't work at the Clinic anymore, and understood I didn't want to see either of them.


I fucked up my first week of weekly dispensing, after being on daily for at least a year. I thought I'd skipped a couple of days of meds, as I tend to do. I couldn't remember if they'd been delivered on Friday or Monday, but figured it'd been Friday as they were sitting for a couple of days before I opened the pack. Seven day's of meds disappeared in four.

By Saturday (D-Day) morning, I found myself with no meds. Mum called the GP's office for me, and even though the only GP working wasn't anyone I'd seen, he thankfully faxed the pharmacist to authorize an extra three days of meds.

They disappeared in a day and a half, most of them the same day. Mum thankfully gave me two of her oxazepam (which we both take) to get through yesterday. I'm currently counting down the minutes until my new meds are left at the front door. I know my GP won't leave me without meds, so it kind of defeats the purpose of weekly dispensing. They could all go today (they won't, but hypothetically), and she'd authorize another pack tomorrow.


Now, life is a mess. The world is upside down. I'm even more lost than before, with no clues and no answers.

The referral's gone through to the Clinic, and now I'm waiting on a bed. I've got no idea when that will be, but being a private clinic, hopefully it shouldn't be too long.

I'm so scared. I knew it had to get worse before it gets better, but I don't think I can cope with things getting worse than they already were.

“In a flash, I felt something: disgust ... 

and certainty that we'd never be able to 

put this back together – even if we tried.”

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

Don'tCryDon'tCryDon'tCry, Don'tThinkDon'tThinkDon'tThink

It's been a few weeks since I've posted. Truth be told, I'm in a very deep depression at the moment, especially since the overdose incident. I'm barely functioning, getting through the days and precious little else.

I've missed so many appointments in the past two months. Two with the psychologist. One with the GP. With the dietician, I've seen her twice, missed four, and she's been away for two.

I'm not sleeping. The past four nights, I've slept about four hours each. Last night, I didn't sleep at all until a two-hour doze around 7am.

Mum keeps pushing me to do more and be more and move forward or move out. She doesn't even see the progress I've made recently. I've been off synthetics for nearly three months. My intake wasn't too terrible for a couple of months. But everyone thinks I'm making no progress. They all just get angry and tell me to move forward or leave them alone.

What more can I do? I'm so tired. No matter what you do in the life, you can never make others happy. That's one thing I'm slowly, and painfully, learning.

I'll never be good enough. I'll never meet everyone's expectations. I'll never be perfect and successful and happy and healthy.

Everything takes so much effort.

I want to sleep. I want to drink. I want to smoke. I want to OD. Yesterday I found myself eyeing the new box of laxatives. So tempting. What I wouldn't give for a few solid days of pain to stop the thoughts.

I'm losing hope. I'm scared to sleep. I wake up screaming from flashback nightmares. At the same time, I dread every waking hour. When sleep isn't an option, and neither is being awake, there's not exactly many other options.

“Today I felt like a ragdoll that has lost its stuffing.”
I saw my GP the week before last. Mum was away staying with friends for a few days, so my brother worked from home for the day so he could drive me in. Most of it was just going over the overdose, but she's really pushing me to get back to see the new psychologist. After the initial meeting, I ended up cancelling both of the appointment we had planed because it's just so far away, and especially until mum can drive again, I just couldn't do it.

Needless to say, my GP wasn't too happy.
  “I do have some rules, and both myself and the dietician could use the support.”
  “She needs to be part of the team.”
  “...and you did tell the mental health team in hospital that you were seeing a psychologist...”
Looks like my little white lie got back to her.

Between her insistence that I see someone who I really don't want to, and the fact mum told me the other day that she won't be driving me to appointments for much longer, I'm so close to just saying goodbye and going back to my bubble. Mum has always been the whole reason I started, and kept, seeing people to help with my mental health. Ever since I was 12, I've gone because I felt like I had no choice. When she started withdrawing support over the past year or so, I've started wondering why the hell I'm still doing it.

I don't want to talk to a psych. I don't make any progress with the dietician anymore – honestly, she's more like a therapist. I don't want people invading anymore. I don't want treatment or help or to move forward. I just want my GP and dietician to hold my hand and support me to try to keep things at the status quo.


Mum had more surgery last week. One of the wires in her elbow didn't hold, and the whole thing was just a mess. So she was in hospital for another two days while they fixed it up. The major impact on me I that it means another 6+ weeks before she can drive. I've already missed so many appointments because catching Uber, or even taxis, is so hard.

“I want to hide, from people, and life, and uncertainty.”
This week, I had been planning of ordering the last of the furnishings I need to set up my new sewing room and getting it all set up. But now I have some kind of infection building, and it's really kicking my ass, for nearly a week now. It started as a lump on the back of my ear (which I'm assuming is the lymph node). It gets bigger by the day, and a few days ago, I noticed the lymph at the base of my jaw is swelling too. Then, it hit my new navel piercing, which is now a mess.

Last night, the skin on the back of my ear started to break open. It's that swollen. For the past couple of days I've had a fever, chills, sweats, nausea – all that infection-y stuff. I'm seeing my GP tomorrow, but I just feel so run down.

A random little design I came up with

xxBella

Laxative Overdose

There's a first time for everything. Last week, I had my first laxative overdose.

It started on Tuesday. I was feeling down, and looking for support wherever I could find it. I was getting through the day relatively safely though, until he said it.

I was talking to A, and made the mistake of sharing old photos of me, pre-ED. I was at my set point, healthy, borderline underweight. For reference, my BMI would've been somewhere between 17.3-18.8. At the time, I was comfortable with my body, and logically, I knew I wasn't fat.

It makes me sick to even think of what he said, but long story short, he told me I looked like a cow.
Then, when I reacted, he tried to justify it as a compliment.

I stopped replying to his messages. I tried to talk to mum, but after expressing that it made me want to die, she walked out.
I talked to a couple of my friends from here. It helped, but nothing could stop the negative thoughts.

Then the pill popping got out of control.

I'd already had 4 earlier in the day.
I had the last 8 in the pack around 7pm after he said it.
By 8:30, I opened the new pack and took 100 Senokot (senna).

Now is probably a good time to mention that these days, I only use them when I legitimately need them, with the occasional 'emotional' use (which, I admit, has become more frequent in the past two months). But I haven't abused them for years, so generally speaking, I felt safe keeping them around.

I told myself that I deserved all the pain I would get. That it couldn't be worse than what I was already feeling.
And maybe, just maybe, it might make me less of a cow.

I popped ten at a time into a pill cup, counted them to make sure I hadn't dropped any (I'm paranoid about dropping any meds and having Bill or Misty pick them up), then swallowed them and popped ten more. I couldn't stop.

Before this, I think I'd only taken a max of 8, maybe 12, in a day. But I couldn't resist the urge to OD anymore, and it was either these or the other meds I've slowly been stockpiling.

I fell asleep curled up on the couch, repeating aloud
    “I'm just a cow and cows do not deserve to live.”
(Note: This is not entirely true. Livestock probably have more purpose and right to live than I do.)

One of the last things I saw before going to sleep was yet another message from A -
    “In what must be karmic payback, I just had a car accident,”
(Drama queen. He scratched his bumper while parking.)
    “That actually happened … I'm gonna give up and go home and forget there's a world outside my bed for me to fuck up.”


At midnight, I woke up. 'Cramps' don't even describe what I was feeling. I was in agony, and felt like my insides were ripping apart.

I grabbed the emergency container I keep under the couch for random bouts of nausea, and vomited up my stomach's contents in two almighty heaves. With a fever, sweats, chills, and my heart racing, I knew I'd fucked up.

I called out for mum. I couldn't move, I was in so much pain. I asked if she could grab me a bucket and some water.

    “What are all these pill packets from?!”
    “...Senokot.”
    “All of them? How many did you take?!”
    “I'll be fine. They're not that dangerous. I just need to stay hydrated and keep my electrolytes up, and probably have killer cramps for the day.”

I thought I'd be camping out in the hallway outside the bathroom with water and a sports drink, but mum wasn't comfortable with it because of the AN and my physical state. She wanted me to go to the hospital. I asked her to check if my brother was awake to drive me to Private A&E (she still can't drive), but as it was so late, their A&E was closed. I'd even been keeping $190 aside recently for their admission fee because I've been feeling so unsafe lately, I figured I'd end up in A&E for one reason or another.

I asked if she could just check with the Nurse on Call hotline first. She rang, and they weren't too sure what would happen, so they forwarded her call to Triple Zero.

The paramedics came out and checked me over. They didn't know what effect so much senna could have on me, so they decided to take me in. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and Boo, and got into the ambulance.

I always feel ridiculous taking up time from the emergency services for something self-inflicted, both with the paramedics and in A&E.


In A&E, they had to google senna. No one really knew what to do or what would happen. They decided to just play it by ear and try to manage the symptoms as they arose.

Over the next several hours, I had 3 litres of IV fluids until I could stomach starting to take fluids orally. They gave me various painkillers and things to help with the cramps and nausea, as well as slow down the digestive process, but nothing was helping with the pain and cramps.

I didn't get much sleep that night. I dozed on and off through the next day, between meds, OBs, IV changes, running to the toilet, doctors assessing me and nurses checking up on me.

Around 7am, someone from the mental health team came down to see me. I was nervous, but at least the Horrible Psychiatrist no longer works there (who was always a little too eager to section me, and scared me out of going to the public hospital for several years).

Everyone kept looking at my record and asking if I was sure I wasn't trying to kill myself. I told them it was just for self-harm. I felt too stupid and embarrassed to add that I thought they'd make me less of a cow (which I know is ridiculous because I know laxatives don't make you lose weight).

    “Do you take them daily?”
    “No – I haven't abused them for years. These days I just keep them around for when I actually need them. This was just... impulsive. Self-harm.”

They asked if I wanted to link back in with ED services, but these days I can just twist the truth a little (just a little). I told her I was seeing a dietician weekly, and that she was monitoring it, plus regular appointments with my GP and seeing a psychologist, even though I've actually only met the psych once. That seems to placate them without referring me for ED specific treatment. I might embellish a little, but it keeps me where I'd rather be.

By 8am, the nausea started to ease, and I had my first oral intake with a cup of coffee. But the cramps just kept getting worse. After 8 hours of trying multiple doses of two different painkillers, all to no avail, the nurse looked through my chart and returned with oxycontin.

Oxycontin.

Given my history, especially regarding substance abuse, I'm still surprised they gave it to me, but I guess that shows how bad the cramps were (and I have a relatively high pain tolerance). Even though I knew I'd get bad cramps, I wasn't expecting them to be as bad as they were.

Later in the morning, they gave me more oxycontin. Around 9am, they moved me from the main part of A&E to a 'short stay' bed, for those there longer than A&E but not long enough to move upstairs to a ward.

It was midday before the cramps started to ease, and then I just felt completely weak and drained. Exhausted, I revelled in being able to finally lie down straight instead of curled up in a ball, and dozed on-and-off for the next couple of hours.

Later in the afternoon, the doctor said I should be fine to go home soon. She said I should get some Buscopan from the pharmacy, that it was really good for cramps (and what finally helped, plus the oxycontin, but I knew I wouldn't be getting that at home), and to keep my fluids up.


I got home just before 3pm, completely exhausted and still feeling the effects of the senna. I asked mum to pick up some Buscopan, as well as Hydralyte, when she walked to the pharmacy to pick up my regular meds, plus requested a script for 500/30 paracetamol/codeine from my GP.

I spent the rest of the day drinking proper coffee after having instant in hospital, sorting out my usual daily notes, and trying to compile notes for my journal, not having the mental energy to actually write about the incident for a few days.

I went to bed early and just crashed, although I had to wake up through the night to run to the toilet and have more meds to deal with the painful cramps, which returned every 4-6 hours after the meds wore off, and continued for the next few days.


By the next morning (Thursday), I was mostly just passing torrents of water, and trying to keep myself as hydrated as I could. I had to run to the toilet three times in 5, maybe 10, minutes before I finally made it to my armchair with my coffee.

The rest of the day was spent just resting on the couch, watching movies and replaying the same old games I've played through a thousand times before, trying to keep myself distracted as I tried to replace the water I was losing.

I also saw the dietician that afternoon. After discharge, I asked mum to see if the dietician had any gaps for the next day, plus checking when my GP would be able to next see me. Thankfully, the dietician had a cancellation and we got a call around midday Thursday, although my GP couldn't see me until the following Wednesday.

I didn't actually make it to my regular Tuesday appointment with the dietician (the day of the overdose). Leaving the house is getting so much harder, and I couldn't bear the thought of catching another Uber that morning. Throat aching, tears falling, I stayed at home. 650 meters and 3 minutes' drive shouldn't be so hard, but it is.


The cramps started to ease across Friday, although they still came back whenever the meds wore off. By then, I doubt there was much left in me to pass, but I still seemed to be losing water as fast as I drank it.

It was a solid 72 hours until the physical side passed, and then on Saturday, I had to face the mental side of it. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. I felt so anxious, so disgusted, so sickened. I just wanted to call up in a ball and disappear. The overdose might've hurt, but at least I didn't have to face the mental and emotional pain for a few days.

I had extra PRNs throughout the day. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to feel. I just wanted my head to stop. To be honest, if I had more laxatives, I probably would've done it all over again just to escape this pain.

For now, I'm spending most of my time frozen on the couch, marathoning movies and Dr Phil. My heart's still poundingpoundingpounding. Everything hurts too much to even keep up with my notes – recording what I do, smoke, eat, goals, everything.

It was only yesterday that I started to process it all. The comment, the overdose, the time in hospital, the impact of it all. I spent a total of three hours journalling about it all, which took most of the day with coffee breaks in between. It's taken even longer to break it all down and write this blog post.

Now I'm just waiting for my digestive system to get back to normal. I'm still taking my fiber supplements each day with my morning coffees, resisting the urge to take more laxatives as I know it'd just start the endless cycle again.


I wish I could tell you that I've learnt my lesson, that I'll never overdose on laxatives again.
I am planning to restock, because sometimes you do genuinely need them with restriction.

But in my head, it just seems like a viable option or when I get the urge to overdose and/or self-harm. It doesn't feel as risky in terms of death compared to some of the other meds I've overdosed on, and it keeps the pain from self-harm lasting for days, blocking out everything else.

As for my 'friend' (and I use this term loosely), I am trying to cut contact, but it's hard. There's a worry that if I go AWOL, he'll call/text, and if I don't answer, may just turn up on my doorstep. But part of it is on my shoulders. Friends who I can actually see in person only come around once in a blue moon, so it's not the easiest thing to give up. Although, as my brother said (the only person outside of blogger who knows who said it, and now wants to skin him alive), that is not a friend.


On the upside, I think being told I'm a perfect cow has killed my appetite for a long time. There are no words for how disgusted I am with myself.

I held on to Boo, scared and alone, the whole time. As the nurses always do when I'm in hospital, everyone kept saying how well-loved she looks, and asking if I've had her since I was a baby. In reality, my Starsister sent her to me from the U.K. about 3-4 years ago.

Mini Milo - Boo - Hazel 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

Processing...

On top of the past couple of weeks being so busy, I've actually been a bit of a social butterfly (well, perhaps a caterpillar), which is rare for me.

First off, I've still not really had time to sit and think to process the appointment with my new psychologist, but I thought I'd fill you guys in a bit on how it went. I've been putting it off for months now, so I guess it's about time.

My GP took me to the appointment, picking me up and driving me home, on her own time, which I'm very grateful for. She was in the appointment with me for all but 10 minutes of the hour-long appointment.

She did most of the talking, which definitely made the 'getting to know you' part easier. I zoned out a little as she gave the psych a rundown of my history - big life events, diagnoses, past treatment, etc.. She gave her two letters from psychiatrists I've seen in the past, which made me majorly uncomfortable.

One was from my first psychiatrist, who I started seeing at the age of 12. He never really knew what was going on, and never really cared to know. He was just oblivious. On the way home, I asked my GP if I could see the letters at our next appointment, which she said is fine. She just thought they'd be triggering, but I'd rather know what this new psych's being told.

The psych told me a bit about herself, her history, what areas she's most interested in, that sorta stuff. To be honest, I'm not sure if she'll be able to help me. She doesn't specialize in any of the areas I most need help with, like EDs, trauma, or addiction.

To her credit, my GP told her straight-up not to push me about AN, that the dietician's monitoring me, and that they know pressuring me just doesn't work.

My GP left the room, and the psych asked me about things like the pets, sewing, baking... It felt so pointless, so tiring, that each word was an effort.

I told her I didn't really want to be there. That I don't know if I want help anymore, or if I can even be helped. That I just want everyone to leave me alone.

When I got home, mum had just gotten home from the walk that busted her arms.

I'm supposed to see the psych again this Thursday, but I really don't know if I'll go. Every two weeks might be a little much.

On the upside, my brother added mum and I to his Uber account, and he's going to cover costs of transport while mum can't drive. I can't express what a huge relief this is, as I'll actually be able to get to my regular appointments. I can't wait to see the dietician tomorrow.


Everything was too hectic to post about it last time, but on the day mum broke her arms, we'd gone out for coffee with my Great Aunt, Aunty D, that morning.

They've been going out for coffee each fortnight recently, partly to get her out of her house and routine. Usually it's been in busy places like town or shopping centers, which I just can't do, but this time they were going to a relatively new cafe in a quiet residential area, so I jumped at the opportunity to see her.

Earlier this year, my Great Uncle passed away. At the time, I had pneumonia which ended up triggering a COPD exacerbation, and was quite ill. I put off going to hospital in the hopes I'd be able to attend his funeral. Unfortunately, the morning of, I could barely move or breathe. Between being unable to walk even short distances, and not wanting to risk getting anyone else sick, it was decided I shouldn't go. I sat crying in A&E while my mum and brother said their goodbyes. The best I could do was post a message to the online memorial, and this was my first opportunity to see her since.

Mum and I got there early and found a table where I could hide in the corner. I was so happy when I saw Aunty D walking by the window.
We both got up to give her a hug, and she said  "It's so good to see you out and about!"

I ordered a long black, and they both had cappuccinos. There was only sugar at the table, but that's why I take my liquid stevia with me whenever I go out.

We were just going to have coffee, then mum suggested sharing a slice of cake between us. We went to the counter and looked at all the cakes and muffins and cheesecakes. Then, AD spotted an amazing looking slice, and announced
  "Let's just all have a piece of hazelnut slice each!"

It was like my grandma's caramel slice, but with pieces of hazelnut through the caramel base instead of crushed biscuits. It was indulgent, but I'm going to try making some of my own at some point.

We were there for over a hour. I mostly just listened, but I did tell her about my tapestry that I've been working on on-and-off for the past two years - 'Shearing at Newstead', by Australian artist Tom Roberts. I'm only about 1/4 of the way through, even after spending some 90 hours on it. Mum did a matching one years ago, called 'Shearing the Rams', but AD's lounge room is full of Australiana tapestries. Next time I see her, I'm going to take mine to show her what I've done so far.

I was actually a little worried that I might get emotional and start blubbering about Uncle, but the last thing I wanted to do was upset her, so I had extra meds beforehand and kept my mouth shut. Missing the funeral, I don't feel like I got closure. It didn't seem real, that he was gone, and in a way, it still doesn't. I worry about going over to her house and not seeing him or his armchair there. That could very well make me crack.

I'm not sure how often I'll be joining for coffee. It depends on where AD chooses to go, whether or not I'll be able to. Once mum's healed up, I want to go to the op shop AD volunteers at to do some rummaging, and of course, sit out the back and have a cuppa with all the lovely old ladies she works with. I haven't been there in years, or to any op shops, really.

Long Black and Hazelnut Slice

Then on Saturday, I woke up to a message from R, asking if I'd be free that evening to catch up for a few drinks. On top of everything else that's been going on, it was a bit overwhelming, but I figured the break would do me good. So I spent the day doing the whole bath/shave/pluck eyebrows/straighten hair/paint nails/makeup routine to try and make myself resemble a human being again.

I'll admit, I did have a few little glasses of wine before he picked me up, just to ease the nerves and make me more chatty. Social lubricant, and all that. I didn't drink much while I was there, though, and my tolerance for alcohol has really improved in recent months. Since I stopped smoking synthetics (six weeks today!), I've been having a few glasses to end the day once or twice a week.

Being out in the country has a certain peacefulness to it. It's so calm and quiet, it feels like a world away.

I had some pretty intense nightmares - they've been getting worse lately - but I just had an extra couple of PRNs, cuddled up to Boo, and tried to get back to sleep.

It was really good to get a break and not stress for 18 hours, though. Now I'm settling back into reality & routine, with busy days and little rest. I've been really reaching my limit the past few days, as far as increased responsibilities around the house go, and have had a few breakdowns and snappy moments.

I can push myself to try and do these things because I know it's only short-term. If I had to do this much work everyday for the rest of my life, I just couldn't do it. I have enough trouble with personal care, let alone housework, cooking, laundry, etc.. I can't wait until this 6-8 weeks is over.




xxBella

No Rest for the Wicked

It was only that morning, mum was talking about how life can change in a split second.

On Thursday, when my GP was taking me to meet this new psychologist, mum went for her walk to pick up my meds, a route she walks every day. 

When she was on the way home, she tripped over and injured herself quite badly. The worst of it was her arms, which she must've landed on awkwardly when she fell.

Nevertheless, she drove me in to my piercer to get my tongue web piercing taken out in preparation for my MRI the next morning - even if I had to reach over to help steer around corners and park the car as she couldn't without extreme pain (which was scary as hell considering my total driving experience amounts to 5 minutes some seven years ago).

Stubbornness runs in the family. She was going to wait until the next morning to get checked by a GP. Then I asked if we could try to pull her sleeves up to have a look.

Her left arm was swollen, but once we managed to get her right sleeve up, I was shocked. I don't think I've ever seen such extreme swelling before.

I took one look at her elbow, and said she really had to go into A&E that night. When my brother got home from work, he drove her in.

He dropped her off and came home, and told me they were doing x-rays and CT scans and whatnot. Just to be prepared, I went around the house and packed her an overnight bag to leave in my brother's car incase she was admitted.

It wasn't long before we were both heading in to see her, and take her the bag.

The doctor came in. After a couple of rounds of x-rays, we found out she'd fractured her right elbow ('split' it, is what they said), plus two fractures in her left forearm. At the grand age of 59, this was her first broken bone, and she managed to do both arms at once. She would need surgery on both arms, and was looking at a few days in hospital.

Feeling lost and unsafe in my own headspace, I asked A if he could keep me company. He drove down from Melbourne, and took me to my MRI the next morning.

Mum had her surgery on Saturday. After not hearing anything for some hours, I started to get really stressed, wondering if it was supposed to take so long, fearing that something had gone wrong. Around 6pm, my brother called the hospital to see what was going on. Her surgery was supposed to be in the morning, but it turns out they didn't start until 1pm, and we were told she was still in theater.

Time ticked on, and I got more and more frazzled. Around 7:30, I headed into the kitchen to get a drink and see what pills I had sitting around.

As I went in, the home phone rang. I've never been able to answer the phone, so I just sat by the answering machine to listen.

It was mum, so I picked up the phone, my voice shaky. The first thing she said was asking if I was okay.

She'd finally gotten out of surgery after 6.5 hours. All went well, and my brother and I went in to visit. Knowing she'd have been fasting all day, I put some homemade cottage pie and a bread roll in a container to be reheated, plus bagging up some peanuts and other little snacks.

She's got plates and pins now, and may even have more metal in her than I do.

Speaking of - I had to go back to my piercer on Saturday to get my tongue web jewelry put back in, plus a couple of other I was struggling with. Since I've only actually gone in twice in the past several years, I figured I'd make it worth my while, and got a second navel piercing (the other time I went in, I got my second nipple piercing).

My current piercing total sits at 19. It would've been 21 had I not had to take out the surface piercings on my hips, not to mention the multiple helix piercings I stupidly had done at the chemist before I was old enough to get them done properly, which never fully healed.

On Sunday, mum told us she'd be coming home that night. My brother and I visited in the morning, and I made her a cappuccino to take in. It was good timing, as we were both there when the occupational therapist came to talk to her about what she could and couldn't do at home.

The biggest limitation is that she can't lift more than 500 grams (1 lb), and no lifting with her right arm. When I got home, before she was discharged, I weighed all of the crockery and kitchen stuff that she uses. Anything over the limit, even her favourite coffee cups and bowls, were labelled with a "NO!", and I found lighter alternatives that I put a "Yes =)" on, so she wouldn't grab them out of instinct.

The other killer is that she can't drive for at least 6 weeks. Mum loves driving. She can't even supervise me as a learner. Running on such a tight budget, I can't afford to take taxis to and from every appointment. Realizing I wouldn't even have the dietician to talk to for weeks, I just started crying. I've not been coping with having so much time alone. My head is not a good place to be. Even now that she's home, she's been resting in bed so I'm by myself most of the time.

When she told me she'd be given oxycontin at home, I told her straight away to take my lockbox (with both keys) to keep them in. She's keeping the keys on her person, even if I help her with getting them out. A painkiller addiction or overdose is the last thing I need right now.

Her being so limited had put a lot of responsibility on me, which I'm struggling with. Even seemingly simple things like keeping the kitchen and dishes clean, feeding the pets etc.. I struggle to take care of myself, let alone someone else and a house. Someone will be coming three times a week for the next two weeks to help, but even with that, I feel like my head's about to explode.

Despite her saying she'd be living on frozen fish and chips for the next 6-8 weeks, I got my brother to do some shopping, and I spent the time she was in hospital making bulk batches of dinner meals. I've still got more cooking to do over the next week or so, but I'll be able to freeze everything, and it can all be eaten with just a spoon.

I'll post about the rest of my busy week in a few days. Amongst the chaos, I've barely even had time to sit and process the psych appointment or anything, so I'll try to write about that next time

I'm definitely putting off going out for dinner (maybe for 3 months off synthetics?).
I don't particularly want to go out again for quite some time.

xxBella