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 

Just Another Day

And here we are at the end of April. Dreadful time of year. Not least of all because my birthday falls on the 30th. 

This year, tomorrow is shaping up to just be Thursday - complete with psychologist appointment. 

Birthdays are a quiet affair these days. Back when there was a family, we would go out for dinner, which I always enjoyed. In the past, of course, I would drink. I did go out for dinner with my support worker/bestie, S, two years ago, which was nice. Of course, I got drunk and made an idiot out of myself, but that was par for the course. 

In the past few years, for birthdays I would at least cook something ‘special’, or perhaps get takeout. That was really the only thing I 'did' for my birthday. But for the past four birthdays, I just feel like it was going through the motions. Following the script for what a birthday should be, even though I'm alone now. It’s become increasingly like that each year since mum passed. Christmas is the same - I just kept asking myself 

"Why am I even doing this?"

Even at my worst points, I’d always eaten on Christmas and birthdays.

This past Christmas, I couldn’t get a proper roast, and I took it as a sign. Instead, I fasted, as a silly little symbolic thing. I suppose it was like saying that my anorexia is stronger than tradition. That I am just done with it all.

For my birthday tomorrow, I asked S to get some cheese & chive scones from the bakery. They're something I used to have with mum, something that feels special. The bakery didn’t have any - they don’t even sell them anymore. 

Could I DoorDash them from another bakery? Of course. But I immediately thought that it’s a sign. That the universe is telling me not to eat. So I’m going to do a silly little symbolic thing, and fast. 

Even at my worst points, even at my lowest, I still ate every Christmas and every birthday. I always participated in those special meals. But it’s time to stop going through the motions. It’s time to stop pretending. 

* * *

It’s been another month, and so I’ve had two more appointments with the New GP. One in person, one telehealth. 

I also saw Dietitian. Apart from not having any appointments for two months, I hadn’t seen her in person since December. 

Ever since 2020, I’ve been doing most of my appointments as telehealth, only going in person when Old GP pushed me to get a blood test, or I needed other things done in person. I’m trying to change that and get there in person more. 

She mentioned that it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten on her scales. I said that I’d prefer not, that I really don’t want to.

“But it’s just the same as getting on your scales at home.” 

“But it’s not. I have to account for clothes, and all the fluids that I drink beforehand… I used to weigh my outfits and not even have any water beforehand. That’s why I always had the earliest appointment of the day. But I can’t get out of the house without at least a coffee these days.”

She understood, but asked if I could give her some weights to fill in the gaps on my record. I do tell her my weight when she asks, but she only does so occasionally, and I’m not sure if it’s always recorded. I am always honest about my weight, and I think she trusts me.

So I opened up my weight history and just gave her my phone. Looking at last year’s log, she commented on how much I’ve lost, that it’s gone down quite a bit. I tried to alleviate her concern, brushing it off as something that was always going to happen once I stopped drinking.

She told me that I really can’t afford to lose anymore, but I struggle to take it seriously. I have a tendency to make light of it., in the way the average person might go “oh, I’m so bad” when they take an extra dessert, I do it when I lose an extra kilogram.

Then she asked me how I feel about my weight. I thought for a moment.

“I don’t feel particularly strongly one way or another.”

Which is somewhat true. I went on to explain that after spending so many years in that BMI 12-14 range, that still feels like my Normal Weight. Then after the substantial weight gain when I started drinking, it never felt like the weight my body was supposed to be. It was foreign to me. 

And now I’m here, teetering around in between. I feel strongly about my weight, but somewhere in the middle. So I don’t completely hate my current weight, but I’m still not entirely comfortable with it either. In my mind, I’m halfway through getting back to my Normal Weight.

As for New GP, I'm still on the fence as to whether or not she'll be the right one for me. I’ve still got to go out to get a blood test, but looking at my previous results, she seems to think she can talk me into taking supplements. I told her that it’s not going to happen, that the only thing I’ve been able to do was the B12 shots, but she still wants to discuss it further.

I know its not logical to most people, but it’s still nutrition, still nourishing my body. Food and calories are the main concern, yes, but it doesn’t stop there. I could deal with the B12 shots, because it wasn’t me doing it. But taking those pills, willingly giving those extra nutrients to my body… I just can’t do it. I have a feeling she may not understand that.

xx Bella

The New GP

I met the New GP two weeks ago. 

When my Old GP and I were discussing who would take over my care, she threw out a few options for names. Mostly which doctors at the clinic were a) female and b) unlikely to be retiring soon, but not much else to go on. When I mentioned needing someone good with mental health, she said “oh, they’re all great!”, though I tend to be a bit more cautious after previous bad experiences. 

It was actually Dietitian’s opinion that swayed me to New GP. Of the other names in the hat, she said one of them “can be a bit scary”, and the other “is very thorough, but might be a bit too thorough”. I know I can always rely on her for an honest opinion. 

Compared to the last time I needed to find a new GP, it went really well. I told her what I needed from her. Medical monitoring, bloods and whatnot. Maintaining my prescriptions. That I’m working on harm reduction versus active recovery, and that I prefer to keep all ED-related discussions to Dietitian, including weight. 

New GP was understanding, and recognized that it’s a big change for me. And that, in her words, she has some very big shoes to fill after Old GP’s retirement. 

She seems happy with where I’m at with my various medications. Even the benzos, which Old GP was unsure if her successor would be comfortable continuing to prescribe me (because I know I’ve been on them a lot longer than is typical). I do want to potentially continue reducing my seroquel, which we started to do last year. But first, I feel like it’s time to get rid of the naltrexone.

Since I’m over a year sober, and it doesn’t particularly do much if you’re not drinking, it feels kind of pointless. For the past six months or so, it’s been more like a security blanket than anything else. I’ve been thinking about it since the hemicolectomy, because I felt like I was treated differently because of the naltrexone (regarding pain management, because of ‘my history’), and it all felt very icky. So, I think it’s time. 

I wasn’t sure how often I’d be seeing New GP, but she wants to keep the same routine I had with my Old GP. And it turns out that she actually does work on a day that my Dietitian does, so I can keep my fortnightly back-to-back appointments, it’ll just be Thursday afternoons instead of Tuesday mornings. 

Since Old GP retired, and thus all her patients needing new GPs, she was booked flat out with no open appointments for the next seven weeks. But she found a couple of on call appointments to block out for me, before we’ll settle into a regular time. 

When she was booking my next few appointments, she noticed that I didn’t have any lined up with Dietitian, and took the incentive to book them so they lined up with hers. I’m really glad she did, because I was struggling to convince myself to sort it out. So I’m also seeing Dietitian on Thursday, after almost 8 weeks. 

She said she’d understand if I decide to see someone else, if it doesn’t work out. But I told her I was cautiously optimistic - that I’d gone through so many GPs before finding Old GP, and it was already going exponentially better than last time I needed to find someone new. 

Miss Persephone has also been back at the vet this week. She had a good run - two months since her last visit! But in the process of weaning her off her meds, her urinary issues flared up again, this time having also developed a crystal in her bladder. I’m glad it’s nothing more serious, but it means that it’s time to move her to prescription food, since it’s the only thing we haven’t tried yet. It seems like it is indeed going to be a longterm issue for her, the poor little muffin. 

Just a short post this time. I’m really trying to push myself to do monthly posts, even if there’s not much to say (because there never is, until there is). Which is why I’m sat here at 5pm on the last of the month. I know I’ve been saying that for years, and hopefully I don’t jinx myself, but I really do miss it, even if there’s not many of us left in the blogosphere these days. 

A very fitting sticker for my pill organizer

The babies, who are finally coexisting peacefully 

(…most of the time)

xxBella

End of an Era

My GP of 13 years has officially retired. I had my last appointment with her on Tuesday. 

It was emotional. It was more of just a goodbye chat, ending with a quick “Oh, do you need any scripts?” as I stood in the doorway in the way out. 

It seemed very fitting that it was the same day that marked her 40 years in practice. It’s clear that she has been a deeply cherished doctor to many, made obvious by the display of dozens of cards covering her office. My stark grey card, blunt and self-deprecating as always, stood in contrast amongst the sea of more typical ‘thank you’ cards. Of course, I did fill the inside with my sappy gratitude and goodbyes, but “thanks for putting up with my rubbish” really says it all, doesn’t it?

I’d seen almost every GP at my clinic before I started going to her, and while some were more disastrous than others, none seemed willing to meet me where I was. I’d been maintaining around my lowest weight, seeing my dietitian for a year already. She’d been constantly trying to help me find a GP because I’d been without medical monitoring for so long. My GP was the first doctor who was actually willing to work with me and focus on monitoring and harm reduction, instead of just trying to push me back to hospital and psychiatrists. 

When I got home, I cracked. I was glad I’d planned ahead to wake up early to get all my housework and self-care tasks done beforehand, because I had a feeling that might happen. As soon as I walked in and sat on the couch, the finality of it all hit me. 

It’s the quiet kind of sadness. No tears, no hysterics. Just staring at the wall, blank. A sense of emptiness. Loss. Even now, several days later, I’m finding it hard to get motivated. Not to read, not to watch anything, not to talk to anyone. 

It feels like a kind of grief. Another important person in my life, just gone. I’ve spent the last few days in a zombie daze, shuffling around mindlessly to do the things that are necessary, then returning to bed. Sleep has, yet again, gone out the window. I’d been doing so well, too. The middle of the night just feels easier to cope with than the daylight hours. And because S is away for a week, I can just sit in my sadness for a bit, with no reason to be up at a certain time of day. 

I think the situation was compounded because I’m not sure what’s happening with my dietitian appointments. She was off sick this week. I’d called ahead to change the telehealth appointment to in person, since I’d be going in to say goodbye to my GP, and when they told me she wouldn’t be in and the telehealth confirmation had been sent in error, I also found out I have no future appointments booked. 

For many years now, my appointments have been booked several months in advance. Dietitian then GP, back-to-back, at the same time every fortnight. But since there’s no more GP appointments, I guess the dietitian appointments didn’t get booked either. I was a bit caught off guard, and just said I’d organize it another day. 

I know I probably should’ve gotten it done while I was at the clinic. Usually if there’s an issue, I’d mention it to my GP and she would get it sorted. But part of me is like “what if I just… don’t?”

So right now, it feels like I’m in limbo. No regular medical appointments. Nothing to hold me accountable, no one to catch me. It’s tempting to just slip away from medical monitoring. I still have my psychologist appointments, but I don’t talk to her about anything to do with anorexia. It feels like an opportunity to spiral. For maybe the second or third time since The Great Disembowelment, I had an urge the other day to take massive laxative overdoses, just to fuck my body up even more. 

I do have an appointment with a new GP in a few weeks, someone decided upon by both GP and dietitian as being the best fit for me, but right now, I don’t even want to do that. At least my old GP thought it was a good idea to book it for during supports with S, so she’ll be dragging me there even if I want to back out. I usually do appointments by myself, but we agreed it’d be best for the first appointment because I get so anxious meeting new people. 

I don’t know how often I’ll be seeing the new GP. I don’t think it’ll be fortnightly. Maybe every month, or even every two months because that’s the bare minimum I can stretch my scripts. It’s going to be a whole new routine, after over a decade of consistency. She doesn’t work the same days as my dietitian, so back-to-back appointments wouldn’t be an option. 

Right now, I don’t even want to think about it. 

It feels strange for this to be a footnote, but on Thursday, I reached a milestone that I thought I never might. It was One Year since my last drink. 

I didn’t do anything special. While I recognize it’s an achievement, internally it didn’t feel special. If anything, my mindset was more in a place of “how pathetic that I have to celebrate this, how pathetic that it took me so long to get sober”. Although I know, objectively, that’s it’s a positive thing, I’m just struggling to genuinely feel that. 

Coffee mugs for GP. It had to be cats, because we spend (spent) a lot of time bonding over our cats. Bold patterns, bright colours - very ‘her’

xxBella