Cat Distribution System

Misty’s prescription food sat on the cabinet in the entryway, as the weeks turned into months. One of the final lingering momentos of her illness.

It had been the hub of supplies when she was sick. The leftover medications had been disposed of, the syringes for her hourly feeds packed away among first aid supplies. The array of regular foods, bought in the neverending quest to find something she would eat, had been given to Sephi. But the prescription foods, designed specifically for oncology patients and syringe feeding, remained.

I always knew where I wanted to donate it. The organization who took care of both Misty and my late dog Billy when I was in temporary housing, back in 2018/2019. They help vulnerable people - the homeless, the elderly, the disabled, the sick - to take care of their pets. I felt that they would be sure to get the specialty food where it was most needed.

Even as I packed in preparation to move house, as the landlord was planning to demolish the one I had lived in for the past two years, the food still sat there. A week before the move, I finally contacted the organization, asking if they would be able to take the donation. Then, with my support worker S, we made the 35 minute drive to drop it off.

It was hard. It felt very final. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. While we were there, the strangest thing happened. As we chatted with the staff - about Misty, her illness, about Sephi - another staff member came out, and immediately asked if we were there to meet Zazu.

I’d seen him before on their Facebook page, an orange boy looking for a home. But I was not planning to meet him. It was too soon. But as they talked excitedly about him, I began to come around to the idea of just a quick visit.

“Maybe we can do a detour to give him some company for a bit, since we’ve already come all this way.”

And off we went to their cattery. During the short drive, I told S to not get too excited, that I was not going to be adopting him, that it was too soon, and that I was moving the next week, and I just wanted to visit him. But when I did meet him, my heart melted.

We sat in the play area with him for an hour, running well over our scheduled support time. This beautiful little guy was still so happy, despite his circumstances. He was playful, loving, incredibly sweet. As we left, I asked the staff what the process would look like if I was looking to adopt, which I wasn't, and an application form fell into my hand.

It was a long process. After the application, there was phone calls, then a home check, and finally a two week trial before permanent adoption. On top of moving house, the person who did the home checks was away, so it was a few weeks before that could even happen. So for four weeks, S and I went to visit him twice a week.

The staff told us on that first day that he takes a while to warm up to people, and that he prefers to hide away. So, on the second visit the following day, I almost cried when he walked up and climbed into my lap, flopping down and purring. That was when I knew.

I was not planning to bring in another cat so soon. I wanted to wait at least a few more months. If the adoption for Zazu didn’t go ahead, I would’ve waited longer. But for him, I had to. I felt that we needed each other. 

Miss Sephi had developed some behavioural issues after Misty passed. To cut a long story short, on the rare occasions that I would leave the house, she would become aggressive when I got home, growling and hissing, biting and scratching. She was not coping with being alone. She was put on medication, just for those days I left the house, and over time, it helped. 

After the move, she had been a perfect sweetheart. She no longer needs the medication. She hasn’t hissed or scratched once. I feel like the change of environment was good for her. Perhaps she wasn’t ‘expecting’ Misty to be here. This made me a lot more confident in bringing in a second cat, as I was unsure if I could while she was having issues. Maybe a new friend will even be good for her. I still had a phone consult with her vet first, just to get advice on bringing in a second cat. But it has been going well. They are not best friends yet, but they are tolerating each other, which is as good as can be expected.

Adoptions are not in this organization's MO. They have only ever adopted out a couple of cats. So when the timing lined up for me to have to donate Misty’s food, and Zazu having just been listed for adoption days earlier, perhaps it was just meant to be.

There is not a great deal known about his history, and what is known is quite sad. I’m not sure if I should share it here, for the sake of his previous human, but I will say that he has had quite a journey to get to where he is now. He's around three years old - a little younger than Sephi, who will be five in a couple of weeks. It took six months living at the cattery, with their care and love, to rehabilitate him to the point that he could be adopted.

I just wanted to give him the safe and happy home that he deserves, and I feel truly honored that they agreed I was a good match for him. When they came out to do the home check, they immediately said that they had seen the photos of me with him (S insisted on showing them), and that the visit was just to tick the boxes, because they already knew they were going to give him to me.The day I brought him home was the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. Contented.

Happy New Year to everyone in our little blogosphere. I’ve been trying to stay up to date with reading, but my reading list page seems to be broken, making it difficult. It shows a couple of regular posts, and then jumps back to posts from 9 years ago, and longer, no matter how far I scroll. (Is anyone else having this problem?) Hopefully it is fixed soon.

See you all in 2025.

That first time he sat in my lap
He is a long hair, but had a hair cut a few days after I first met him.He was very matted, and was not tolerating being brushed.He's still a cutie, even if he looked a bit goofy at first.
Settling in at home
When Misty eventually returned home




xxBella

There is nothing permanent, except change

This post is long overdue, but as it tends to do, life has kept getting in the way. 

A couple of weeks before Misty got sick, I had my 31st birthday. And for the first time since mum passed, I actually did something. 

For the past few years, my birthdays have been much of a non-event. I used to enjoy going out for dinner with my mum and brother, although we only did it for a few years. But it became something that I really enjoyed.

There’s a new-ish restaurant in town. I actually went last September on the night they opened. It was my first time out for dinner since mum passed, and I went solo (which I’d only done once before). I wasn’t originally planning on it, but a week before, I booked a table for one. I’ve always said that going out for dinner is like my version of going partying. Not only because I indulge in a decent amount of wine, but because I just find it a fun way to spend the evening. 

tl;dr, I met my favourite celebrity chef, Fangirl-ed, got an autograph, but drank far too much and lost it on the way home. Ever since, S - bestie, support worker, godmother to my cats - has been wanting to come with me for my birthday. 

I was nervous. I hadn’t really eaten around her before. Hell, I haven’t eaten around anyone since mum passed three years ago. For me, there is always a lingering worry, and I’m not even exactly sure what it is. Maybe it’s that my dining companion will think I’m fat or gluttonous. Maybe it’s a fear that I’ll eat more than them. And what if they make comments about health or diet related things?

Thankfully, dinner went smoothly. We had focaccia and a tasting plate to start, then I opted for a filet mignon while S had gnocchi. On the side, wagyu fat roasted potatoes, and roasted carrots with labneh and pistachios. 

I’d never had labneh or pistachios before, and I also tried olives and pickled onion for the first time. When I went in September, I tried pickles for the first time (I know, I know, it only took me 30 years) as well as different mustards, horseradish, chimmichurri, and the various cured meats on the tasting plate. For the past four or five years, I’ve been wanting to try different foods. I just seldom get the chance to. It’s not often that I’d just buy something like a jar of pickles, but if it’s in front of me, I’m willing to try a nibble. It’s just rare that these situations actually occur. 

The house still feels very empty without Misty. To make things worse, Miss Persephone has been struggling without her big sister. 

She would always get upset when I took Misty to the vet. They thought it was something to do with the ‘vet smell’. But it was manageable, and just meant keeping them separated for a bit after getting home. 

A couple of weeks after losing Misty, I went out to visit my great aunt. When I got home, Sephi was completely feral. It didn’t take long to realize that it was never the vet that was the issue - it was being left home alone. 

It should’ve been an easy fix, given that I rarely go out. But then I found out I would have to move soon, as the landlord is demolishing the house. After a handful of inspections, I have somewhere new lined up, but every time I went to look at a new rental, it would upset Sephi. Now, it’s progressed to the point that even opening the front door for S means that Sephi gets upset.

She’s always been such a sweet girl, but now will spend hours hissing, yowling, attacking. I took her to the vet a couple of weeks ago, and they gave her some medication to take before I go out. I tried her with it for the first time last week, and it didn’t seem to help at all. Apart from a higher dose, the next steps would be a behavioral specialist and/or daily medication for life. It’s heartbreaking, seeing her so distressed. 

It feels like the obvious solution would be to introduce a new friend for her, but she has become so unpredictable and aggressive, that it just wouldn’t be safe. I’m going to do everything I can to help her, but some days it just feels so hopeless. I’ll be checking in with the vet this week, and I just hope we can find something to help her before the move in October. 

Apologies for the selfie spam. This is really the only social media I have, apart from Facebook, and I very rarely post on there.

xxBella

"What Greater Gift Than the Love of a Cat?"

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I think it's time..."

It's Tuesday. In the past six weeks, it's become Chemo Day.

I give Misty her morning meds, spaced out between the hourly syringe feeds. I get dressed, and book a taxi. The address of the specialist veterinary hospital has been burned in to my brain, 3 minutes away. I sit on the edge of the bed, coat and shoes already on, Misty in my lap. When I hear the taxi pull up, I place Misty into her carrier, nuzzling herself into the warm towel, fresh from the dryer, to try to keep her warm on yet another cold winter's morning.

I'm prepared for the Quality of Life discussion. I've known since day one that all treatment was purely palliative. And they thought she might have a few weeks, at most. She has exceeded expectations. But even though it was hard to measure, with the constant ups and downs, it was clear that in the past week or two, things have taken a turn.

We have a consult with the oncologist, who we've gotten to know all too well. They immediately remark that she looks like she's lost more weight. I give them all the numbers for how much food she's been taking, how much water, how often she's using the litter tray. We'd been doing well with the syringe feeds -  better than any of the weeks prior. It still wasn't enough. The cancer in her intestines simply wasn't allowing her to absorb it.

They take her back for the routine bloodwork, to see if she's still okay to have chemo.

The doctor comes back 15 minutes later. They sit down, and tell me that Misty's condition is really not good. That the ups and downs have become a steady state of decline.

That they think it's time.

And I know it's been coming. I've been prepared. I've had arrangements planned for six weeks. From day one, the only goal was to try to get her - and me - a bit more time. They weren't even sure she'd make it through that first week. But I still burst into tears

She was never going to get any better. I knew that. And it'd been hard to objectively measure her decline. She'd have a few good days, then crash, and we'd be rushing to the vet at 11pm. Then, anything seemed like an improvement. I'd been waiting for them to tell me it was time.

They say it doesn't have to be today. That I could probably bring her home for the next few days, but within the next week, I'd have to say goodbye. And though I'm prepared for a Quality of Life discussion, I still wasn't expecting this. So I just tell them the same thing that I've told them - and the other vets, surgeons, internal medicine specialists, emergency doctors - for the past six weeks.

"I just want to do what's best for Misty."


On Wednesday, I ask S - support worker, bestie, godmother to my cats - if she would be willing to be here for the goodbye.

On Thursday, I sit and cry alone as my GP takes flowers to the cemetery for me, to mark the three year anniversary since my mum passed. Few things could keep me away on this day, but for six weeks now, I haven't left Misty's side.

On Friday, I take Misty outside for the last time. The winter has been harsh, and she wasn't supposed to be going outside while on chemo. But this week, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and take her out for a little bit each day. Her little harness hangs off her. For the first time this week, there's actually sun in the backyard for her to enjoy.

On Saturday, I wake up knowing that there's only a matter of hours left.


S gets here at 3:04pm, about 25 minutes before the vet is due to arrive. I think having the goodbye at home is more for my benefit than Misty's, really. We sit in the lounge room, but after a few minutes, Misty wants to go for a wander.

We follow her, slowly, through the house. She goes to the litter tray, and strains unsuccessfully for the fifth time today. Then to the water bowl, sitting and licking her lips, staring at the water for a while. She hasn't had any water by herself in six days - only what she takes through the syringe. As we go back to the lounge room, I update the notes on my phone.

3:21pm: litter 0 (strain)
3:25pm: showed interest in water (licked lips, didn't drink)

I mumble to S that I don't know why I'm still writing these things down. What does it matter at this point? In the past six weeks, tracking these things has become second nature. It's habit, routine. And, much like my own tracking, part of it gives me a sense of comfort.

At 3:26pm, my phone chimes, an automated text to let me know that the vet is approximately three minutes away.

At 3:31pm, the doctor arrives, here to help Misty take her last breath.


Sephi comes in to the room. She's never been good with strangers in the house, preferring to hide away. Not to mention, she is always a bit feral after I take Misty to the vet, towards both Misty and myself. Something about the smell. Even if I didn't spend more than a few minutes in the waiting room while dropping Misty off, Sephi would hiss and swipe and yowl at me for hours after coming home. 

But for this, she doesn't seem to mind. She walks up to the doctor, sniffing their hand and rubbing her head against their little bag of pills and potions. Then, she hops up on to her cat tower, just beside the couch, perching herself at the very top. She keeps a watchful eye over us, resting her chin on the little ledge of the bed

The doctor talks with us for a bit. I grab a tissue and wipe Misty's eyes for the last time. They've been constantly gunky for weeks now. Just a part of her being so unwell, they said.

And I know it's coming. I've been prepared.

She feels so warm against me. Although she's a shadow of her former self, her warm, furry little body cuddled up against me is still the best feeling in the world. Every morning when I first wake up, every hour when I feed her, I take in those precious moments, knowing that time is quickly running out.

The doctor gives the sedative, walking me through every step. There's barely a change. Misty has been ready for days, if not weeks. I pull her up close to me.

"It's okay, baby..."
It is not okay.

I ask how quick it will be, once they give the final medication. They tell me it's usually about 30 seconds, but again reassure me that they can give me all the time I need at every stage.

Eventually, it's time.
"Are you ready?"
I nod. I'll never be ready. But I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I keep holding her, stroking her, kissing her fluffy little head. Telling her that I'm so sorry. That I did everything I could for her. That she's the best kitty in the whole entire world.

"I think she's probably gone now..."
They pick up the stethoscope and check her over. I try to stop sobbing, not wanting to make the task more difficult.
"...she's gone."

And I break. Loud, guttural wails, bursting from me uncontrollably. I immediately want to apologize for my hysterics, but I can't get the words out. I can't stop sobbing.

I should've been prepared for this.

The doctor excuses herself, saying they'll give me some time. The next half hour is a blur, until S opens the front door to let them back in. I'm still crying, but less desperately so.

Even after it's over, the doctor stays for an hour, maybe a little longer. We talk about Misty. Her life. About her funny little quirks. 

My back hurts. I try to reposition myself, reaching for the cushion behind me. But as I move my hand away, Misty's head lulls. I immediately move back to support it, mumbling an apology to her.

When it's time, after the doctor has been here for hours, they ask if I would like to carry her out. I wasn't planning to, but I couldn't just sit there and watch them leave. The doctor helps me to wrap her up in a plush blanket, bright red, and places her into my arms.

I carry her out. I don't care if the neighbours see me, crying in my pajamas. The doctor has a little bed in the car. I gently place Misty down, and tuck a lock of my own hair, carefully folded inside a tissue, into the blanket with her, to accompany her on her final journey, so that part of me will always be with her. I lean in and give her one last kiss on the head. I tell her how much I love her, and that I'll see her soon.

And then they leave, taking a piece of my heart with her.

And I'm left here.

Misty

26.12.2010 - 29.06.2024

xxBella

Four Teeth Less Wise

If there's one thing I get extremely nostalgic for, it's the combination of soup and jelly.

Back in the early days of my eating disorder, Soup & Jelly was my go to. It used to be a hodgepodge of various different vegetables, cooked down and blended into a rather unappetizing sludge. Cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, onions. It evolved from me grabbing random vegetables, and ended with those five. Plus a jelly cup for dessert.

At the moment, it's potato & leek soup. Even with a small amount of cream, it's still safe and comforting, and has become a daily ritual. Followed, of course, with sugar free jelly. Lemon, lime, pineapple, orange mango, or my all time favourite, raspberry. It's all wonderful, at a meager 7 calories a serve.

Here I am, four teeth less wise. When I had my wisdom teeth out in January, I thought that it was going to be a couple of weeks on soft foods. When I was recovering in hospital the next day, they said it would be six weeks. I don't know what I expected, really, and I should've probably asked prior to the actual procedure.

Despite the duration being longer than expected, I was fully prepared for the liquid diet. But I was not prepared for the mindfuck that it triggered. The mental obstacle course. To be thrown back in time to the era of Soup & Jelly. There's something about that combination that holds a special place in my heart. It triggered something that I wasn't expecting.

Now, it's been almost three months since the surgery. Initially, I was planning on doing a few days on a full liquid diet, then starting on soft foods. Three days became five, five days became seven... I tried for a while to do soft foods like scrambled egg or mashed potato (things that didn't really require chewing, but more 'squishing'), but found it more mentally taxing than expected.

Although I'm trying to keep solids in for a couple of meals a week, it doesn't feel good when I do. I've fallen back into the safety of liquids. Even when the calories don't differ much to normal, there's something about a full liquid diet that gives me comfort. It feels safer. I've also found that I have less 'food noise', which is wonderful. It's just less stressful.

My dietitian has been asking me to figure out exactly why I've stayed stuck on liquids. And I still don't think I have a proper answer. I don't know how to explain it, beyond that it feels Safe.


The procedure itself went well. Recovery was rough for the first few weeks. The swelling was insane, not to mention the bruises all the way down my neck. The teeth hadn't been causing issues (yet), which is why I was so apprehensive about the pain. It was more preventative, to get them out before they inevitably started causing issues. So, the aftermath was always going to be worse than it had been prior.

I couldn't stay away from my cigarettes. Within ten minutes of getting home, I sheepishly said to my support worker "...I think I might try a smoke". Very minimally to start with, with short, gentle, unsatisfying puffs. I probably barely even got any smoke into my lungs for the first week or so. I did get patches for the first week, which helped to some degree. In the past, I've either used gum or inhalers to top up the patches, as the strongest patches are only equivalent to about half of what I smoke a day, and I couldn't use either this time.

When I woke up with nightmares in the hospital, it was the absolute worst, as I alwaysalwaysalways have a smoke immediately when I wake up with nightmares. Instead, I had to make do with two lukewarm black coffees at 3am.

The surgeon let me keep the two teeth that he managed to get out without shattering them, which I'm chuffed about. I'll spare you the photos. I still have all of my baby teeth, so it's kinda nice to update the collection. Maybe I'll turn them into earrings some day.

I even had my 6-monthly check up with the regular dentist a few weeks ago. After a decade with no dental care, I'm determined to stay on top of it. I book the next one as I check out, and I put a few dollars into savings each week to try to stay on top of it.


Apart from that, there's few other life updates. I met with a new Occupational Therapist, who is wonderful. I'm still waiting to hear back about my NDIS appeal to restore my regular supports, with no idea when I might expect news.

With the aforementioned nightmares, my psych and I have been talking about maybe trying EMDR therapy. At this point, I'm willing to try anything, except actually talking about the trauma. She even asked if I've ever thought about psychedelic treatment, but I'm very apprehensive about it for various reasons. I've been on a medication to help with the nightmares for over a year now, but thus far it only tanks my blood pressure. My GP has given me the go-ahead to gradually increase the dose, as long as I keep monitoring my blood pressure. The nightmares can be incapacitating, and has messed with my sleep for far too long. When I wake up with nightmares, I immediately get up, move around, do anything I can to keep myself from falling back asleep until it feels 'safe' again. And I'm getting too old to function on so little sleep.

Miss Misty gave me a hell of a scare a few weeks ago. One morning, I woke up and she was extremely lethargic, barely responsive, and just not herself. It's hard to explain, but one of those things that when you know, you know. And I really thought 'this is it'. After an emergency consult with her vet and a day in hospital to run some tests, they found that thankfully it was just an infection. I was so grateful to be able to bring her home. She's doing better now, after a course of antibiotics and some rest. But it was one of the most emotionally draining days I've had in a long time. I really thought that it was going to be goodbye, that she wouldn't be coming home. And I know she's 13. She's an old girl. But I'm not ready to say goodbye, and it terrifies me knowing that one day I'll have to, sooner rather than later.

My potato & leek soup.  I've constantly had it around since the surgery.
Each batch varies slightly - the ingredients might differ +/- 10%, sometimes it's a bit thicker,
 sometimes it's a bit thinner, depending on how I'm feeling when I make it.

I won't bore you with the precise weights of everything. This is the recipe I use, with a few tweaks.

It's made with approximately 1kg of potato and x 2-3 leeks (350g, give or take),

 including 15g of butter and 100ml of light cream.

It makes about 10 cups of soup at roughly 110 cal per cup.

Cream soups have always been a bit of a fear. Cream in general, really.

100ml of this cream is 188 calories, so it adds about 19 calories per cup,

 which seems reasonable at the moment.

Obligatory cat photos, featuring Misty being a cuddly sook

(and Sephi!)



xxBella

The Days are Long, But the Years are Short

  The New Year has rolled over, and I find myself feeling uncertain about what 2024 will hold.

  Next week, I have a brief hospital trip for the long-postponed removal of my impacted wisdom teeth. Because I'm a lonely loner, I get a little overnight vacation at the hospital, because I don't have anyone to stay with me to supervise for 24 hours after coming out of the anesthesia.

  I know that it would have to be done at some point, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to put it off further, until they started causing serious problems. I'm a little apprehensive about the general anesthesia, and the pain afterwards. But my biggest concern is that I'm incredibly mentally uncomfortable with the concept of having four gaping holes in my mouth. Even thinking about it sends chills down my spine.

  I'm stocked up on all forms of liquids for post-surgery, from clear to full. I've got sugar-free jelly in five different flavours, plenty of skim milk for iced lattes, 45-cal hot chocolate sachets, my favourite vanilla yoghurt, sugar-free Zooper Doopers (I think most of the world calls them 'freeze pops'), and I'm sure there's some ice cream lurking in the freezer. I've plenty of broth cubes - both chicken and beef - as well as some potato & leek soup. It's been a few years since I've done more than 48hrs on liquids alone, but I'm going to try to make the most of it by seeing it as a little break, obligatory, from the constant thoughts of food.

  I've also organized pre-prepared scrambled egg mix, and low-carb mashed potatoes, for when I'm able to get back to soft foods. But at the moment, the mere idea of having four giant wounds in my mouth, stitches, blood clots... I might be working myself up to think it's worse than it really is (and if you guys have done this before, I'd love to hear from you, as I've not found much specifically about EDs and dental surgery online), but I'm not sure how much liquid I'll even want to put in my mouth.

  In the last few days, I'm also becoming increasingly nervous about the possibility of dry socket. As it stands, I've been smoking cigarettes for over half of my life. These days, around 40 a day. The first 24 hours will be easier, because I'll be in the hospital, but it's going to be hard to resist once I get home. I'm planning to grab some nicotine patches, plus some mouth spray if the surgeon says it's okay. When I've used them in the past - mostly during sections when I wasn't allowed to step outside of the hospital room - I've always used a combo of patches and inhalers, but any suction is a no-go. Even then, they've barely touched the sides.

  I've scrounged around online, reading about other people's experiences of smoking after dental surgery. I think I will actually follow the instructions for the first couple of days, because reading about others' experiences with dry socket has definitely put me off. But oh man, it's going to be rough.

  I know that the general consensus from society as a whole is 'what a great opportunity to quit!'. But frankly, if being diagnosed with COPD in my early 20s didn't push me to quit, and neither did watching my mum go through lung cancer, I don't know if it'll ever happen for me. Over the years, I've overcome addiction to weed, synthetics, and as I try to knuckle down on giving up the booze, I lean especially hard on my cigarettes. I'm only human, and surely, I should be permitted one vice.

* * *

  In other news - just before everyone went on break for Christmas, I got my new NDIS plan. Apparently my (now-former) Occupational Therapist refused to write a report for my review, and no one seems to know why. Without it, there's 'insufficient evidence', and my funding has been decimated. My support worker, S, who I usually see four times a week, has been cut to twice a week. My fortnightly psychologist appointments? They're now once every three months.

  There's a whole appeal process going on, as well as finding a new OT. But in the meantime, I'm terrified at the prospect of losing such a large amount of support. Aside from the practical issues, it would be very isolation, to say the least.

  I'll still have my dietitian and GP every two weeks, sure. But adding on my GP retiring at some point in the next year, it feels like 2024 might be the year that my support worker crumbles.

* * *

  I hope everyone is having a wonderful start to the New Year. As for the holidays, the less said about that, the better. I got through. You think I'd be used to it, being my third year spending Christmas alone, but it doesn't seem to get any easier.

Sitting in the backyard with a good coffee,

 a new book, and Marty the Emotional 

Support Demon (it's short for Martholemew)

  It's only taken me two years to get around to buying a copy of The Opposite of Butterfly Hunting. I'm about half way through, and so far, I'm mostly enjoying it. It's a nice break from cycling through the same old ED memoirs that I seem to re-read at least once a year.

xxBella

My First Tattoo, and Missing That One Person

  If there's one thing about me, it's that I'm terrible at making decisions. I don't think that this is particularly uncommon - especially for people with eating disorders - but I'm a bit of a perfectionist, and I have a tendency to fixate on details, no matter how insignificant they might seem to others. In all aspects of my life, I struggle with wanting to constantly refine things. 

  And so, I've put off committing to tattoos, despite wanting them for as long as I can remember. Even when I know exactly what I want, I worry that it won't be perfect. And I have to be able to accept that part of it is out of my control. But I see how my body looks as a reflection of who I Am, and it feels like a big risk to allow an outside force to influence that.

  But this, this was an easy decision. Several ideas for a memorial tattoo had come and gone over the past couple of years, but in the end, this was a simple but meaningful design for my first tattoo. I was nervous that they mightn't get it perfectly right. But I figured that the simplicity would give me the highest chance of satisfaction, and my want for a memorial on my skin overthrew the worry of imperfection. I had to throw caution to the wind.

  One of the few samples of my mum's handwriting, harvested from a card from my 7th birthday, buried in a box amongst a pile of old paperwork that should've been shredded long ago, crinkled and water damaged, unearthed as I went through the lengthy process of organizing and packing up her house after she passed. As soon as I found it, I knew. I put the card straight in to a zip-lock bag, hoping to protect it from any further damage from the flooded environment, and carpets slowly fermenting mold beneath the surface. There was nothing to refine, or perfect. I didn't have to stress over the proportions of a cancer ribbon, the font of a date or text, or the minutiae of a specific design. Just where on my body to put it - not somewhere it'd be visible to the world 24/7, but also not hidden to the point that it'd be difficult to view.

  I've had the tattoo for six months now, and I'm still in love with it. Mum is never far from my mind, and the rollercoaster of grief continues, even two and a half years later. Along with her necklace, originally a gift to her from my dad, older than I am. She never took it off, and neither have I.

  On the day she passed, we already had what clothes she wanted for the funeral, folded neatly, sitting on the desk of the hospital room - even her favourite comfy shoes. It seems so morbid, but she knew what she wanted. We knew that the funeral home would take care of her jewlery, etc.. But this necklace was so important to her, it's hard to put in to words. Although I never thought to ask her specifically, I think it may have even been more important than her wedding ring. It was her comfort, her never-ending link to my dad, especially after he passed. Before we left, after sitting with her for hours, I carefully unclasped her necklace, and put it straight around my own neck. Things like her earrings, or her wedding ring, were not of such large importance. But her necklace was the one thing that we were unwilling to trust to the funeral home.

  But now, with her handwriting inked into my arm, I will always have that physical link to her. My tattoo, and her necklace, are just some of the small ways that I keep her with me. No matter where life takes me, no matter where I am - she'll always be close to my heart.

  For the past few months, I've been running on about 4 hours of sleep most nights. About once a week, I will sleep a more normal amount, usually after I've had a few drinks. My GP put me on prazosin, which is supposed to help with the C-PTSD nightmares, but so far it hasn't helped. It just tanks my blood pressure (the last time I checked it overnight, it went from 109/69 sitting, to 56/43 standing), and as such, she is hesitant to raise the dose any further.

  When I do sleep full nights, I wake up every 1-2 hours with horrible nightmares. They've been so much worse this year - vivid and constant. I push myself to stay awake for up to an hour each time, until I calm back down and feel 'safe' to go back to sleep. It feels like, if I go straight back to sleep, the nightmares will just pick up where they left off. But if I stay awake for as long as I can, completely exhausting myself, and only fall asleep when I physically cannot stay awake any longer, and only sleep for the bare minimum, it's like I'm too tired to have any dreams, let alone nightmares. So, while it is not ideal, at the moment it's the best I can do. But I admit, it is wearing me down.

  My psych asked a few weeks ago if I think we should start on trauma work, but honestly, I don't know if I'll ever be ready to. I've been carrying trauma around for most of my life, and not once have I ever felt able to actually talk about it. If I can just get the nightmares under control, I can just keep getting through.

  I had a close call last week, with someone trying to break in at 3am, which is one of my worst fears. It's shaken up my sleep even more, and I seem to have moved to only sleeping during daylight hours. Last night, I did actually sleep a solid night, after moving the cats' food/water/litter in to my bedroom, and locking us in, so I didn't have to worry about jumping up to grab them if it happens again. The police know who it is, and don't think he'll come back, but it's still left me on edge.

  And I know, you're probably all sick to death of me talking about my mum. But it was another one of those moments that hit me with an unexpected pang of grief. For so long, my mum would be the one I would call in an emergency, and even two and a half years after she passed, my first thought is still "I want to call my mum". And it's fucking painful, not having that One Person to turn to.

  Next month, I have a consult with an oral surgeon to get my wisdom teeth removed. I finally went to the dentist a few months ago, after breaking a molar in half (while eating sugar-free mint crisp dark chocolate, of all things!). It's been about 10 years since I last went to the dentist, and my childhood dentist has since retired. I went to see the dentist who my mum had been seeing before she passed. I didn't say anything - just booked a same-day appointment. During that initial appointment, at one point he casually mentioned "I haven't seen your mum in a while".  At this point, it's been quite some time since I've had to 'notify' anyone. It caught me off guard. He seemed genuinely shocked when I told him that she passed, but he was very kind about it. I could've sworn that I called them when she passed, but maybe he didn't get the memo.

  Anyway, I'm now up-to-date on dental stuff, had a few fillings done, a deep clean, etc... And now, the plan is to stay on top of regular check ups so things don't get so bad again. But I have four impacted wisdom teeth to be surgically removed, including one with a cyst beneath. My support worker, S, is taking me in for a consult in a few weeks time, and I guess I'll figure out things from there. But it just sucks not just having that One Person to be able to rely on after a procedure.

  And I know, I know it's been a long time since my last post. I find myself very overwhelmed at the thought of putting myself 'out there' these days. I don't really know why. I just over-think, and worry that I have nothing in my life worth sharing. I struggle with not wanting to be perceived. As if I don't want to be an active participant in the world. Sometimes I just want to fade away, and have no one notice.

  But as I write this, I think that maybe I have more to say than I think I do. And maybe it just takes actually sitting down and starting to get my thoughts out, and suddenly I do actually have something to say.

Some recent body checks from last week, since I'm now sitting fairly consistently below 60kg again (132lb, BMI 17.3). I've gone down a couple of bra sizes recently, and mots of my tops are loose, but my hips are forever stubborn. After spending the past 7 years bouncing around the 60s, it feels so euphoric to see the 50s on the scale again. I haven't done my measurements for a while, but over the years, I've been from an Australian size 4-14 (US 0-10), and at the moment I'm sitting around size 8AU.

xxBella

At Last, Progress

For the first time in a long time, I’m finally starting to see progress on the scale again. As I mentioned briefly in my last post, I’ve drastically reduced my drinking, and of course, that has meant less calories.

When I first started drinking regularly in 2016, I was sitting at around 42-45kg (92-99lbs, BMI 12.1-13.0) Within a year, I’d gained a whopping 20kg.

Since then, I’ve bounced around the mid-60s (roughly BMI 19), with no real consistent, long-lasting change. The past 7 years have been a constant struggle as the calories from alcohol continued to pile up.

In January, I was sitting around 66kg (145lbs, BMI 19.1). Since the reduction of alcohol in late January/early February, it's started creeping back down. As of this morning, I weighed in at 61.6kg (135.5lbs, BMI 17.8)

It’s not a lot, and some days it feels like nothing, but it’s the most consistent progress I’ve had since I started drinking, albeit slow. Each week, my ‘average weight’ has been slowly edging down.

I’d love break back into the 50s for my 30th birthday at the end of the month, but even if I don’t make it in time, I know I’ll get there soon. I can taste it. And it’ll be my first time below 60kg since 2016.

* * *

As for the drinking itself, I’m drinking less than I ever have. I’ve been on a new medication for just over a year now, which I do think has eventually helped. At the start of 2022, I was drinking 20-25 standard drinks a day, with and occasional day or two off per month. That was probably my worst point, in the first year or so after losing mum. By the end of 2022, I was down to 10-15 drinks a day, with usually 2 days off each week.

Something changed around the end of January. I had my first 2-day ‘dry streak’ for the first time in five years (excluding hospital admissions). It was entirely on a whim, just wondering if I could do it, after having a few days where I'd only have a handful of drinks, but stop after a couple of hours and make a cup of peppermint tea instead. Once I managed that, things became a bit easier. Soon I was having 3 days, 4 days, 5 days without drinking. At the end of March, I had my first 6-day dry streak, which turned into a 10-day streak.

Before this, I can’t remember the last time I had more than 2-3 dry days in a week, at best, and never consecutively. Now, I’m only drinking once or twice a week. I do still usually drink quite a bit when I do drink, but overall, the reduction has been dramatic. In March, I only drank six times. That’s something I never thought I’d be able to say.

I always think it’ll be amazing, but in reality, the experience is dismal at best, catastrophic at worst. It just doesn’t make me happy anymore. And the more I reduce it, the easier it gets. Nothing compares to seeing actual progress, numbers dropping, and the feeling of my clothes becoming looser, or my ring sliding down my finger as I wash my hands. Once I started seeing actual progress, it made it so much easier to avoid the alcohol (and the calories it contains), even when things get rough.

Will I become fully sober? Will I be able to moderate, able to have a glass of wine without finishing off the bottle, and opening a second? Only time will tell.  

* * *

Through it all, there have been challenges.

11 months ago, I finished packing up all of my late mum’s belongings. It went into storage, to wait until I had a bigger place. Two months ago, I was finally able to get everything back. Not only boxes upon boxes, containing a lifetime of memories, but also some furniture.

It’s been a strange feeling. While it’s, in a way, comforting to be surrounded by her things, it’s also been a bizarre mix of sadness. It was a kind of reality check, that she really is gone.

In the first few days, I would find myself with a sense of confusion, like I wasn’t in my own home, but hers. Especially in the lounge room, which now seems like a copy-paste of the family home.

I’ve had trouble dealing with all the complicated feelings. I was worried that having mum’s belongings around might trigger a major backslide in my drinking, but it hasn’t. Instead, I’ve been dealing with it more like a ‘normal person’. Sitting with the depression. I haven’t turned immediately to drinking. I haven’t had a welfare check called since Christmas. No major overdoses.

It’s meant a lot of days curled up on the couch, in the dark, feeling deeply uncomfortable as I wait for the day to end. I spent the first few weeks sleeping on the couch, her couch, the couch from home. I think I’m finally starting to pull out of it, managing to work parts of my usual routine back into my day-to-day life. But some days, the grief just gets to me, and I return to my couch cocoon.

* * *

Much love to everyone out there in our little community. This place has been my one constant over so many years, through thick and thin. It might be a bit quieter than it used to be, as life comes along and people change, but I still wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Roses blooming in the backyard of my new house

xxBella