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 

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

Reflections

I came into the New Year at 51.7kg. This week, 51.3 (113 lb, BMI 15.5). Slowly, slowly.

Quitting alcohol has really changed everything. Losing the booze weight was my main motivator, sadly. Nothing else mattered. I didn't care about the health concerns, physical or mental. I just needed the weight gone.

February 26th will be One Year Sober. Crazy. I started last year at 62.8kg, and was still 62.5kg on the day of my last drink (138 lb, BMI 18.8). Since then, the weight has been coming off. 11.2kg in just under 11 months.

The weight gain started with the alcohol, back in 2016. That year, I was still sitting at a low weight. That February, I was 42.2kg (92.8 lb, BMI 12.7). I had six years of sitting consistently around BMI 12-14, after hitting my lowest at 41.3 kg (90.8 lb, BMI 12.5).

I hit my 'highest weight' (not including pre-ED) in 2020. I was terrified of hitting the 70s, and came far too close for comfort. My highest weight was 69.8kg (154 lb, BMI 21.0), and it scared the shit out of me. I spent a lot of that time purposely avoiding posting my weight here - I was so ashamed.

After hitting that high, the weight loss slowly started, while I kept on drinking. 7kg across 4 years, frustratingly slow but consistent. Slow enough that I didn't really notice, until I looked back at the graph over a longer time period, or old body check photos. 

Since I quit drinking, the weight loss picked up the pace. I don't really see it as a problem. I see it as getting back to my 'normal' weight. I'm halfway there. I don't care if it's slow progress - it's still progress. I'm finally starting to feel good about my body again (keyword starting), even though I have 10kg to go to get back to my low weight. I'm itching to get back into the 40s. I just need to push.

For the most part, I'm in a little honeymoon phase, and I'm just riding the wave. Restricting feels good, and effortless. I know it will change, inevitably - it always does. I spend a lot of time in the mirror, turning and examining. In the right light, I can see my chest bones again, and it's the most amazing feeling.

Sometimes I feel like I still look like I did 15kg ago, and I have to get to the mirror to make sure that I'm not. No one ever comments on my weight (except for my dietitian, obviously, but she comments on the number, not how I look), which I can kinda understand, because it's a known issue to everyone, but it makes me question if I actually look different or not.


(As a note, I'm calculating my old BMIs with my current height. I was slightly taller back then, as my last DEXA scan put me at 182.1cm. I don't know exactly when the height loss began, so I may have been slightly taller for some of the old weights, which would lower the BMI a smidge)

* * *

After The Great Disembowelment, although I initially dropped a few kilos quite quickly after the swelling/water retention was gone, my weight then hit a plateau for a couple of months, and really only started dropping again in November. The majority of the weight loss happened before the surgery. I think it's partly because I feel like I never quite got my energy and activity levels back to normal following the surgery. I still feel so tired all the time. I'm more sedentary than I've been in years.

As for how all that's going, I've still been getting pain and nausea after eating, that seems to come and go. It'll be okay for a few weeks, then come back with a vengeance, and I start relying on liquid calories again. My GP isn't particularly concerned by this, and it might just be one of those things I have to deal with now.

I'm still trying to find the right balance of fiber supplements (which I've taken for well over a decade anyway) and osmolax, guided by my GP. Without getting too TMI, my bowels are unpredictable, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. Again, just something I might have to deal with.

I was warned that I may have trouble absorbing nutrients since I'm missing that section of bowel. I finally got a blood test done a month ago. I'd been putting it off, not wanting to deal with it. My B12 and Vitamin D have been consistently low for years - that's to be expected - but now I'm also low on Folate and Iron. Which probably doesn't help with my energy levels.

I've talked about it before, but supplements are a difficult thing for me. Fiber is the only exception. For me, it's not just about calories (though that is the main thing), it's also about simply not wanting to nourish my body. I can't take vitamins because it is giving my body nutrition, even though I know it's not going to contain calories or affect my weight. The idea of nutrition is difficult for me. Even the blood tests themselves can be triggering. Every number affects me, not just calories and weight.

Mentally, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that I did this to myself. Sometimes it still hits me hard, but it doesn't keep me up at night. But I do have a lingering unease with knowing how truly ready I felt to die when I crashed after the first surgery. It's scary to not have that fear of death, if that makes sense. It's something that I'm slowly unpacking with my psychologist.

* * *

My wonderful GP, who I've been seeing for 13 years, is retiring at the end of February. This is a major change, and I'm dreading it. It took so long to build a healthcare team that works for me, and works with me. I had some nightmarish experiences with other GPs before I started seeing her, and I don't care to repeat them.

I still haven't settled on a new GP. There's a few options, staying at the same clinic I've been at my entire life. My GP says they're all good with mental health, but I'm waiting to ask my dietitian's opinion when she gets back from her break. I need someone who will be understanding of eating disorders, and most importantly, be on board with harm reduction as opposed to pushing active treatment. Even when I started seeing my current GP, I spent the first few years maintaining around that BMI 12-14 mark, and she was always good about it. 

I have 3 appointments left with her, and time is quickly running out. I've known it's been coming for a few years now, but I'm still not ready. She's been with me so much, and it'll be so sad to say goodbye. She's become like family to me.

* * *

Christmas sucked. Worst one yet. I didn't question my sobriety, but I did question laxatives. I'm so over it. 

It was heavy. I was dreading it. I usually do some baking (which I rarely do anymore) around Christmas, family recipes, and a roast on the day to fill the freezer with leftovers. I bought the ingredients for grandma's caramel slice and mum's chocolate truffles, and they're still sitting in the pantry. It's just been going through the motions since mum died, and every year I ask myself "Why am I doing this?"

I broke down in tears a few days before. I'd decided to do lamb this year, which I used to make a lot with mum, though I've only done chicken since I've been doing Christmas solo. The only lamb roast S could find at the shops was kind of pathetic. It was such a small thing, but it broke the dam. She kept talking about Christmas, and asking what I was going to do, and I broke down completely.

"I don't know whether it's more sad to cook that pathetic lamb, or nothing at all."

When the day came, I decided on nothing at all. I didn't cook my roast. I didn't eat. 

Even at my worst points, I have always eaten on days like Christmas and birthdays, when we used to go out for birthday dinners, even if I didn't really want to. So to me, it was a stupid little symbolic thing. To show that I'm done with Christmas. It's not special enough to force myself to eat.

The only highlight of the day was getting an email notification that I had a comment from Shelby on here, saying they were thinking of me. It gave me my only smile of an otherwise lonely and empty day.

* * *

I also had yet another move in October. Packing ahead of the move was a real push. Physically, it was the most difficult move I've had yet. Thankfully it was timed well, and I got the '60 day's notice' right around the time the 'no heavy lifting' restriction passed. It was still hard, but at least I wasn't at risk of damaging something or causing a hernia.

Now, I'm struggling to get the new house unpacked, as evidenced in the backgrounds of my photos. Some days, even staying on top of regular housework has been a struggle. Everything just takes so much effort, it's all so draining. 

It was also my first time moving sober. I wasn't sure if I was going to get through it. I didn't even pack up my alcohol until about two weeks before the move (yes, I still brought it with me - I'm not quite ready to completely let go of it yet, but it's now packed away in the garage), because I was worried I might crack. It definitely got a lot easier once I secured a new place, though there was still so much to do.

Through the move, Miss Sephi has been unwell. Thankfully, it's nothing serious - we ran the full gamut of tests to rule out the serious issues, including the Big C. It still feels so recent that Misty passed, and I was terrified I was going to lose Sephi too. I wonder how I would deal with grief sober.

It turns out that the stress of the move triggered a stubborn bout of Stress Cystitis. Basically, when cats get stressed, their bladder can become inflamed and cause behavioral urinary issues. It started a week before moving day - just the packing and boxes piling up was upsetting her, and she was straining to pee every few minutes. I panicked, and took her to the vet that day.

Since then, she's had half a dozen more visits. Anxiety meds twice a day, anti-inflammatories, and even an antidepressant - the latter of which will be a long term thing. She's starting to wean off the anti-inflammatories (she had a few short courses at the start, but went backwards when they stopped, so she's been on them for a solid month), and we're going back next week to check in and see if she can start coming off more of the meds. But for now, she's doing okay. She's now settled into the new house, though it was a slow process.

Summer vibes

As you might notice, I did a thing to my hair! It's the first time since 2011 that I've had black hair. I had the dye sitting around for months, waiting for the courage and impulse to strike. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it for, but I like it more than I thought I would. I've recently done my eyebrows a bit darker, too.

A couple of months ago, a couple of kilos higher. 

I dug through my clothing tubs, where I store my different sized clothes, trying on dozens of items. I was ecstatic to find that most of my size 6 (AU) clothes fit again.

I got dressed up to go out for lunch with my writing group (that I've been in since I was a teenager). A bunch of people came down from Melbourne to go to somewhere local to me. Definitely outside my comfort zone, but it was nice. We did it in 2024 as well - the first group event I'd been to in person in over a decade, since I can't get to Melbourne anymore. We're planning to do it next year too. I can't remember the last time I'd seen a friend who wasn't a support worker.

The full fit. I look a bit rough because I didn't take photos until after the lunch - not my best decision (I should've at least brushed my hair after getting home! It was windy out). 

It's difficult trying to balance wanting to choose clothes for fashion, when my main concern is trying to look thin (or at least, not bigger than I am)

(sorry for the awkward photo formatting - I’ve realised that putting photos side-by-side makes them weirdly squished on mobile view, and I’m yet to figure out a better option. It’s also currently 4am, and now is not the time to figure it out, but at least I’ve finally gotten this post done)

Much love to you all. Thanks for sticking around. It means more to me than you could ever know.

xxBella

Action, meet Consequence

I’m currently recovering from having half of my large intestine surgically removed. Even staring back at that sentence, it feels surreal. Reality still hasn’t sunk in yet.  You always think that it’ll never happen to you. Or, if it does, it won’t be so bad. Courtesy of an on-and-off relationship with laxatives, a few weeks ago I found myself needing emergency surgery.  Life has not been good lately, but the reasons don’t really matter right now. What’s important is that I wasn’t coping. I want to make it clear that I know laxatives don’t affect calorie absorption or weight loss beyond water/waste weight. It’s never been linked to my food consumption - there’s no correlation between calorie intake and laxative use. For me, it’s a form of self harm. To spend a day or two writhing in pain, going between bed and the bathroom. If it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t enough. It’s been an on-and-off issue for a long time, sometimes going 6 months to a year without touching them. But throughout July, I was taking heavy amounts of bisacodyl 2-4 times a week. Now, after these past few weeks, I never want to experience gastrointestinal pain again.   One morning, I woke up at 5am in excruciating pain. A 6/10, peaking to a screaming-crying 9/10 every 5-10 minutes. The worst pain I had ever felt. I hadn’t even taken laxatives for about a week, which was my first indication that something was seriously wrong. I considered an ambulance a couple of times, but that felt like an overreaction. S was going to be here at 11 for supports, and surely it could wait until then. Part of me actually thought (hoped) it might stop. At the emergency room, it took a while for them to figure out what was wrong. Was it my appendix? Ovaries? To be fair, I didn’t disclose my laxative abuse immediately. It could be entirely unrelated, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Silly me.

Part of my bowel had twisted around itself, and the tissue was dying. A volvulus. When they first told me it was a cecal volvulus, I just sighed, and finally told the doctor about the laxatives. 

“Yep, that’ll do it.”

Even after that, the surgeons went back and forth.  “It’s a cecal volvulus” “No, you might just be really constipated, we’ll monitor you overnight” “It’s definitely a volvulus, you need surgery now" The lead up to the surgery was scary. They talked about the possibility of a stoma. But at that point, I would’ve done anything just to make the pain stop. In the morning, I went in to surgery. I needed a right hemicolectomy. They removed a total of 33cm (13”). And because they need a large opening to actually get it out, they couldn’t do keyhole surgery, so it was a full open laparotomy. From end to end, the incision measures 17cm (6.7”), ignoring the curves. So I'm going to have one hell of a scar. Unfortunately, that was not the end of it. While in the ICU after the surgery, my blood pressure was getting dangerously low. My hemoglobin levels kept dropping. Until the next morning, when it all came to a head. My blood pressure hit the dirt. Six nurses rushing in, clear the room, hit the alarms, get the doctor. They gave me two units of blood, more albumin, more fluids. It feels dramatic to call it a ‘near death experience’, but I honestly thought I was dying.  What a stupid way to go. Even then, I hate to admit, I couldn’t help but think “so this is how anorexia will kill me, and I’m still going to die fat”. But there was no panic. No ‘please help me’. Just a quiet “thank you for taking care of me”.  I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Apart from a regret that I was going to die ‘fat’, I felt ready. I was happy that it was a result of my anorexia that would kill me, even if I wasn’t at my thinnest. I always thought I would panic when facing death. That I’d be scared and try to fight and bargain and plead, that I’d be suddenly full of regret for my actions. But I just felt calm and truly ready.  And that’s kind of terrifying now to know. I am 32 years old, and I am ready to die.  After 45 minutes, they stabilized me, then confirmed on CT that I was bleeding internally. So, back to surgery to fix the leak, along with five more units of blood.  I was in the ICU for five days, followed by a week on the surgical ward. I spent the first 2-3 days vomiting dark ‘coffee grounds’ blood. I couldn’t sleep, it was so constant. They would usually have an NG tube placed to aspirate the stomach contents, but when I woke up with one after the second surgery, apparently they had to hold me down to stop me pulling it out, and eventually agreed to remove it.  The pain was intense. I didn’t think the post-surgical pain could be worse than the volvulus itself, but I was wrong. The first time getting back on my feet had me in tears. But each day, it got a bit easier.  They only had me on liquids for less than a week, though I needed a bit of a push to start attempting solids again, even though it was the best way to get my bowels working again. I was so afraid it would make the pain worse. Everything felt like lead in my stomach. It felt like everything was so swollen, there wasn’t any space for anything.  It took about 10 days before my bowels starting moving again. I won’t go into too much detail, but the first week was incredibly painful and difficult. Things have since settled down, but they said it’ll take a few months before I find my ‘new normal’. Because the large intestine, pulls water out of the stool, BMs will be more watery. It'll take some time to figure out how things will be different, and a lot of it is 'wait and see'. I’ve been home for a couple of weeks now, and I’m struggling. The pain is mostly manageable with over-the-counter painkillers at this point, but I’m so incredibly exhausted. I can barely bring myself to get out of bed. Apart from it being a major surgery, and open vs keyhole, I think needing the second surgery has also affected how long healing will take, not to mention being at a sub-optimal weight and intake. I have been eating a little more since I came home than I was beforehand, but still no where near where it should be. Even for protein intake, my dietitian said that healing from surgery I should be getting about 80g a day! I rarely even hit 25g. It's been a main focus with her for quite a few months now. I still can’t bring myself to work supplement shakes into my daily intake, even though I know they would help.  My weight has been dropping since I stopped drinking. This past Tuesday, I hit 6 months sober, so I guess I have that going for me.  For a quick recap, I initially gained a lot when I first started drinking in 2016. I spent a long time bouncing around the 60's range. Around 2020, when I first started cutting back on the alcohol, it started slowly coming off. Just a couple of kilos each year, nothing drastic.  Since I stopped drinking completely, it’s picked up speed. When I had my last drink, I was 62.5kg (137lb, BMI 18.8). This week, I hit 52.1kg (114lb, BMI 15.7). Over 10kg now. I felt like I was doing okay with it before the surgery, but now, I’m really feeling the effects. I'm trying to process everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, and I can’t shake this nagging thought, knowing that I’ve done this to myself. The nights have been the hardest. When the world is quiet, there’s nothing left to do, I’m worn out both physically and mentally, and it’s just me and my thoughts. I knew the risks. I knew this could happen. And I did it anyway.  My body will never be the same again, inside or out. And it’s all my own damn fault.  This isn’t the first time I’ve been hit with the permanent effects of anorexia. I’ve had osteoporosis since I was 21, and have already begun to lose height (at my last DEXA scan, I was 182.1cm). I don't bounce back in the same way I did when I first got sick. Not to mention the myriad psychological effects after 15+ years of this.  But this, this is the most drastic. It’s not even just the scar. My bowels will never work the same again. It will effect me every single day for the rest of my life. And while it could’ve been worse, and I was lucky to avoid needing a stoma, it’s something so needless, something that could have been easily avoidable.  I did clear the house of laxatives within the first week of being home. I don’t think I would’ve touched them again anyway, but best not to find out. Even in that last month when I was using them heavily, I was often vomiting them up. I would take them over the course of an hour, have sugar-free mints to suck on in between, anything to try to combat the nausea. It was like my body was trying to tell me something, but I refused to listen.  For now, my GP wants me to get bloods done more often. Although most of it was my large intestine, they did remove 10.5cm (4.1”) of my small intestine, where nutrients are absorbed. So she wants to keep a closer eye on things, because it can be unpredictable. Beyond that, I’m still not sure what the future will look like. Some questions I’m too afraid to ask (will it increase my risk for other bowel issues in the future?), some things it’s just ‘wait and see’.  So, I guess that’s it. I really fucked up this time. 

xxBella