Letting Go

 When I first stopped drinking last February, I was hesitant to get rid of my alcohol. My bar remained intact, and I kept a cask of wine in the fridge - so it would already be cold, just in case.

 
8 months sober. I was getting ready to move house. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my alcohol. I looked at it every day, trying to figure out whether I would keep it or not. It was one of the last things I packed; kept, but labeled to go straight to the garage. 

My first time moving house without cans of pre-mixed vodka, instead taking Thermoses filled with black coffee or cold brew iced lattes as I set up the basics and took measurements to figure out where furniture would go in the new house. 

At the new house, my bar becomes my coffee station. I kept a single bottle of Rosé on hand, stashed at the back of the fridge, behind my assortment of sugar free soft drinks. Just in case. 

14 months sober. I deep clean the fridge. When I put my soft drinks back in, I look at the bottle of wine. I think maybe it’s time. I leave it out, sitting on the table, unsure of where to put it. It no longer belongs anywhere.

It sits there for months. During a home visit, Psychologist spots it and tactfully asks “Is that a bottle of wine?”. I no longer look at it when I’m in the kitchen. I don’t even see it. It’s become invisible to me. 

18 months sober, this Wednesday. I go out to the garage, to the stack of boxes I no longer need. I go through them to check for the things I want to keep, pieces of paraphernalia I rather like. I can almost taste it; the Shiraz, the vodka, the Kahlua. 

Then, I let go.

S has a friend or two who would appreciate a large donation of drinks for their parties. Two dozen bottles of wine, plus maybe 30L in casks. A dozen bottles of spirits and liquor. What can’t be rehomed, I have asked her to dispose of. It fills the boot of her car, plus the backseat. 

I always wanted to be able to moderate, to be able to occasionally have a glass of wine with dinner. But it’s simply not possible for me. I’ve never been able to moderate my addictions. If it was there, I needed to have it all. 

I kept a small cask each of red and white wine, for cooking purposes. Though I don’t cook much these days, I do like certain dishes with alcohol in them, and I still want to be able to cook and enjoy them. Admittedly, this is something I haven’t done in the past 18 months, so I’m unsure how I’ll feel about pouring the wine. I try to think of it as: they aren’t drinks - they are ingredients. It would be like drinking soy sauce. 

(I did also keep my Absinthe, purely for aesthetic purposes.)

* * *

I haven’t had any appointments since my last post, due to things shuffling around. I know I need to tell my team about the laxatives, probably Dietitian first, as she’s easiest to talk to. New GP will find out immediately from the notes anyway. If I’m feeling particularly brave one day, I might email Psych, as it’s always easier to make confessions through text.

I did tell S. I wasn’t even really planning to. I was having a Good Fire day, and was explaining to her what I shared in my last post, how some days it feels like my brain’s on fire. Then I told her about the laxatives. I did feel better having told someone.

I haven’t taken any this week. Mostly because I feel like the amount I took didn’t hurt enough, and getting more than two bottles requires planning in advance, shopping at multiple retailers to get around the limit. Plus the idea of spending $40 on one OD is insane. It’s not a sustainable habit. 

Part of me just wants to see if it’s possible to get the kind of pain I want. Three bottles? Four? I tell myself I’m just sating my curiosity, just once, but I know that’s a lie. I’ve even been considering trying the little pills again, wondering if my body might’ve forgotten the instinct to throw them back up, even though the thought of them makes bile rise in my throat. 

One week until my next appointment with New GP. I just hope increasing the seroquel further will stop this madness. 

xxBella

Good Fire, Bad Fire

 I’d been toying with the idea for maybe a month. Occasionally I’d find myself browsing pharmacies online, catalogues of laxatives, looking for something I might be able to take without vomiting, the way those tiny pills had started to make me do last year. 

They stayed in my cart on DoorDash. A liquid, a different type of laxative to those I’d used in the past, but still a stimulant. Every now and then, I’d open the app, just to see them there. A kind of relief, a safety blanket, knowing they were there just in case I might need them. Almost subconsciously, I mentally noted the store’s closing time - no late night panic order possible. 

I don’t know what the exact trigger was that day. Only that my brain screamed “DO IT!”. And so, with 4 minutes until orders closed for the day, I did. 

That was two weeks ago. I’ve since taken them four times. 1/3 bottle, 2/3, a whole bottle, two. 

I tell myself it won’t happen again. That it’s not worth it. But within a matter of days, the idea plants itself in my head again, and it’s like I can’t concentrate on anything else until I do it. 

15 doses, all the way up to 90, and none of them gave me the level of pain I was looking for. While I never want to experience the pain of the volvulus or post-surgery again, I think it’s skewed my perception of GI pain, and I’m left underwhelmed by what laxatives themselves are capable of. 

They’re dangerously easy to take. Tasteless, though a bit tricky to empty the bottles designed for counting drops. But at 6x the price per dose compared to the little tablets, it’s not practicable for the amounts I take. 

I can’t believe I let myself do it again after what happened last year. I know it’s stupid. I haven’t told anyone yet. I know I probably should. I suppose admitting it here is the first step. I wasn’t even sure if I would share it. 

Overall, I’m not sure if the higher Seroquel dose is helping yet, self-harm urges aside. Maybe a bit? Theoretically, it should be. New GP thinks it might have to go higher still, but I want to wait a bit longer until I know for sure. It’s so hard to tell in the short-term. To quantify mental health. It’s only in looking back that I’m able to see. 

The best part of the lower dose is that sometimes it feels like my brain is on fire. It’s kind of like it lights up, but with unbound intensity, in a way I rarely felt while on the higher dose. 

When it’s good, I’ll be amazingly productive, to the point I struggle to keep up with myself. I have all these thoughts in a million different directions. I can’t move fast enough, like time moves too fast and I move too slow. I’ll write for hours because it just keeps coming and everything fits together with perfect clarity. I have all the energy in the world, and get through to-do lists and life admin, cleaning and organizing and sewing. It feels amazing. I wish I could bottle it. 

But other times, it’s the same intensity, but of stress and overwhelm, fixating on self-destruction and everything that is wrong in the world, when I’m unable to think of anything except the pain I crave. 

I wonder if the good justifies the bad. 

Apple blackcurrant sugar-free cordial. You’d never know there’s 90 doses of laxatives. 

xxBella

Unstable

In the past couple of weeks, I've come to the conclusion that I am not okay.

I feel volatile, like a container under pressure, that could completely destroy itself at any moment. It's like I can feel myself returning to the person I used to be, the person I never want to be again.

For months now, I've been growing increasingly agitated, frustrated, on edge. Reckless. So overwhelmed by absolutely everything. Unstable. Feeling strangely disconnected from people. Not dealing well with people in general. This whole time, I've been thinking "why the fuck do I hate myself and the world and everything and everyone?!"

Up until two weeks ago, I hadn't even considered that maybe reducing my seroquel dosage isn't working for me. I hadn't made the connection. My BPD had been pretty well managed for some years now, and before she retired, Old GP thought it was time to try without the meds. So I've been slowly tapering down in little steps since November. I’d been on 300mg, twice a day (and had been for 13+ years), and was down to 125mg, about to drop to 100mg. But on reflection, around the time I went below 200mg things started getting... different.

I think it's also the cause of what I describe as a lingering discomfort with life. The way I've felt desperate to hide away and avoid everything. Feeling like there's no escaping myself. I think it's been that constant feeling of overwhelm that's been causing my struggles with routine, my sleep issues.

I did wait until after I spoke to New GP last week before I increased the dose. As tempted as I was, I know from experience that tinkering with meds of my own volition is a slippery slope. But I was set on it, and told her straight up that I needed to go back to 200mg. 

Thankfully, she listened, and didn't make me justify it or suggest a different dose. She looked at the guidelines, and said it'd take two weeks to slowly increase back to 200mg. I told her I can't do that. That I'm not in a good place and I can't keep going like this (careful to avoid those magic words, "I'm not safe"). I was ready to just jump straight back to 200mg, and deal with being a zombie for a week.

To her credit, she said maybe we could do it a bit quicker. Not an immediate jump, but I'd been back to 200mg in 3-4 days. That, I could deal with. I'm just glad she actually listened, and was willing to make a plan outside of the guidelines, because if she was adamant about sticking to them, I would've just done it anyway.

Maybe I can try again at some point, be it in months or years, now that I have a better idea of the warning signs that things aren't going so well. I was starting to really looking forward to getting off it. But at this point, I feel like I could burn my whole fucking life to the ground and have to regrets. I am not okay, and I need my stability back more than anything.

I'm also willing to consider that it might be part of why I don't particularly like New GP... or my OT... or even S at times. Every little thing that doesn't usually bother me has been grating. That was what made me realize the lower dose isn't working for me. The first couple of days S was back were great. But then routine settled in, and I started feeling annoyed at stupid little things again. I knew it had only been in recent months that I'd been feeling this way, and eventually connected the dots.

Maybe it's also why I'm fantasizing vividly about slicing my body open every night, the exact cuts I would make, even though I haven't taken a blade to my skin in years. Laxatives have become a daily consideration again too, even though just thinking about those little fluoro pills is enough to make me want to vomit, like they had for the last several months I'd taken them. Today also marks one year since The Great Disembowelment, so I guess that's how long it takes for me to start seriously considering laxatives again.

Before this, there'd only been a handful of times where I’ve had a strong urge to take laxatives again. Sometimes I try to convince myself it’s okay, like if I haven’t had a BM in a couple of days, that it would be 'normal' to take them. But I know that my regular Benefiber and Osmolax will work eventually, and I may just have to tinker with the dose. Sometimes I just crave the pain, which has been the case recently.

The scar has healed very well. I’ve been diligently using Bio Oil on it. And while my bowels will never function 'normally' again, I have more or less adjusted to The New Normal.

Stay tuned for when I'm less of an insufferable bitch.

12 months

5 months

xxBella

Words that Sting & Cling

I’ve been thinking recently about how people's words can stick with us. Even little things said in passing that most people would forget about shortly after, but they stick with us, trigger us, and can deeply affect us and our eating disorders. They get inside, lodge in our brain, and become part of us.  

Going over my blood results, I talked with Dietitian about this. Among other things, my B12 has been steadily dropping. I mentioned that, when it first became an issue, Old GP immediately said

"Are you eating enough veggies?"

I have no idea why she said that. B12 mainly comes from animal products. Eggs, dairy, meat. My brain automatically made the connection of not eating enough veggies = fat. I felt deeply shamed, and although she never elaborated or mentioned it again, the comment lodged in my brain, even though it was irrelevant to the situation (or perhaps because it was irrelevant to the situation).

In general, I try to talk to Dietitian first, and she'll go over my blood results with me, because she is the one more knowledgeable in deficiencies and how to remedy them (and knows that B12 does not come from vegetables). Of course, GP will still go over them, but I try to shut down any conversation of recommendations by telling them I've already spoken to Dietitian about it. But some comments still slip through.

When she noted that New GP didn't order my HbA1c (which measures your average blood sugar over the past few months), I was relieved to not have that number.

"Old GP said I was basically on the edge of diabetes."

"But you're not! I've worked in diabetes for 35 years--"

"I know. But it stuck."

"And it doesn't matter when I tell you you're not?"

My HbA1C was completely fine. It's always been fine. I know this. Dietitian repeatedly tells me. But it doesn't sink in, blocked by Old GP's comments. 

Dietitian is (quite literally) an expert in diabetes. She was originally my mum's dietitian after she was first diagnosed with diabetes. EDs are not her specialty, and is probably not who a GP would refer me to, but this was at a point where I had no medical supervision after far too many bad experiences, sitting around BMI 12-14, and mum thought Dietitian might be someone who could help (and be kind).

The first time Old GP said this, she asked if I still had mum's glucometer. She wanted me to start checking my blood sugars, even just once a day. So I dug it out of a box, ordered new test strips and lancets. I still do it first thing every morning, before I even get out of bed. Occasionally, if it's above a certain number, I have to check again later in the day to see if it's below that number before I'll allow myself to eat. The best start to my day is when I wake up hypoglycemic.

Because I usually have appointments with Dietitian before GP, it was two weeks before I spoke to Dietitian about it. She was horrified and immediately told me to stop, but it was too late. The habit had already taken root, yet another number to determine my worth.

Logically, I know I'm not 'on the edge of diabetes'. But it still eats at me. In retrospect, I wish I'd asked why Old GP said that. I don't understand it, nor does Dietitian. Even with an abundance of caution because of family history, it doesn't make sense. But I would immediately shut down when ever she mentioned it. Again, my brain made the connection of diabetes =  fat.

Dietitian also seems to be very focused on my weight, and that I can't lose more, even though it's been frustratingly stable for the past few months. I think looking over the last year's records in April might've been a bit of a red flag for her. I always tell her my weight honestly when she asks, though I prefer not to get on her scales when I do see her in person. It's mostly been a slow and steady decline, so maybe she hadn't realized how much it'd dropped. 

As always, when she comments that I can’t afford to lose any more, I point out that I was much lower for many years (including the first 4-5 years I saw her), so I'm not particularly concerned.

"But were you well then?"

I paused for a moment "I wasn't unwell."

"... that you could recognize."

(Then, when I went to see her in person last fortnight, she chirped brightly "You're looking well!". Fucking kill me.)

But I disagree. While I was more unstable in earlier years, once I started seeing her and got a handle on harm reduction, maintenance, and (once Old GP joined the picture) regular medical monitoring, my health remained pretty decent. I mean, even while I maintained that low weight, I didn't really have emergency trips for things like hypoglycemia like I had in the past.

She doesn't seem like she's going to let it go this time though, so it's an ongoing topic of conversation between us.

At my last appointment, after my blood test, New GP restarted the supplement chat. I told her in our second appointment that it wasn't going to happen, but she still wanted to discuss it further after I had a new round of blood tests done. 

Thankfully, she seemed to understand when I explained why I can't. That it's not just about calories and weight, that my AN makes it difficult to willingly give myself nutrition in any sense.

Of course, she still tried to find practical solutions to get me to take supplements. The B12  shots are easier, firstly because I'm not the one doing it, but also because it felt more like medication than a supplement. So I'll be starting back on those every few months.

Other things are more difficult though. Always the problem solver, she tried to find ways around it. She suggested that, for vitamin D, I could take a large dose once a month rather than taking it every day, but that doesn't sit well with me either.

I should also say, I'm so happy that S is back. I’m trying to get back into my normal routine. That said, things were already pretty fucked up before she left. I’m starting to suspect I’m not doing so well with the recent changes in my meds, so this week I’m planning to talk to New GP about going back to a higher dose. 

Some bookmarks I threw together recently, to use up some random scrapbooking card I’ve had in my stash for at least 10 years (why? I don’t even scrapbook!)

xxBella

Flashes of Memories

I sit on her couch. 20 years old, but solid. Comfortable. Her favourite coffee mugs, now in my cupboard, amongst the cat-themed mugs and the few ones I actually use. I cook with her knives. Sewing, I find fabrics she never got around to using, buttons and ribbons. Her books scattered through my shelves.

Parts of her life, blended into mine. 

I’ve still kept all of her things. Storage tubs in the garage, with clothes and paperwork and things I don’t know what to do with. I want to make quilts - which I’ve never done before - out of her jeans and t-shirts. One day. 

But a lot of things, I don’t know what to do with them, or there’s nothing I can do with them. Like me, mum kept a lot of things that don’t necessarily need to be kept. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. 

Five years. It feels like a lifetime ago.

The day before the anniversary, I got a message from Brother. Unexpected. We don’t really talk much these days outside of the obligatory birthday and Christmas messages. Short, perfunctory, not exactly a conversation. 

He did visit me in hospital last year, after the near-death thing, before I went in for the second surgery to fix the oopsie. Just in case, I suppose. That was the first time I’d seen him in over a year.

Brother came down to Geelong on the day, and we went to the cemetery. I’ve made it three months in a row now. Often enough that the previous flowers are still there, dead but still nice enough to not have been thrown away by the caretakers. The native flowers really do hold up well - mum was right about that. 

It was strange to see him. I guess I feel like I don’t even know what to talk to him about anymore. To anyone, really. I’ve become so disconnected from everyone. I suppose that might be why I’ve been blogging semi-regularly again. It’s the only place I can get my thoughts out. 

Even I’m tired of myself. 

S will be back from her holiday on Friday. I’m so happy to see her again. It’s been a long month, with a lot of empty space. After spending some time with the temporary/backup support worker, it really made me appreciate just how well S and I get on, how our opinions and values match, how comfortable I am with her. She really is my best friend. 

The same flowers, a month later. 

xxBella

Quiet

S has been away for the past month. Everything has felt so quiet. Low. Empty.

This Saturday will be five years since mum died. It feels unreal. It seems like only yesterday, but also an eternity.

When I mentioned to Psychologist that it was coming up, she said she’d make sure to get out for a home visit for our next appointment this Thursday. But she's had to cancel the past few and do telehealth instead, so I guess I'm not holding my breath.

It'll be my second one sober, so I know I can do it. That said, last year it was during a period of constant laxative overdoses, so I was too sick to drink even if I wanted to. I’ve been dreading facing it without the regular supports that help keep me together. I did go back to the cemetery again just before S left, because I knew I wouldn't be able to go for the anniversary. S will be back at the end of next week, so I'll try to get there again soon.

I've had someone coming in once a week, mostly to help with things like picking up medications. Since I don't exactly have friends or family around, it does also help to have some social contact. There was the option to have them out multiple times a week like I would with S, but it feels like too much with someone I don't know that well, and I think it'd have been more stressful than helpful.

Supports provide so much structure in my days and weeks, and even when S is only away for a week, my routine and sleep schedule tend to go out the window. Of course, my sleep has been unsteady for a while now. It's the first time she's been away for more than a week or two in the seven years I've been seeing her. It's definitely a well earned break.

I’m unsure whether it’s partly because S is away, or if it’s just bad timing, but my mood has been awful. My lingering discomfort with life feels heavier. Everything has been so damn overwhelming, too much to cope with - hence this has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for weeks.

As for appointments, I’m becoming less sure about New GP. She seems to like to try to solve mental health issues with practical suggestions, even when I tell her I’m already talking to Psychologist and/or Dietitian about it. I have to either really think about what I’m going to say in the “how’ve you been?” small talk at the start of the appointment, or just bite my tongue, because she really latches on to whatever I say. When I mentioned that S was away so my routine/sleep/mood was a bit off, she spent 25 minutes on that, which eventually boiled down to "just follow the same routine you would normally". Revolutionary.

She also seems keen to push appointments further apart, even though I've had fortnightly GP appointments for ~13 years (except for when it was weekly). There are so many things on my 'I should really ask my doctor about that' list that I never seem to get around to. I'm thinking of even printing out a list to take to my next appointment, just to get all my cards on the table. I'm kind of annoyed that she's already wanting to push appointments out, like my health isn't worth her time.

But for now, I’m sticking with her. It feels pointless to try to find someone who matches better. Maybe Old GP was truly just an anomaly. And what if the others are worse, and I ended up having to go back to her? Awkward. 

I'm also now tapering down further on the Seroquel. For 13 years, I've been on 300mg, twice a day. At the end of last year, I started tapering down with Old GP, slowly, slowly. I'll now be going down to 100mg in the next few weeks. I’m not actually sure whether the goal is to reduce it, or stop it completely, but I guess we’ll see how it goes. I was concerned at the start, but I've felt little change. I feel like being on it helped to calm some of my worse BPD and C-PTSD related behaviors, which I really don’t want to return. But so far, so good. 

To end on a brighter note, at the end of May, it was my blog-iversary. 14 years since I started posting here. Wow. I know I've had far less posts in recent years, but it's so strange to think. So much of my life has been documented here. It's both wonderful and terrifying.

Blogging seems to have been slowly dying out, both in favour of short-form content, and away from text-based content in general. Sadly, it's nothing new, it's been happening for a long time now, to the point where it feels somewhat deserted.

But I do love that Blogger is one of the few remaining places where the ED community can exist uncensored. I don't have to sugarcoat things. I can post body checks, or weights, or calories, or whatever messed up things I'm thinking - things that would be otherwise censored on platforms like Instagram or even Reddit. I would be so utterly lost if they were to change the content policy to get rid of ED content, like so many other websites have over the years.

Since I haven’t been doing much worth taking photos of,

for today it’s the family of Emotional Support Demon plushies

And Zazu & Persephone keeping me company in bed, 

who are finally getting along (...most of the time)

xxBella

Remnants

A few weeks ago, I went to the cemetery to see mum for the first time in over a year. 

I feel terrible even saying that. Just leaving the house is hard enough, but I do not know how to deal with heavy emotions without alcohol. And I’m only just starting to feel confident enough in my sobriety (coming up on 15 months) to be able to go to the cemetery and not be tempted to drink. 

Because for me, it was never just taking flowers. It was a day trip. I would take bottles of Not Water, and I would drink and cry and fall apart. I’d sit there for hours. I’d get stuck. I would feel guilty about choosing to leave. Twice, I ended up going home, only to end up in the emergency room that night due to various self-injurious behaviors.

It was a mess. I was a mess.

This time, I asked S to drop me off and pick me up at the end of our support time. Although I only took a coffee and an electrolyte drink, I still need the set times to stop me spending all day there and spiraling into the abyss (which I am perfectly capable of doing without alcohol). But I feel good having been.

It’s been a heavy few weeks, with my birthday, mum’s birthday, and Mother’s Day, all in the space of 11 days.

I ended up staying up obscenely late on the night before my birthday, had a few hours sleep, saw my psychologist, then slept through a good chunk of the afternoon. I thought I had a lot to talk about with her. But I just wasn’t able to. I felt too fragile, and didn’t want to break. I tried to keep it in, clenched my jaw, but I couldn’t help a few tears leaking out when she pressed.

Mum's birthday falls exactly one week after mine. I did more for her birthday than I did for mine. I finally began to unpack some of her memorial items, things that I haven’t had the strength to since the move. I usually spend birthdays and anniversaries poring through boxes and folders, immersing myself in memories. It breaks my heart every time, and I couldn’t allow myself to get lost in it.

I’m trying now to pull myself out of the depressive episode that seems to have enveloped the past few weeks, though they seem to be happening more often this year. 

I can’t help but feel a lingering discomfort with life. When I hit these slumps, I tend to deal with it by trying to avoid life to the best of my abilities, often destroying my sleep schedule in the process, though still spending a great deal of time in bed. 

I find myself looking at Tomorrow with dread, not wanting to face Another Day. So I rush around that night, doing my morning routine, housework, getting the necessities out of the way. Then I force myself to stay awake as late as I can, knowing that for the rest of the night and tomorrow, I won’t have to do anything. At the end of the next day, after having a quiet day, rinse and repeat. Continuously dreading Tomorrow. 

The late nights just feel easier. Quieter, in the world and in my brain. 

This week has been a bit better, trying to get back into my usual routine. I’ve had a few good days doing so, but also a couple of bad days, and I immediately slip back to my more nocturnal inclinations. 

I also went out to visit my Great Aunt last week. Especially now that I don’t particularly have much contact with my brother outside of the obligatory birthday and Christmas messages, she is really the only family I have left. 

I do try to visit her every few months. It’s always good to see her, but in the past year or two, each visit feels heavier. Some visits have been more distressing than others, but this was a better day. Though when we talk about her failing health, she’s become rather fond of saying 

“Well, I am 94 years old…”

I’m scared there won’t be long left with her. And I’m not even sure if anyone will call me to let me know. 

On a selfish note - the past few visits, she’s made comments about how I’m ‘looking good’. Though, logically, I know this could mean many things - my skin, outfit, makeup, hair… But I’ve always taken it to be a compliment on my weight loss in the past 12-18 months (which, of course, is not a compliment to me, if I still look ‘good’). 

It would always ‘factory reset’ my body image. I might’ve been starting to think that I was finally beginning to get somewhat thin again, but that one comment would set me back to ‘fat’. She’s the only one who ever comments, so it’s the only external input I get these days. 

But last week, as we pulled back from our hug, her hands rubbed across my back, firmly down my arms, and she looked me up and down before declaring 

“You’ve lost weight.”

It seemed neutral - neither compliment or concern, merely a statement of fact. But it felt better than the ambiguous “you’re looking good!” - at least I didn’t have to stress about what it meant. 

I feel bad, because I genuinely don’t want to worry her. But the AN part of my brain still seeks that validation. I don’t want to be seen as big enough to still look ‘good’ (although I know I can still get away with it). And I immediately thought “she’s finally noticing, now I have to be noticeably thinner by the next visit!”

Birthday goodies from S. She knows me so well!

xxBella