After the Rain

My Great Aunt's funeral was on Friday.

I knew it was bad when they contacted me to tell me she was in the hospital. I knew it was bad that she wasn't able to contact me herself.

We were supposed to have coffee the following Friday.
They texted me on Sunday.
She died on Tuesday.

I'd been constantly on edge for those two days, waiting for a phone call, not knowing whether it would be my aunt (good) or her son (bad). On the walking pad, 21 minutes shy of hitting 3.5hrs because it was the only thing I could do to dull the anxiety, the phone rang. I'd been expecting the call to come from her phone, just as her son had texted me from it, regardless of who was on the other end. But when I saw his name pop up on my phone, I knew.

I sat crying on the kitchen floor. When we got off the phone, the tears immediately devolved into loud, heaving, guttural sobs. Even when you know it's coming, even though she'd been in poor health for a few years now, you're never really prepared for the impact of it. A few hours later, after initially retreating to bed, I finished my last 21 minutes so I wouldn't have such an odd number.

Friday, the funeral.

I haven't seen most of the extended family in a very long time. For most of them, maybe 20 years. Even as a child, we were never really part of big family events, so it was more just when we'd see them at my aunt's house. I had to mentally prepare myself that I could very well leave feeling more alone than ever, as I've always felt very 'outside' the family and this might just reinforce that. 

I knew it was going to be big, but I wasn't prepared for just how big. There was maybe 150 people there, most of whom I'm somehow related to but don't really know. It was a very daunting thing to walk into. She had four sons, 20+ grandkids (around my age), plus everyone's partners, plus great-grandkids. I felt very much a fish out of water, only able to match a handful of names to faces.

The service was beautiful. I sat towards the back, unsure of where I belonged in the family.

After, I spoke briefly with her son, as well as my aunt's lifelong best friend, who I remember fondly from my younger years. The others, I wasn't too sure about approaching. The son asked if I was going to join the gathering at their house, which I didn't know was happening. But I took the opportunity, even though it was more daunting than the funeral itself given the social aspect.

I got the opportunity to talk with a few more people (mainly the host son's wife, plus another son and his wife), who were all absolutely lovely and kind and welcoming.

I eventually grabbed a few cheese and crackers from the overwhelming spread of nibbles. As soon as I did, one of the women I'd been talking to said (very loudly, in a very busy room) "Good to see you eating!" and, after I probably looked quite shocked, gestured at my body. Then brought over a platter of cakes and made a few little jokey comments about how I should eat more 'fattening stuff'. Again, I haven’t seen or spoken to her in 20 years, several years before my ED started. It’s a great way to make someone already anxious about eating in front of people even more anxious because it turns out I'm not just being paranoid and people are watching.

I'm not offended or upset by it, just taken aback. I’m not really around strangers often enough to have to deal with these type of comments. Most people in my life tend to actively avoid commenting, for better or worse. My aunt was the only one to comment in recent years. It felt like a very neutral comment, neither compliment or concern, in a similar way to how my mum used to. Sometimes I think there's not actually been a change, or that it's so slight that I'm the only one who sees it. I tend to focus on the individual body parts, and I think sometimes I lose sight of the bigger picture, of my body as a whole. To me, I am not greater than the sum of my parts.

It was also the first time I've been around alcohol since I stopped drinking, almost two years ago now. It wasn't as difficult as I'd been worried about, helped by the fact most people drank beer, so I wasn't dealing with an overwhelming scent of wine or spirits. Sparkling water only for me. It's also been my first time dealing with grief sober as an adult. That first week, I honestly thought I might break. But I know if I start, I won't be able to stop.

But amongst the sadness, there is a small bright spot.

I have been extended an invitation for Family, as it were. Host son's wife (the only of the four sons who lives locally) said that I need to know I still have a family. That I'm not alone, and I'm always welcome. And that once things settle a bit, they'd like to reach out and get to know one another again. I immediately started bawling. I felt very seen, and it came as a huge relief. I told her I would really love that, and it means a lot to me. After preparing myself to come out of it with nothing, it was more than I could've hoped for, but everything I wanted.

It's been a significant loss for me. Not just the loss of an aunt, but the loss of a connection to my mum. She was the last family I really had a connection to, outside of my brother messaging for things like Christmas and birthdays. It's been a very lonely feeling.

I went into it expecting nothing. It was an incredibly difficult situation to walk into, but I'm so glad I did, to show up and show that I do want to be part of the family. Sometimes it feels like because I missed the opportunity as a child, that it's too late. But I suppose sometimes it really is grief that brings people together.

Today, I am starting to feel perhaps not quite so low. I still went back to bed this morning, but I also got back up. I suppose it's part the sense of closure that funerals somehow give, part the glimmer of hope that I might still have family. It's been an awful couple of weeks, but maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel after all.

Some of the collages my aunt made over the years, which hanged proudly on her walls, displayed at the post-funeral gathering

xxBella

Disclosure

Dietitian usually checks in with my weight every month or two, not necessarily every fortnight. It'd been relatively stable for several months, so it wasn't really needed to keep a close eye on. Since I ramped up my exercise, I've been torn between hoping she'll ask, and hoping she won't so I can lose more before she does. 

Last fortnight, I actually found myself talking more to try to fill the time, rambling about the differences in my previous yoghurt (Yoplait Zero) vs my current one (Chobani Fit), and how I feel like I'm now eating too much protein because it's more than the bare minimum ("there's no such thing as too much protein for you"), so there wouldn't be a lull in the conversation for her to ask about it.

This week, she did ask. I feel like it's not that much different to being in the 56s last time she asked, but it was enough to set off warning bells.

"We do not want you back in the 40s again! Do you hear me? We battled for so long to get you out of there."

"I'm really not happy with that. But I know it probably makes you happy that I'm not happy." 

"I'm going to be keeping a close eye on you."

All I want is to be back in the 40s. Though unfortunately I'm not delusional enough to think it'll make me happy, or ever be 'enough'.

I'm kind of relieved that it's all out in the open though. 

Psychologist has been checking in too, which still feels weird. In the past, I haven't talked to her much about it. When I started seeing her, I had already been drinking heavily for a year or two, and was back at a normal weight, and I just didn't want to talk about it. We've spoken briefly when it relates to other things going on in my life (like the bowel surgery), but for the most part, I only talk to dietitian about everything ED-related.

She asked if I've been trying the distress tolerance techniques. I laughed, and told her I kinda got stuck on the exercise part. But hey, it works. She wants me to at least try the cold therapy (cold shower, face in ice water, etc), but I guess my brain doesn't really see a need to. The exercise has scratched the itch for self-destruction, something to channel all that negative energy into, and laxatives are back to being just an occasional passing thought. She said it's not good, but better than the laxatives. I definitely see it as the lesser of two evils. It's a more passive, long-term form of self-harm (much like the ED in general), versus the laxatives having a much higher potential for emergencies in the short-term.

Last week, I had two days at 2hrs, and four days at 3hrs. I feel like I've barely had time for anything else. I think the rest days are even more important for my mind than for my body. It's nice to just sit without it hanging over my head, and to have time for other things (today, blogging), or to just relax. 

While it's going to be somewhat annoying to have both of them keeping an eye on me, I'm not ashamed to say the overwhelming feeling is that of validation. Of course, I could've just been honest about the fact I've not been doing very well for quite some time now, but it's not the same. It's like, until it's seen from the outside, it's not valid. Which is probably why I don't jump to offer this information up to them until they ask.

As I'm finishing writing this, I just got a text from my Great Aunt's phone. I'm supposed to go visit her on Friday. But one of her sons has just texted from her phone, telling me she's in hospital and will be in contact when she can. It immediately knocked the wind out of me. At almost-95, and with her medical issues, I can't help but think the worst. Of course, they haven't told me what's going on. I'd like to think they'd tell me if the situation were dire, but I don't know that they would. I can only think it can't be good if she's not texting/calling herself - this hasn't happened with any previous hospital admissions.

54.0 today.

Some days it just feels like I'm getting no where. I have to keep checking the graphs and weekly averages. It's moving about 0.5kg a week, which is better than nothing. It's been a couple of weeks without seeing a number beginning with 55, but I'm so ready to be done with the 54s.

xxBella

Spring

I've kept up with at least two hours a day on the walking pad, with one rest day a week. Some days have been up to three hours. 

When I first got it, I thought I could just use it for 30 minutes here and there. Get five minutes in when I'm waiting for a telehealth appointment, or if I have a few minutes before S gets here, or waiting for the washing machine to finish. Maybe when I've been sitting for a while, and just felt like moving. But compulsive exercise has always been an issue for me, which is one of the big reasons I've avoided getting a proper exercise machine again. I didn’t want to go back to having the constant stress. Now it's hanging over my head again, something I need to do before I can sit down and stop.

So far, I've mostly been walking between 4-5km/h, usually some 12,000ish steps across two hours, and according to my Fitbit, around 600 calories burned (more like 480, if you subtract the ‘staying alive’ calories). I know they're never going to be 100% accurate, but it's better than nothing.

Dietitian didn’t ask how much I’m walking, just that I am. I guess I'll see if she asks tomorrow. While I’ve never been one to lie to hide my eating disorder, I do tend to omit parts of the truth with professionals unless directly asked. Psychologist did ask though when she spotted the walking pad. I don’t usually talk much about the ED with her unless it comes up naturally, because it’s not her specialty, so I was surprised when she showed concern. 

She asked if I was getting enough calories for it (no intake increase), if Dietitian knows (not really), if it was triggering for the ED (that’s the point, I certainly don’t exercise for my health, I just needed to do something to get the scale moving again), and if I’m aiming for a specific number on the scale (not in particular, I’ve done this long enough to know I’ll never be satisfied).

‘Not in particular’ feels strangely accurate, if vague. It’s always just the next milestone. 51kg, 49kg, 45kg, BMI 15, 14, 13, 12… a never-ending string of goals, but none in particular. 

But at least I haven’t taken laxatives again since I started exercising so much. 

My worth today is 54.3kg. 119.5lb, BMI 16.4.

56.6 at the start of September, 56.0 when my walking pad was delivered three weeks ago. In recent months, I'd sit mostly between 55-56kg. Something had to give. ~54.5kg is what I'd only see after a laxative overdose, when I was dehydrated and drained. When I hit that, that's when I knew I was outside of 'normal fluctuation' territory, and that the scales were finally moving again.

I try to keep my focus on the bigger picture. It’s only now that I can look at the trend for the past few weeks and see a definitive loss. I weigh myself every time I use the bathroom, but only count first and last weights of the day (the latter so I can try to predict the next morning’s weight). Even then, I try not to stress out when it jumps up. Yesterday I woke up 0.6kg heavier than the morning prior, and ended up walking three hours because of it, because it’s an abnormal fluctuation to the current pattern, but of course it was back down this morning anyway. 

The warmer weather is officially here, and it's such a relief. I spend winter shuffling around in a dressing gown, hugging a heat pack, even with the heater on a reasonable temperature. It's always so nice to be able to just sit around in leggings and a tank top. I immediately feel so much lighter (metaphorically).

xxBella

Just Keep Walking

I finally took the plunge and bought a walking pad.

It's been years since I've had a full-size exercise machine. I had an elliptical for many years, which was my first love in the early days of my AN, then an exercise bike for a while. In recent years I've only had smaller items (like an aerobic step, mini exercise bike, and a mini stepper) but mostly they're more geared towards building muscle than I'd like, whereas I'd rather get rid of it.

I've always liked the idea of being able to walk inside without having to pace in endless loops, but I wasn't sure if I'd get used to the sensation of the moving belt, so I was apprehensive. It took a couple of days to adapt, but now I'm loving it. After the initial period of getting used to it - 60 minutes on the first day, 90 minutes on the second day - I've been doing a full two hours each day, broken up into three or four sessions.

I did have one rest day, and felt much better for it physically (my legs have been screaming at me), but in little over a week, I feel that all-too-familiar anxiety already taking root. I didn't think I'd be using it this much, at least not initially, but it already feels non-negotiable, an obligation to hit the numbers before I can rest. It's constantly hanging over my head. At the end of the day, I've been so tired, I haven't had energy to do much else. I was determined to get a post done today though, even though it means I've only done 40 80 minutes so far, and will have to keep going once I've posted this.

I'm hoping it'll be exactly what I need to break the plateau I've been stuck at for months now. It's far too early to tell, but I'm cautiously optimistic.

I guess it's as good a reason as any to get out of bed in the morning. Plus, I'm smashing through audiobooks.

I told Psychologist about the laxatives. I wasn't sure if I would. I could feel myself dancing around the issue, trying to avoid it, but knowing I should tell her.

Towards the end of our sessions, she always asks if there's anything else I wanted to talk to her about. Most of the time, I've usually covered the important things.

This time, I paused.

"Um..."

Pause.

Then, it all spilled out. I told her about how I've been getting fixated on self-harm, the vivid thoughts of carving myself open, knowing exactly where the blade should start and stop. I told her about the laxatives. That I crave lasting pain they give, not just momentary like other forms have been.

We spoke a bit about distress tolerance techniques, and gave me a plan to follow using a few different methods. She wants me to try it when my distress levels are like a 6/10, and see if it drops any. The idea is to do it before it gets to a 10/10, before it gets to the point where I'm DoorDashing laxatives.

1. Stop, don't act

2. Face in ice water, or ice pack, cold shower, etc

3. 60-90 seconds of movement to increase the heart rate (suggested star jumps)

4. Breathing exercises

5. Chew strong gum, peppermints, something sour, etc

I couldn't help but laugh at the star jumps. It's the one thing I have tried before. Back in 2013, trying to avoid self harm, I tried jumping up and down on the spot and shaking my arms. The first time I tried it, I sprained my arch. Once it healed, I tried the technique again, and immediately sprained the other arch. Fool me twice...

So far, I'm only really doing the exercise part (which scratches part of the 'self destruction' itch). I don't really know how to stop as the first step. A week after my last post, when the urge came, I immediately opened Amazon and ordered three bottles of laxatives, then took them as soon as they were delivered two days later (note: it still didn't feel like enough). I like the idea of the whole process, but it seems that actually starting it is the problem. I don't know how to circumvent the impulse.

She asked if I'd told the rest of the team. I said I'd told S, but still wasn't sure if I was going to tell Dietitian or GP. She said that if I did, GP knows they can call her if they have any concerns.

I laughed "I don't know that she does."

At our last appointment (when she agreed to increase the Seroquel further - still waiting to see if it helps), GP asked me if I've ever thought about linking in with psychology. I've been seeing my current psych for 9 years, in-and-out of different mental health professionals since I was 12. 

It made me realize just how little she knows about me and my overall situation. I know it's still early days, but after 6 months of fortnightly appointments, I was shocked that she didn't even know I have a psychologist. It makes me wonder what else she just doesn’t know about yet. 

xxBella

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