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

Another Year Gone

  So, here we are in 2023.

  I know it's been a while (again), so let's recap.

  Since I last posted, a lot has happened. There's been a lot of chaos, welfare checks, attempts at unaliving myself, trips to hospital in the ambulance, a stay in the ICU with a central line in my neck to combat an overdose, my first COVID infection, a broken toe, a physio who's given up on me, an unexpected move to a new house, the dreaded holidays, and more. Fair warning, this will probably be a long post, but I'll try to not ramble on too much.

  Back in July, I had one of the worst overdoses I'd had in a long time. Since the first anniversary of my mum's passing in June, I'd found myself spiraling. 

  With the Big OD, a mix of both stockpiled daily meds and paracetamol, it's all a bit of a blur. I'd stumbled upon the paracetamol while I was packing, leftovers from when I needed a mix of different painkillers after my nerve injury. And something inside me just snapped. I don't usually keep it around because I know it's a big trigger, and I know how much harm it has caused me in the past, but for some reason, I kept a few packets that I had left, even once I no longer needed them. 

  The next thing I remember was a few days later, waking up in the hospital, unsure of how much time had passed. Naturally, my main concern was my MyFitnessPal streak (at 4,387 days, I can't imagine losing it). I fumbled around my phone with uncoordinated fingers, and eventually found the app. Thankfully, I managed to keep my streak over a couple of groggy days, water automatically logged in advance.

  As it turned out, I had missed a telehealth appointment with my psychologist. She was concerned, as I've never missed an appointment with her before, and she knew how much I'd been struggling in the past month. She knew something was wrong, so she called in a welfare check.

  They had placed a central line in my neck, as apparently the IV cannulas in both arms weren't enough, pumping me full of acetylcysteine mixed with glucose, saline and various other nutrients. I was yellow, jaundiced from my liver struggling to process the paracetamol. I've had a lot of IVs in the past, and I've had a few paracetamol overdoses where it looked like my liver wasn't going to recover, but this was my first time with a central line. You know when things are bad when you wake up to four doctors standing over you discussing whether to transfer you to the ICU or a major hospital in Melbourne - more than an hour away from where I live. I was in the ICU for a few days, then down to the general ward, where I was officially held under the Mental Health Act (Australia's version of a section, basically).

  While I understand the supervision required in the ICU, I hate the 1:1 babysitters on the general ward. After watching me eat, the nurse would then come in, lift the cloche, and silently judge what I did and didn't eat. It seemed like a moot point though, as they were pumping me full of more things than I care to remember.

  I was determined to avoid the public psych ward, and get out of the Mental Health Act. They determined that I would, in fact, be transferred there. I've been to several different psych wards - from adolescent to ED to private - but I'd always managed to avoid this one. When I've been sectioned in the past, I've been kept on the medical ward out of necessity (no IVs allowed in the psych ward), and moved to another facility afterwards.

  The psych team came in daily. As the nurse changed the drip on the central line, she mentioned that they'd probably switch me to oral liquid supplements (ha, fat chance!) once I was moved to the psych ward.

  "Nope, I'm not going there, I'm going home."

  "Well, we're just not going to talk about it, because then we won't have a very good rapport."

And we left it there.

  Two days later, I was indeed going home. I plead to the psych team about how I was just grieving for my mum, and that I needed grief counselling, not a psych hold. That I just wanted to go home and be with the cats, and follow up with proper grief counselling. Not to mention, I had mere weeks left to find new housing, and couldn't afford to lose any more time. That I really needed to go home to be able to finish packing. All of it true. And eventually, they released me to the care of my regular team.

  In the time I was there, my support worker was sick. My brother stopped by to pick up a key to take care of the cats. The only real visitor I had was when my dietitian came to visit me while I lay in the ICU. I don't even remember it, but I remember that she was there. This was my second admission (beyond the quick emergency room visit) since my mum passed, and it just rubs salt in to the wound that I am alone.

 

  But wait, there's more.

  When I was in hospital (on the general ward), they stuck me in a room with someone who ended up having COVID, as they were out of space meaning no private rooms. From the moment they moved me in and I heard the other patient coughing constantly, I was immediately on edge. Not wanting to risk potentially offending the other patient, I typed a note on my phone and held it up to show the nurse, simply saying "I don't want to get COVID". They said I'd be fine, and they gave me a benzo to calm down. Being on a psychiatric hold, I couldn't exactly leave. I'd still rather share a room with someone contagious than men though, so at least they were able to avoid that.

  The day I went home I was starting to feel somewhat human again. After a long soak in the tub, although exhausted, and sore from scrubbing the sticky bits off from various dressings and those dreaded ECG dots, I was still waiting for my energy to return. I figured that I might not get much done for a few days, but if I could wash a few dishes and book a few rental inspections, I would be happy.

  It's important to note that I was tested for COVID a few times while I was in hospital. Even that morning, a mere few hours before I was discharged, they tested me and it came back negative. So I was in the clear, right?

  Wrong.

  I woke up at 2am with an unsually painful cough. All I could think was "oh, fuck". I did a rapid test in the morning, and of course, it was positive.

  Then, I got a phone call. The coughing lady they put in the bed next to mine did in fact have COVID. To say I was upset is an understatement. If I wasn't sectioned, I would've transferred to another hospital to finish the medical treatment as soon as they moved me in to a shared room. Both the outreach team and my psychologist encouraged me to lodge a complaint, especially because I have COPD and so any respiratory illness is a big risk. But life got in the way, and it never happened.

  After a week in isolation, I was relieved to be able to see my support worker again, and to continue looking for housing. Of course, if something can go wrong, it will. The first morning out of isolation, I managed to break a toe (thanks, osteoporosis) after stubbing it on furniture. After my nerve injury 18 months ago, I mostly only need the walking stick when I go out and have to deal with steps, uneven ground, or spending more than 5-10 minutes on my feet. Both my leg and arm are still quite weak, and get exhausted and sore easily, and I still have numb patches, but it could've been much worse. But at least I had the walking stick to make getting around easier despite the broken toe.

 

  So amongst all of this, I found myself having to move. My landlord had decided to sell my unit, and I was given 90 days notice.

  I'm not sure what it's like elsewhere, but in Australia, in Geelong, the rental market has been rough. I looked at dozens of places, applying for nearly everything with no luck, and time was running short. I couldn't face being homeless again, and as time went on, I became less and less picky, willing to take anywhere that would keep a roof over my head. When I was in hospital, and then with COVID, I had less than a month left to move. I had to have support workers go to inspections for me, and I would just apply without having seen the place myself.

  Thankfully, I was offered a place at the last minute. I had to organize the movers and picking up the keys all in one day, so the first time I saw it was when the movers started bringing things in. It was also the same day that I had to return the keys to my old place, so it truly was last minute. I was nervous about my new house. It was one that my support worker had looked at while I was down with COVID. When I first got it, she only had good things to say. But as days went on, she added little details that made me worried - that the last tenants were hoarders and she could barely see the house, things like that.

  In the end, I'm very grateful for my new house. It's not in the greatest condition, but it's much better than I worried about, and it keeps a roof over my head. Over time, it has become home to me. Half of my things are still in boxes, and it'll only build once I get my late mum's things out of storage, but I'm doing what I can. Between packing up my mum's house, and then my own, I spent the better part of a year packing, so I'm in no rush to get everything unpacked.

  There was another paracetamol incident in October. I felt lower than I had in  long time. I have felt some level of suicidal ideation fairly constantly for longer than I care to admit, but seldom have an active plan. But this night, I did. I had a method, a plan, notes for basically every one that I know in real life. It felt like it was going to happen.

  Even with the Big OD, I don't know if I truly wanted to die or not. But this night, I did. 

  The trigger wasn't anything big. It was just talking to my psychologist about mum, things that I've talked about many times before. My support worker was out getting groceries while I spoke to my psychologist on the phone. And I thought I was okay.

  But by the time she got back, my support worker found me blubbering. 'Love Me Tender' by Elvis was playing, one of the main songs on my 'mum' playlist, along with 'Imagine' by John Lennon - the two songs she requested for her funeral. As soon as she walked in and heard that song, she just hugged me. I blubbered in to her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. I don't even know exactly what the trigger was.

  She stayed for nearly half an hour over time, running late for her next client. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with my heart aching out of my body, lying on the floor and crying, gasping for air. My chest hurt, feeling like my heart was about to burst. It was the most intense pain I've felt in months.

  Late that night, I ended up Door Dash'ing half a dozen boxes of paracetamol. The next morning, I woke up with a blinding hangover. When I got out of bed, I saw the lounge room floor covered with a puddle of pill-filled vomit, empty pill boxes strewn around. I couldn't remember how long it was between taking them and throwing up, and had no idea how much had absorbed. I was too scared to tell anyone, not wanting to risk being sectioned again. Spoiler alert - I was fine, and did end up telling my team a few weeks ago. I was glad that it hadn't caused any damage, but the level of intent scared me.

  Christmas was painful, and I don't think that any years to come will get any better. 

  I made a most basic roast chicken for myself, served with roasted vegetables and homemade gravy. Black Russians - my mum's favourite drink - flowed freely, the bottles of Diet Coke quickly filling my recycling bin. On the couch, in my pajamas. TV off, no traffic outside. Just the sound of the bathroom tap dripping in the next room.

  After a few too many drinks, I decided it a good idea to go to the cemetery. Of course, I packed a 'water' bottle for the road. Asking the taxi to stop by the servo, I was disappointed by their dismal display of flowers, but I suppose it's to be expected on Christmas Day.

  Usually, I would take supplies with me. Marble polish and cloths for the headstone, secateurs for trimming the flowers and the edge of the grass that the gardeners always miss, things like that. This time, I was not so prepared. I dug through my handbag to find the tiny child-sized scissors that sit at the bottom of my bag, and made do with that. The little pack of tissues in my bag would have to make do instead of the polish I had stupidly left at home.

  I sat there for hours, crying and listening to her funerary songs. I called my brother. Heck, I even called my dietitian (yes, she is an absolute angel).

  After getting home, things didn't get any better. I can't even remember how things progressed, but I ended up on the phone with a helpline, just wanting to talk about mum. As it has in the past, it ended with a welfare check, and the paramedics turning up to take me to hospital. It was well after midnight, and I just wanted to go to bed and cry. When left unsupervised in the emergency department, I did something I've never done before and walked out. My heart raced in the taxi as I went home. Yes, they did call me to find out where the hell I went, and no, they were not happy.

 

  I know this is basically several posts in one, so I'll wrap it up here. I don't exactly have high hopes for 2023, but as I've said for the past couple of years, it can't really be much worse. My support team are keeping a close eye on me, including daily medication pick ups since the Big OD. It's been a few weeks since I last self-harmed, and I've cut my drinking down more than I ever thought possible, but that's a story for another day. I'm hoping to get past the mental block and get back to blogging more regularly, but I know I've said that for quite some time now.

  For now, I hope you all have a Happy New Year.

xxBella

On a not-terrible body image day.

New clothes, for the first time in years. 

The dress waists sit a bit high due to my height, but they're not terrible

With my babysitter in ICU

Dyed pink with antiseptic for the central line

Joggers and crop top, from the same brand as the dresses

(with an unfortunate crotch seam)

xxBella

Make Them Never Want to Hurt You Ever Again

This weekend will mark six months since I moved. The time seems to have flown, but at the same time, it feels like I've lived here much longer.

I'm making progress of making my unit a home, and trying to figure out how to feel safe and secure. It doesn't help that I made the mistake of letting someone in (a friend who was struggling with a depressive episode, and wanted someone to talk to) about 6 weeks ago, and they ended up hurting me. I haven't told my psychologist or GP about it, but my support workers know. Talking about it just seems pointless. Talking about it never helps. I spent the first couple of weeks afterwards staying at mum's every other night, just because I didn't want to be alone and stuck in my head. I barely ate unless I was at mum’s place for the first month or so, but now it’s starting to even back out into a more regular restriction.

There are also a lot of C-PTSD traumaversaries at this time of year, so it's all just piled on. I put a note on my fridge, for the first time ever, which reinforces why I need to get this weight off, that says;

"MAKE THEM 
NEVER WANT 
TO HURT YOU 
EVER AGAIN!!!"

It's funny how people assume that everyone wants to lose weight to look better, or that EDs are about vanity. But for me, it's always been the opposite. My driving force is the need to be unattractive, even repulsive. The only time I'm ever happy with how I look, is when others aren't.

It all seems futile though. The same force also drives me to drink more, which makes it all counterproductive. Although I managed to stop in the alcohol weight gain last year, it's taking forever to come off. At least two thirds of my calories come from booze, and basically any deficit comes from exercising, and since I've gotten back on track with my meds, some days I just don't have the energy to get on the bike. And I know that sounds like an excuse, but some days my medication makes me whole body tired. That said, a lot of the time, I will exercise while drinking, whether on the bike or the step. I’ve exercised while drinking for years, but now it feels like a necessity whenever I drink.

That said, I am doing really well with my medication. I haven't overdosed since I moved. Sometimes I'll take a few more PRNs in a day to zombify myself, but not taking weeks' worth of medication and passing out for days like I used to. My GP has finally agreed to take me off Webster packs (those blister packs where my morning, afternoon and night meds are all separated into individual doses for the week), and start transitioning to just picking up whole prescriptions like a normal person.

I'm not saying it'll never happen again. It's been one of my coping mechanisms for 15 years now, since I was 12, and it's not going to just disappear. But it's not happening multiple times a week like it was a year ago.

I'm having more days off drinking, but still short of my current goal of two dry days per week. Some weeks I get there, some I don't. I wish I could say I was motivated for health reasons, but really, it's mostly the calories. Even one day's worth of drinking calories could equal 0.2kg/0.5lb on the scales. I wish that were enough to go cold turkey, but the withdrawals just become too much, even with extra medication. And sometimes I just need the escape so badly. I've thought about going to treatment, but I can't leave Misty. After losing Billy two weeks after I initially became homeless and went into Supported Residential, I'm scared that if I go away, something bad is going to happen and I might never see her again.

Fun Fact: After totaling everything up from last year, I consumed a total of 305,645 calories in alcohol (99% of which are low calorie/sugar/fat, like vodka and dry wine, with the 1% being the occasional sugary cider).  That's 39.7kg, or 87.3lbs, worth of calories. kill me I'm relieved I more-or-less maintained my weight last year, but it really hits hard the extent of the alcohol calories I consume.

I've started DBT with my psychologist. It's been on the to-do list for quite some time, but things have been so chaotic over the past couple of years, it just hasn't been a priority. Most of it just seems logical, but now that we're edging towards the whole 'changing behaviour' side of things, I'm panicking a little. I know what triggers my negative behaviours, and I know what happens because of it, but figuring out how to stop them makes my brain want to explode.

I was planning to just update on life in general, but it seems to be a mess of the links between trauma and weight and drinking, although that does pretty much describe my life at the moment. So, to lighten the mood - pictures!

Halloween!

We never used to get trick or treaters back at home (Australia, etc), 

but my new neighbourhood was swarming with them! 

I was completely unprepared, but after seeing all the kids in costumes walking by outside my window, I sat on my porch having drinks, handing out whatever goodies I could find in my cupboard

 (sorry to the kids who got Fibre One Brownies and snack packs of rice crackers!). 

The lady in the unit next to me, who I'd never met before, actually raided her pantry and gave me a heap of Freddo Frogs to hand out.

First body check in new home, with and without jacket

The beauty of having my normal dishware back after a year (especially the tiny dishes)

- 22g taco shells (103 cal)

- 50g chicken breast, cooked in mexican seasoning and water (68 cal)

- 10g low-fat cheddar cheese (31 cal)
- 30g salsa (9 cal)
- 150g lettuce (21 cal)

From the same lovely neighbour who saved Halloween. I always thought that neighbours randomly bringing over cakes etc. was just something that happened in movies! (Although lovely neighbour has just moved out. Boo.)



xxBella

24

It's been a week of birthdays in the house. First with my 24th on April 30, then my mum's 60th a week later.

We'd planned to go out for dinner for my birthday, and while it's something I enjoy, it doesn't make it any less stressful. Between the act of going out, and the hours it takes me to feel presentable enough to, I started getting anxious, edgy, overwhelmed. I leaned on my PRNs through the day, perhaps a little too heavily.

We went to an Italian place that I've been wanting to try. I was still full from the cake, but wanted to go out because I just enjoy the experience of going out for dinner, even if I couldn't eat much. I indulged in linguini carbonara, since I knew I wouldn't eat much of it.

The big highlight of my birthday was, as those of you on Facebook would've seen, I am now the lucky owner of a NES Mini. I was so disappointed when I couldn't get one, but he managed to track one down. I was so excited when I opened it, and spent the next few days playing it for hours on end.



But between the fear from eating so much and wanting to self-harm, it only made me more determined to go ahead with the laxative overdose that's been building for the past few weeks. Plus, I've mentioned before that the only times I don't drink are if I'm physically ill, in hospital, or smoking. Laxatives would mean I'd have some time off drinking due to being physically ill/in pain, and drop some weight (from not drinking or eating much because I'd be sick, not from the laxatives themselves - we all know it doesn't work that way).

I took them across three days, hoping to prolong the pain and sickness without needing to go to hospital from taking a whole packet, as has happened a few times before. I had 20 one morning, but still drank because the cramps didn't kick in until later in the night. The next morning, I took another 20, but still only felt sick for a few hours in the late night/early morning. Then, I took 60. That worked. I was too sick to drink anything or eat much for the next two, two and a half, days. It wasn't fun, but it got me two days off drinking.

Then, it was mum's birthday on Sunday. I had a fantastic homemade Indian dinner planned. Three mains and five sides, but it ended in disaster.

I coped well with most of the day. My dosa batter failed spectacularly, managing to melt the base of my KitchenAid blender in the process (and I was just blending uncooked, cold, soaked rice!). My grandfather's signature sponge cake collapsed. I managed to cope with hours in the kitchen cooking dinner, only to (accidentally) spill oil all over my hand at the last minute.

I got ready to serve. Everything was ready to be played up, and I'd just finished the pappadums.

I think it's probably because I usually use a different pan of the same size, and the usual one is heavier, but I used the old one because I didn't want mine tainted with oil. I just lifted it up on too high an angle, because it poured from the pan and over the handle to my hand. That's what I get for cooking with oil.

Thankfully I turned off the burners before I moved the pan, otherwise god knows what could've happened.

I screamed and ran to the sink for cold water, and my family came in. I felt so bad for fucking up, I just kept apologizing. My brother is good with first aid from his years of volunteer work, so he helped out, and wrapped the fingers in plastic wrap to protect them. They wanted me to to A&E, but it felt ridiculous, so I said I'd just see a doctor in the morning.

Mum went to buy a bag of ice as I'd used what was in the freezer, and Steve started tasting and picking at the food, and I nibbled on the hard-won pappadums with another glass of wine. I ate dinner with one hand with the burnt hand still in water. I kept my hand in water overnight in a bowl on a table next to the couch.

We had to close Billy out of the kitchen, as he kept licking oil off the floor after it cooled down. Not only was there oil all over the stove top and on the floor in front of it, but it spread as mum and my brother walked through it searching for first aid supplies. Between cleaning the benches/stove/floor, it took mum a full day to clear up the disaster.

I have oil burns all over my thumb, index and middle fingers, thumb web and palm on my left hand, despite leaving it in icy water for 12+ hours after the incident. Once I realized it'd take more than a few days to start healing (or stop blistering, for that matter), I started slowly typing this post on my phone instead of the laptop, since I currently can't type with my left hand.

Being a physical injury, mum actually offered to drive me to see my GP and get it dressed without even having to ask. A blister on my thumb had already burst by the time I got to the appointment at 8:45. They popped the others that had come up, and dressed them tightly. I had to get a tetanus/whooping cough booster, and they warned my grandmother's ruby and diamond ring might have to be cut off if it kept swelling.

More blisters came up through the next few days. It happened on Sunday, and I saw my GP and the nurse on Monday, Wednesday, and I have to go back tomorrow too. Yesterday, my fingers were covered with blisters, and again they were popped and dressed, as well as getting a flu shot.

Next week, my GP is doing another home visit, as I haven't had a proper appointment in two months. I'm dreading having to go for a walk, although it'll still be short. For now, I'm just resting and loading up with painkillers.

And, of course, more birthday picture-spam...

More gratuitous selfies from going out for dinner
I don't get birthday cakes much anymore. I used to make my own, but these past few years, it's been too much, and mum never bakes anymore. So this year, mum bought me a lamington sponge cake (for you non-Aussies: a lamington is sponge cake that's been coated with an extremely thin layer of chocolate icing and sprinkled in coconut). Not my first choice, but it was at least something everyone eats. I had a small piece in the afternoon, and the family devoured the rest over the next day or two. I didn't much care to have more than one slice. I just wanted the gesture. (And, naturally, there's no eating in this house without two furry supervisors)
The cheesymite scrolls I made for mum's birthday

The oil burns as of yesterday


xxBella

Beginning of the End

I've been struggling to write for a couple of months now. Even my journal has been seriously neglected. There's something about having the words written down that makes it so much more real, so much harder to ignore.

Over the weekend, I was informed that my mother will no longer be teaching me how to drive, and on top of that, will no longer assist with transport to appointments.

It's barely a 3 minute drive away. But I can't walk there. I can't take a taxi there. It scares me more than I can find words to explain. Walking around the neighbourhood alone makes me terrified - I can't tell you how many years it's been since I went for a simple walk around the block - and don't even get me started on the fear of getting into a car with a stranger (isn't that what we were always told, anyway?).

I'm just going to miss my dietician and GP so, so much. With the dietician, that's a five-year relationship turned to dust in an instant. But that's how great the fear is

I guess she might change her mind about teaching me to drive, but I doubt it. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm scared, and it all just feels so hopeless.

I've lost all access to every kind of help and support I had. If I can't see my GP, I'll probably lose my meds. I was supposed to keep seeing my new psychologist for my GP to be comfortable continuing meds as it is, but obviously that's not going to be happening. I cancelled another appointment with her last week, again due to the taxi issue.

What do I do when I have another COPD exacerbation?

After this, I told mum I was scared. That I felt unsafe, like I was falling into a deep dark pit, and didn't know what to do.

  "I think you need to talk to someone."

I wanted to laugh.

  "And how the hell am I supposed to do that now?"

She would call an ambulance. She would even drive me to A&E, but I'd have no way of getting home. When I was there a few weeks ago, I was given a 24/7 phone number for the youth mental health services, who can do immediate risk assessments. I can't talk on the phone to call up for one, and neither would mother dearest.

Sometimes, like now, it feels like I have two sides of my head fighting to and fro. An angel on on shoulder, a devil on the other.

One side is wanting to get help, desperate to talk, devastated that I can't.

The other side asks me why I'm still bothering. All that I've wanted for as long as I can remember is to disappear, so why am I still trying when it feels like everyone else has given up?

My head is screaming, fighting, bursting against my skull.

Then the latter half takes over, and I feel an eerily complete calm. I stopped panicking and crying and breaking down, I sit myself up, the emotions stop, and a small smile comes across my face. I don't have to do this anymore.

At the end of the day, part of me is kind of relieved, you know? It's kind of like getting permission to throw in the towel. And I feel free.

I don't know what will happen with the ED without the support I've had from my dietician for so many years now. I'm just devastated that it's all come crashing down at once. I'm in free-fall and I'm so scared and I don't know what's going to happen

Now that I've got my thoughts somewhat together, I guess it's time for the part I've been dreading - writing the 'break up' text. I'm going to ask about occasional home visit appointments, and I'm pretty sure my GP does them too. But really, I'd settle for giving her a hug and saying goodbye,

On another note, I was home alone for a couple of days last weekend. For the first time in months, I ended up cracking and smoking. Not synthetics - that stuff's gone for good. But I spent six days in a blur. Between everything that's been going on, I felt like it was either that or self-harm/overdose, and at that point I wouldn't have been able to get help. After the past few days, I wish I had more to numb the fucking pain. But I can't fall back into the 'all day every day' trap, and considering the cravings/withdrawals I'm still feeling, I know I can't risk it.

Since I finished it, I've been drinking for the past four nights/afternoons because I didn't want to deal with sobriety, I didn't want to feel. I never drink that many days in a row. But when I had weed, I went eight days without a drink, which is better than I've done since... well, since I last smoked, to be honest.

Probably the last time I'll be all dolled up for... I don't even know how long. Without appointments, or learning how to drive, there's nothing left for me to get out for. They were the only access I had to the outside world. 

I'm trying to plan an outing. Maybe spend a few hours going to my favourite thrift stores, maybe going to the zoo. But right now, I can't even think about it. My head is overwhelmed with everything I need to do. But I'm so depressed, I rarely get anything done. I just zombie on the couch in my pajamas all day, re-runs playing in the background to try to distract myself from the nothingness.

xxBella

Finding my Feet (and Fabric Shopping!)

I've been settling back in at home and trying to find a routine again.

Last week I had two appointments on Tuesday, first with my dietician and second with my GP, a few hours apart. I figured I'd try to get out and go to my favourite fabric store while I was out, and maybe grab a coffee.

I haven't gone out much at all this year, compared to the past few. I was doing well at going out once a month, until I saw my abusive ex at a restaurant last year.

When I saw my GP, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and blame. Talking about the overdose, she aid she get into as much trouble as I do. That she beats herself up and asked herself “Oh why did I do that?”. She's got me on contract to keep seeing my new psychologist every two weeks, or else she won't keep prescribing my medication. I have to see her for at least six months before I could even make the decision to see someone different.

The fabric store was right across the road to the medical centre. I haven't been for years, and not since they moved shops some years ago. I used to be in there constantly when I spent a lot of time in town. They were closing for good on Thursday, so for the past couple of weeks I've been determined to get in one last time.

When we got there and parked across the road, right in front of the medical centre, their sign wasn't out. I started to panic. After having a mini freak-out in the car, mum walked across to check, as I couldn't bring myself to.

It was a huge knock to find out they weren't open that day, after spending all morning getting dressed up all nice, doing my hair and make-up, and just psyching myself up to venturing forth. Even going for a coffee to kill the time before my appointment was too much, so I sat in the car and smoked until it was time to go in.

The next day, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I kept it in the back of my mind in case I felt up to it, but on Thursday, I pushed myself to try again. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't.

The store itself was very empty. There were maybe eight bolts of fabric, plus some zips and a few near-empty rolls of lace and trims. They even had the actual store fittings for sale. I picked up the last five meters of a black and white lip print cotton, plus 10 various zips, mostly purple. I don't know when I'll use them, but at such a low price, I had to grab some. I also grabbed what was left on a roll of a blue-grey lace, which I'm sure will come in handy for a sewing or craft project one day.

Even just going out for a 15 minute shop was exhausting. It's been so many years since I've gone out regularly except for my appointments. I'm hoping to get back to my 'once a month' goal next year, but I don't know.

It also looks like I'm going to be learning how to drive, to work around mum's new rule of not driving me to appointments or anywhere. Instead, I'll drive and she can supervise. I did get my learner's permit when I was 16, and have a good understanding of the road rules, but driving makes me so nervous. My total experience amounts to five minutes around a quiet industrial area after I first got my permit. I'm planning to get behind the wheel later this week, so this will be interesting...

xxBella

A Rock and a Hard Place

For better or for worse, I've had a few impulsive outings in the past couple of weeks.

Last weekend, I had an argument with mum. I told her I was feeling trapped and lonely, and wanted to go out, even just for a drive in the car. I don't know why, but she started snapping at me about wanting me to be more 'active' and not spend all of my time between the couch and my arm chair on the porch.

I do a lot with my days. She just doesn't see it. Between writing, keeping my notes up to date, reading and commenting on blogs, exercise, self-care, cleaning, reading books, mindfulness, sewing and crafts, not to mention just getting through each day, I actually have very little downtime. I do everything I have the energy for (physical and emotional). She thinks I have no structure or routine, and that the only way to be productive is if you're moving around. 

After crying all morning, I raided my meds. After two mini overdoses in a week, taking over an extra week's worth, mum realized I've been stockpiling my meds.

I tried talking to her some more, telling her how hurtful her comment was, and she backed off. I still don't know why me wanting to get out of the house made her have a go at me for not being more active in the house. She said that I was doing so well keeping busy after she first had surgery, and didn't understand why I couldn't just keep going. Never mind that I told her at the time that it was a struggle, and not something I could deal with long-term.

  “Let's all go out for afternoon tea – the three of us.”

Self-conscious about the newest addition of cuts, and scratches on my face, I said I didn't think I could do it. She had lunch, and came back out and asked again. I'd been thinking about it, and said okay, but that we'd have to buy something and go somewhere like a beach or park – not somewhere busy like a cafe.

And then, she backtracked, saying we should do it the following day. I burst into tears, saying I didn't know if I could. Going out is more of a 'carpe diem' thing. I can't plan in advance and be sure I'll be able to follow through when the time gets here.

Going out at all is getting so much harder. Even walking beyond the house, down the backyard, is hard. I need mum to walk with me. Walking to the garage to collect my laundry from the dryer this week was nearly unbearable. My chest hurt, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was desperate to get out of this house, and after the argument, I started running around manic. After a bottle of wine, I decided to go see A. Yes, I was that desperate. And yes, I told you all to slap me if I saw him again.

When he first asked, I hesitated. I told him I was still trying to work through the cow comment and the subsequent OD. He said he was seriously kicking himself for saying that, and apologised yet another time. I guess everyone fucks up now and then – what really counts is how they follow up.

So I put a caveat on meeting up.

  “Please, at no point, comment on my body shape/weight/size. With an ED, even things that may be intended as a compliment can be received the wrong way.”

And with that, he got in the car and drove the hour each way to pick me up. 

We stopped at a strip club to play pool again, and I had another vodka and Diet Coke. It feels weird being the only girl in the joint wearing clothes.

At his place, I drank another half bottle of wine. My tolerance for alcohol, and how often I drink, has increased exponentially since I stopped smoking synthetics (three months today!). Drunkenly, I told him how negatively I thought of myself around him, which led to more questions and a deep-and-meaningful about my mental health in general. The kind of conversation where you wake up the next day and want to die of embarrassment.

I told him I felt like an idiot for breaking down, but he thanked me, saying he really appreciated me talking, that it helped him understand more. He asked a bit more about the past abuse, the anorexia, the link between, but without a few drinks under my belt, I just sat silently.

I know it's potentially a bad idea, but apart from feeling so lonely and isolated, I feel like I need to keep as many options open as possible. With mum pushing me to move out, and the fear that I'll one day be kicked to the curb, I need friends around to fall back on.

Then, this weekend, I caught up for drinks with R. I now feel like I have to take the precaution of telling everyone who sees me to please not comment on my weight/size. He said I certainly don't have to worry about that with him, and the thing is, I know that I don't.

So I spent all of Saturday trying to make myself look like a presentable human being again, after being a mess when I went out the week before. I straightened my hair, painted my nails, neatened up my brows, did my make-up... I wore a long sleeved cardigan with a tubigrip covering my forearm and hand, with a fingerless glove to complete the illusion of not being a total fuck-up.

I had no idea if I'd be eating with him or not, so I had a little bowl of pasta with bolognese sauce (153 cal) and a dinner roll (99 cal) when my family had dinner. Having not eaten so I wouldn't be bloated when I went out, it was probably a good decision. I'd already had half a bottle of wine – call it social lubricant – and wanted to make sure I didn't make an idiot out of myself by throwing up again. 

On the way to his place, he stopped at the servo to pick up snacks – lollies, chocolate bars, chips, Ben & Jerry's. But I was too scared to eat any of it in front of him. My stomach was burning by the end of the night, and I wanted a handful of chips so badly, but I couldn't. What would people think if they saw me eating such junk?! 

Going to people's houses is a lot easier than going out in public though, so that was at least one less stress.

I've missed more appointments with the dietician since I last posted. After last week I texted her, apologizing for missing so many, explaining that mum still can't drive and the anxiety of catching Uber or a taxi makes me feel physically ill.

She asked me to cancel our appointments until I'm ready to get there again.

It's not like I do it on purpose. Every Monday, I get the confirmation text, and tell myself I will get there this time. But I haven't been in over a month.

I don't know what to do anymore. I feel so alone and abandoned. It's like all of my appointments and support I have are just slowly slipping away. I just wish everyone cared so little ten years ago instead of not giving me a choice in getting treatment or not. Now I'm on my own, and I don't think I want it enough to fight alone. 

To top things off, I'm being pushed back to weekly dispensing, after over a year on daily. Mum won't pick them up on her walks anymore, and the chemist can't keep delivering daily. I've got a week getting deliveries on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but after that, it'll be weekly. I'm afraid, but at the same time, I don't care if I fuck up. I know if I misuse them, my GP will just notify the chemist to give me more, as she doesn't want me going without. 

Everything's falling apart, and with everyone backing off and withdrawing support, I feel like they've all just given up on me and are giving me permission to give up too.

I'm just so very tired. I don't know where my head's at these days. Next time I see my GP, I'm going to ask her about a possible admission to the private psych Clinic. My self-harm is out of control, I don't know how much longer I can fight the urge for another laxative OD, I haven't been taking my meds properly because I'm too scared to sleep, then I take the entire stockpile. I only feel safe from the flashback nightmares if I'm drunk, or stay up for 24+ hours and run myself into the ground.

And thank you for all the support on my last post. I know that my team probably consider it unethical to maintain the status quo, preventing a further decline but not actively seeking treatment, but if that's the case, I feel like I should just stop going. Frankly, my only apprehension about stopping all appointments is my meds, especially the assorted benzos that keep me sane.

xxBella

Clothes, Coffee, and Closure

This week, I went clothes shopping for the first time in quite a while.

Mum was planning on doing some shopping when she caught up with my Great Aunt for coffee. I asked if we could go to a certain shopping center, as it's the only one I've been able to get to in recent years. Long story short, I used to buy my synthetics there, although I never went to any of the other shops. It was like tunnel vision, which was the only reason it was 'safe' for me, so this was different.

First, we met Aunty D at her regular coffee shop. Long black, as always (Americano, for those outside Australia - except a long black has the espresso added on top of the hot water, preserving the crema, which an Americano generally does not).

When we headed to the shops, I stopped by the tobacconist for the first time in over six weeks. It's been on the 'to-do' list ever since, but to be honest, I don't think mum trusted me, as she wouldn't take me out. I wanted to say a last goodbye to the staff that've been so good to me for so long, and to let them know I hadn't just fallen off the face of the earth.
They had to do a double-take when they saw me. Most of the time when I went in, I'd just be in my trackies, cardigan and ugg boots, with my hair tied back and no make-up on.

There were a few others in the shop, so I didn't say all that I wanted to. I kept it vague, and just told them I'd had a couple of really bad episodes on the synthetics, where the police and ambulance had to be called twice in one weekend, and that was sort of 'it' for me. They were happy for me. It's always been the people who sold me the synthetics that were the most concerned, and most relieved when I stopped.

In a way, it was a form of closure on the period of synthetics abuse. I said my goodbyes, and told them I probably wouldn't be in much at all anymore.

Then we headed over to Kmart. I just wanted to pick up a few basics to update my wardrobe a little (pictures below). I had to shop a size or two up for most things, as they didn't have many 4s or 6s, but it's better than nothing. Before my ED, I always shopped a size or two larger to try to get things long enough anyway, so I'm not exactly fussed by them not fitting quite right.

We walked past a Coles on the way out, and mum asked if I needed to pick anything up. Dumbfounded, I just stared and said  "I don't do supermarkets."
If I were to go to a supermarket, it'd be the regular Woolworths we used to go to. It was the last place I went regularly, my last 'safe' place, up until maybe four years ago. For now, I'm more than happy sticking to online orders and getting everything delivered.

AD drove us home. She's so lovely - she keeps offering to help mum with stuff around the house or washing her hair between nurse visits, although mum doesn't want to have to do anything more than she already does, which is understandable considering she's 85.


Back at home, the stresses started again. I'm struggling with the fact I'm doing everything I can to make mum's life easier, but still getting zero support in return. Later that night I had a mini OD on about three days' worth of pills. I regretted only getting my tobacco and Zippo fluid at the tobacconist, wishing I'd snuck in one last gram.

Mum has her own lockbox now, even larger than the one I lent her, with all of her meds inside, after I sorta raided all of her oxazepam the other week.

As for mum, she got the casts taken off on Friday, although she's still in a sling and can't lift more than 500 grams. All the same rules, so I've got a few more weeks of extra responsibilities around the house.

It's having an impact on my own mental and physical health. Aside from the increased OD and SH urges, my weight has been consistently dropping for the past few weeks, after plateauing for a month or two prior to her injury. My intake has dropped further. I've only been losing 0.5kg a week on average, but it's still a change, and I'm feeling it.

I'm not sure if I've posted a photo before, but this is my fabulous Italian leather coat. My brother and I both got one when I was about 13, but I haven't worn it for years because it's too big now and I hate looking so bulky.

With this weather, though, I need a warmer layer, so it's been pulled out from the back of my wardrobe again.

Lace Cami

Plain Cami with Lace Cover

Summer Skirt, from the kids section

Skirt Detail

Longline Tee

Socks and Jocks

xxBella