Seizures and Synthetics

I don't normally talk much about my drug use on here.
Maybe because it's not much of mention. Maybe because I'm not exactly quitting.
I think I manage it, for the most part.

Until it nearly kills me.

As a lot of you know, though some won't, I smoke a lot of weed. I have daily for nearly five years now. This, I do manage, and am working on. I just don't talk about it much, to anyone.

It doesn't feel appropriate to get into here, (plus I wouldn't make you all endure a post twice as long as it already is), but I do kind of owe you all an explanation and I promise I'll write more about it one day, so for now I'll just give a quick overview.

But for the last few years, I've also struggled on-and-off with an addiction to synthetics ('synthetic cannabinoids'). I don't smoke them as much as the real stuff, but still too much. I can stay off them for a few months, at one point I even stayed off them for over a year, but they always drag me back. They haven't done me any major harm for the last few years, but they used to really fuck me up, mentally and physically. I'd hallucinate, scream out for now reason, my heart rate and pulse would either be dangerously high or dangerously low. The list goes on.

Anyway, this week.

It started on Monday. Without going into detail, it was a shitty day, I hadn't smoked anything but tobacco for a couple of days, and I ended up smoking a different brand of synthetics that I'd not tried before. For the last couple of years, the effects (and side effects) have been pretty consistent, so I wasn't too worried about it. But it turned out to be a very different beast, not like anything I've had in years.

I was planning to have one cone (I think you non-Aussies would call them 'bowls') to calm down, cook dinner, eat my veggies, smoke some more and have an early night. I had one little cone, and mum popped out to the car to grab a phone charger. And then it all went black. 

By the time she got back (less than a minute), I was having a goddamn seizure. 

She called for my brother, and my head flopped back, and she yelled for him again. My brother, the one with the uncanny ability to KEEP CALM. He immediately identified it as a seizure. I was slurring, trying to talk, convulsing, knocking things over. They checked my O2 sats and tried to get my blood pressure, but I wouldn't stay still.

I don't remember much of it at all, but I was experiencing full hallucinations. The background was all white, faces were blurred, there were people all around. It felt like my feet were cemented down, like I was screaming but no noise came out.
The older chemicals used to give me partial visual and auditory hallucinations, but nothing like this. I didn't know where I was or that my family were there. In my head, it was like I was dreaming, then the background and my family's faces started to come back.

I saw mum and grabbed her shirt-front, told her I loved her, and collapsed back in my chair.

"Is she breathing...?"

My brother knew it was a seizure. My mum thought I'd done brain damage. They were only waiting two more minutes for me to start improving, or else they'd be calling an ambulance.

Then, in an instant, I was completely lucid, able to get up and walk inside, no longer slurring, sober as a judge. Then I started throwing up violently.

The whole episode only lasted about 15 minutes, but it left me (and obviously my family) quite shaken up. 
I was planning on going to see my GP in a day or two, just to check in. I do actually have a 'history of seizures', but I'm not epileptic. When I had the massive overdose age 12, I had seizures while in a coma. My newest antidepressant, Gabapentin, is only subsidised because of those seizures (technically it's anticonvulsant for treatment of epilepsy - depression and anxiety are off-label uses).


Obviously, I didn't plan on smoking any more of this type. But between addiction and how unbearable everything is right now... it's not that simple. I smoked it again in the the middle of the night on Wednesday, some time around 3am Thursday.

I woke up on Thursday, throwing up all over myself and the couch, around 8am. I moved outside to my armchair, and mum set about hanging the washing on the line. Within 60 seconds and only 10 meters away, I had another seizure.

I bit my tongue really hard (still hurts) and blood was pouring from my mouth, eyes rolling back, shaking uncontrollably. No hallucinations this time - I simply was not there. Then I just went still.

Mum called 000 and got me stable in my chair. Amazingly enough, the first ambulance was here in just 5 minutes, and the second crew got there shortly after to take me to hospital (the first ambo was solo). I'm just glad there was a crew nearby for once - I don't think mum could've wrangled me out to the car and into A&E herself this time.

"I've gotten very good at telling when you're breathing."

The ambos were here for an hour and a half before giving me a shot and taking me to the hospital. They were apparently fantastic - very understanding with my anxiety. I was in A&E all day - 8am until 5pm.

"And of course, you being you," says mum "you didn't want to get on the gurney. They got you up and out of your armchair, nearly had you there, then you just went 'no' and collapsed back in your chair."

Unfortunately for me, I couldn't go to the Private A&E, and I cannot bear to be in the Public Hospital, with the Horrible Psychiatrist lurking around the corner. There are certain situations where you have to go to public, and any sort of seizure means private is out of the question. I was panicked all day, a lot of it simply because I was in this place I swore I'd die before I landed in again. It's been three and a half years since I've been there - my COPD admissions were both private, and any emergencies have been dealt with outside hospital.

Spoiler Alert: I didn't see The Horrible Psychiatrist (although I probably would've if I was actually admitted).

I felt so sick all day, filling up bag after bag with vomit. For the first little while, they wouldn't even give me anything to drink. Then I was allowed ice cubes on sticks, then they finally let me drink. I drank 11 glasses, one after the after, down the hatch in one slug. It felt so good to be drinking pure clean water. Each glass came straight back up in full, but it still felt so damn good, like I was cleaning the poison and crap out.

The doctors and nurses were all fab, very kind and caring. I actually really like most of the staff at the public hospital, but The Horrible Psychiatrist and his Minions ruin it for me.

I panicked when they clicked on the hospital bracelet, then tried to place two IVs. I was so dehydrated, they couldn't find a vein. Usually, my veins pop up at the drop of a hat. I asked if they could place it in my hand or wrist, because elbows freak me out (anyone else refuse to bend their arm with an elbow IV?), but they couldn't get it in. I didn't need it though thankfully - it was to get me meds quicker in case I had another seizure.

I didn't stay as long as they wanted me to. The clock was ticking and I was panicking more with each hour that passed. After crying that I just wanted to go home, and the doctor trying to convince me I should stay for observations, I got defensive and pulled out the "I'm not involuntary, I should be able to sign myself out, I just can't stay here". I do not have a good track record with discharging AMA. If I was in the private hospital and I knew the Horrible Psychiatrist was no where to be found, I probably would've stayed.


I got an emergency appointment with my GP the next day. In fact, it was the only reason they were even somewhat okay with letting me discharge myself - because I have a 'support network' and three appointments this week alone.

She'd already gotten some notes from the hospital, so thankfully I didn't have to explain from scratch. She was really cool about it. I don't talk about smoking much, whether with you guys or my team. The Lung Doctor Man knows I smoke synthetics, but my GP only knew about the weed. She checked my OBs and sent me for an EEG, which was done later that day, so I'll get the results later this week.

Part of me doesn't appreciate the seriousness, or maybe it's just part of the whole self-destruction thing. I know it was stupid to smoke it again, and more so to do it when everyone else is asleep. I didn't think "but what if I have another seizure?". I just thought "I need a goddamn smoke".
(I think I might've actually had a seizure in the middle of the night after I got back inside, but I have no way of knowing for sure. Obviously I didn't choke on my tongue or anything, so all good.)

"I'm just amazed you made it back inside at all." says mum

This week's just been a blur. Everything's happened so quickly, so suddenly... The seizures, the hospital, the bits between... I've been trying to put everything together from bits and pieces from my notes and what mum's told me. Honestly, all I remember from Thursday is waking up puking all over myself, I vaguely remember being in the ambulance, then there's a big blank patch until the last few hours before I left the hospital.

You know how, after a crisis, you spend a while in a bit of a daze before you settle back to normal? That's been my week. 

I honestly have no idea how this post will be received. It's something I've been putting off talking about for quite a while, and there's still a lot more to say another day, but I think it's time to start being honest. I just hope you don't think less of me. This post is long enough as it is, but I might will write more at another time. You've got the climax, but the build-up and explanation will have to wait for another day (lest I write another thousand words). 

xxBella

Traumaversary

I went to my wardrobe and opened the door. I feel uncomfortable in the room that used to be my bedroom, and still houses a bed, but is home only to Misty. I've slept on the couch for years.

I know exactly where it sits - the tattered old manilla folder, inconspicuous, underneath the box of pieces of paper I've acquired during hospital stays. 

For the last two years, I've not peeked inside it. I've avoided it like the plague, even though it jumps out and hits me in the face whenever I open the wardrobe. But this year I was anticipating it. Not looking forward to it, by any means, but it had pulled me in long before the day.

Inside it houses what little evidence I could recover. I don't know why it's so hard to not look at.

Two books full of depressing teenage poetry, a lot of it about Him. There are 57 journal entries about Him, printed off from my old, mostly private Live Journal - that's probably the most important thing. A chat log from an online helpline. The statement sits half-written in an old lime green notebook. It stops mid-sentence, and I still can't bear to say or write the next line. It's been five years since I last wrote in it.

Now the folder sits next to the couch, under the table, between my laptop and Stable Table, staring at me. 

I don't want to write too much more about it, but it goes a little something like this: during the four months it lasted, each year I go back and re-read everything I wrote about it. Sometimes it's all in one go, resulting in one colossal breakdown. Other times, like this year, I drag the process out day by day. February through June, 2008. I was 14, coming on 15.

"On this day seven years ago..."

The Sick and Twisted Ritual has begun.

I've never talked to anyone about it. They know it happened, but I've never talked to anyone about it. When I first told someone - I think it was the following year - I was supposed to see a specialist counsellor but never did.

He came up in my second-last appointment with the MHN, when she tried to convince me there's nothing to be afraid of when I go outside. I was just sitting there thinking "don't do this to me, don't make me feel able to open up when you'll be gone in 30 minutes or less".

To add insult to injury, it was the 12th anniversary of my father's death, the first time it happened. And he knew it. February 29. A leap year. The most painful date in my world. Next year, it will be 20 years since I lost my dad, and 8 years since I lost my self. A leap year.

I don't get to the New Year or my birthday and look back at the year. I look back during the Traumaversary.

The dates are burned into my head.

The memories burned even deeper.

There is no escape.

There is no relief.

As for the dietician drama... If we were a couple, I suppose you'd say we're "still fighting". 

I don't feel like I can talk to her or trust her like I used to. I've lost all zest for her appointments. Once something I looked forward to, a much-welcomed break in my week, now an obligation, something I have to drag myself to do.

"My heart jumped with joy when I saw your little blue car in the parking lot."

She says it every week lately

I feel like we've hit a wall. I think she knows it too. It took such a long time for me to be able to make eye contact with her, to be able to hold a conversation, and now it's all coming unravelled.

I didn't even ask 'why' this week. It's obvious she's not going to give me an explanation, and it hurts less to not ask. 

I mumbled my answers and didn't tell her about the horror weekend.

"So, what are we doing today? Where do we go from here?"

"I don't know."

"Was it hard to get here today?"

"Yeah."

Brick wall.

It's like I'm back to square one with her, in terms of trust and being able to talk to her, and it sucks. I miss how things were a month or two ago. Eye contact is fading again. She has to pull answers out of me. I still haven't gotten on her scale again - obviously it isn't important. It's not so much her weighing me that I have issues with (although it seems pointless), but more her not-a-big-deal response to consistent losses are triggering as fuck. 

I think I should cut my appointments back to once a fortnight. It doesn't seem worth going every week any more. She's starting 6 weeks leave at the end of the month, so after that we'll see what happens. 

It's times like these I'm inexpressibly thankful for this community. You guys just really get it. Like no one else. 

I still haven't heard from the MHN. She said she'd call last week to organize an off-the-books catch up (for which my lovely GP has offered a room at the clinic to avoid having to go out of my safe zone). 

It feels like my support system's been torn down in the space of a month. The MHN is gone. I can't talk to the dietician any more. My GP is also taking leave while the dietician's away for 6 weeks. The new MHN... I'm still not sure what's happening there. I see the GP next week, and we'll see what happens.

And I know this is long enough, but I thought I'd quickly mention, I started reading Wintergirls this week. I'm about a third through, but I don't see what all the hype's about. It's an easy read, but it doesn't hit me in the face as being an ED book the way others have. Maybe I'm missing something?

Anyway, it's a free .pdf copy I've been reading. It took me so long to find one, so I thought I'd share the link in case you guys want a copy.

Wintergirls - Laurie Halse Anderson (.pdf)

The dietician did give me some freebies though. She had all these extra Ensure TwoCal's sitting in her cupboard. Best Before: April 2015. So she gave me seven, and told me to grab more next week. I've had little bits of two so far, and will try another tonight, maybe watered down a little. They taste so foul - I'm used to buying big tins of powder and weighing it up myself to the perfect strength for me to stomach. 

xxBella

Untitled

I saw the dietician twice last week - our regular Tuesday appointment, then again on Thursday.

On Tuesday I walked in and she said
"I'm glad to see you. I wasn't sure after last week, and I was a bit worried when your car wasn't already here."
But that was about all she said on the matter.

We sit down and she asks the usual questions. I can't look at her. I can't talk to her.

"Do you want to get on the scales this week?"
"Not really."
Why bother?
"Well, I'll leave it up to you."
"No... no.'

At the end of the appointment she asks if there's anything else I want to talk about.
"I'm all ears."
I just shook my head. I couldn't say anything. In retrospect, it was probably my opening, but I felt like she was saying "if you want to talk about anything except last week", and I didn't want her to get angry if I brought it up again.

So that didn't go so well. I left feeling just as crappy as I did before. I umm-ed and ahh-ed and eventually made another appointment to see her on Thursday (she only works at my clinic two days a week).

The whole appointment was one big uncomfortable mess. I know she feels bad about it, even if she isn't sorry about it, but we're still two bulls at a gate.

It wasn't going too awfully, but I had to ask the only question I had on my mind.
"I still don't understand why you didn't just tell me."
I even added all my clarifications that I wasn't expecting her to encourage me to lose, or to say the opposite of what she'd say if I was losing. I don't even need her apology any more - just the reason.
But of course, we're never going to reach a consensus on that so we shouldn't talk about it.

I just cried and cried.
She cried.
Mum cried.
I told her I didn't feel like I could really talk to her any more, these past couple of weeks.

But in the end, nothing got sorted out, and I left in tears nearly a full hour later. I just wanted to know why. I wanted to come out of the appointment with things resolved, air clear, but instead I'm still left dreading each 'next appointment'.

She did say that from now on, when she next weighs me, she'll tell me if I gain or lose more than 2-3kg (i.e, outside the range of normal fluctuations). I'm pretty sure we agreed on that when I first met her, but whatever. It doesn't matter much now. I still don't even see the point in her weighing me any more.


It's been a hard week, this weekend in particular has been painful. I'm not quite ready to write about it but I'll try again another day. It feels like everything just keeps stacking up.

I'm just not really functioning. I don't feel like I can do much at all. I don't know what I'm doing. I can barely keep track of the time or what day it is, let alone all the shit flying around inside my head.

This week's felt like a bit of a crisis. It's just been passing the time and getting through each day - each hour, each moment.

I've been coping in any way I can think of that won't land me in hospital - both positive and negative.

I'm smoking too much
Staying up all night
Journaling a lot
Taking advantage of my meds
Laxatives
Going for long drives
Self-harming in ridiculous ways to avoid cutting (the safe A&E isn't 24/7, after all)
I'm trying to be mindful
But also fasting this weekend out of some sick obligation I can't quite put into words. It's nearly religious.

I don't see the GP until the 19th, at which point I'll see the dietician once more before she takes six weeks leave (well, four weeks off, one week on, two weeks off). I still haven't heard from the MHN, and it's still a while before the new referral goes in (my GP was actually going to scope out the clinic and even take pictures for me, so it's not a completely new-and-terrifying place to go, so her intentions are truly good).

And thank you guys for the comments on my last post, so, so much. I never forget how caring and understanding you all are, but it still amazes me every time I read what you all write.

xxBella

A Tale of Gain and Loss

I'd been crying about it all week. The scales. Mum wanted me to go in last Thursday to talk to the dietician about it, but I didn't even want to go in on Tuesday. But I did.

She wasn't there when I arrived. My anxiety peaked when I heard her walk in. I tried to force a smile as she walked past and said good morning, but I don't think I managed it. I felt sick. I didn't want to talk to her about it, but I couldn't not talk to her about it either. I wanted to run and leave before she came back out. But I didn't.

She asked the usual questions - how's your week been, intake, have I been cooking, leaving the house, sewing. I could barely say two words.

"Have you been pretty quiet this week?"

"No... I don't know."

She asks what's wrong, and I eventually force out the dreaded words.

"I've gained weight."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've been weighing myself on the Wii (more on this later), my body feels different and I'm not stupid."

I told her the weights I'd scribbled down.

Just before I started seeing her, on my proper scales, I weighed 47.4kg (BMI 13.7).

Last January, on the same proper scales, I weighed 43.7 (BMI 12.6)

The weeks following, I weighed between 45-47kg on the Wii Fit.

As of today, I'm... 50.2 on the Wii.

She looked at her computer

"Do you want to know numbers?"

"It doesn't matter any more."

At that point, she could've told me exactly what I weighed clothed-and-coffee'd each week for the last three years and I wouldn't have cared less. I didn't even get on her scales this week. When I saw my GP two days later, she had my weight screen up and I just stared at it. So much for turning my head whenever the dietician types in my weight.

She said that from last January (43.7), I went up a shocking 8-fucking-kilograms between then and September/October (approx. 51.7kg, BMI 14.9), but have lost about 4kg since (approx. 47.7kg, BMI 13.8).

(...plus another kilo since she last weighed me)

I wanted to die.

"That's like a kilo a month... Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did, like I do each week."

Okay, quick break here to explain how my blind weighing supposedly works. When I first met the dietician, I told her I wanted to stop weighing myself but still have an idea without having to know exact numbers. She asked what I did want to know, and we agreed she'd tell me if I gained or lost each week (no numbers), and if I started to gain or lose outside of a normal maintenance range (say, 2-3kg either side?)

It's not like I gained every week. The occurrence of gain vs loss wasn't that different to any other time, but obviously the amount was.

"But when I was losing, before last January, you'd sit down every week after telling me if I'd gained/lost and say 'there's a pattern forming, you're losing weight, you need to see your GP, you need to drink Ensure, you need to eat more' - not just whether I'd gained or lost that week. It wasn't just a fluctuation, and you made it clear."

"But what would that do to you, if I did say 'you're gaining weight'?"

What would that frikkin' do to me?!

I asked her to. It'd mean I could trust her. It would mean she was actually monitoring my weight and keeping me informed. It would mean I'd be aware of it, not surprised by it when it's already added up. It would mean I don't have to keep weighing myself at home.

It's not like I ever expected her to encourage me to stop gaining or eat less. But it would've been nice if just told me.

She asked what triggered all of this. I said I wasn't an idiot, I knew I'd gained, my body feels different and it's not dysmorphia. I just stupidly hoped the gain would be more like 5kg, not 8. The Wii Fit proved it earlier this year, and I was tired of it being the elephant in the room. I was tired of her saying "down a little bit, nothing to be worried about, but we'll keep an eye on it" when my weight drops. We both knew but no one was talking about it and I had to talk about it

We went back and forth for a while before she just said

"Look, we're never going to reach a consensus on this, I'm not arguing about it any more."

"I'm not trying to argue..."

I tried to talk but I just kept crying and she was getting more and more fed up with me. I was sat there crying like a loon, not understanding why she didn't just say something.

Eventually she just said "I'm not talking to you about this any more."

And so I left.

I didn't even get to say my piece. She thinks I'm angry and argumentative because I've gained weight, when it's not like that at all. I just feel so incredibly sad, I don't understand why she didn't tell me.

And it sucks because I really did try to talk it through. I wanted to bolt when she said "8 kilos", but I didn't. I didn't want to run out upset and carry it for another week. But she didn't even want to talk about it so now I'm carrying it heavier than before.

I's not even really about how much I'd gained, or even that I'd gained. It's not about the fact she did do the right thing medically to try to get my weight back up a little. My problem is that I trusted her to at least tell me when I started to gain outside fluctuations, just like she did when I was losing, and now I feel like she'd only tell me what she chooses to. I didn't expect to hear "eat less, lose weight". But I did expect to hear "your weight is definitely increasing" as an objective fact.

This is going to sound crazy, but if anyone's going to understand, it's you guys.

I put a lot of trust in her when I stopped weighing myself on the reg and started letting her weigh me. This isn't forced. I didn't start seeing her because I had to, and I don't need to be weighed. It was the first time I'd volunteered to be weighed by anyone. Unless I was sectioned or in hospital, I refused to let doctors weigh me (though I'd tell them with honesty what I weighed that morning).

And I let her weigh me because I couldn't handle the stress any more. I couldn't cope with weighing myself and being so knocked down by every little gain, and every not-big-enough loss. I thought, she said, she'd actually monitor my weight and be honest with me so I could have an idea of what I weighed without having to know a number, not sugar-coat it and only tell me what she chooses to. It was the one reason I didn't have to weigh myself at home.

It was such a deep, personal thing to let her weigh me, and in a way I feel she's damaged that trust. Then I feel like an idiot for entrusting such a personal responsibility to someone else. I'm so upset, and it's not just about the weight, but it feels like I'm being completely ridiculous, but it really hurts, you guys.

How could I trust her to tell me before I gained another 8kg? I don't even want to think about it. It feels like a disease, spreading through my body, but I caught it just in time.

Now I have to keep weighing myself at home. I mentioned before, I've been weighing myself on the Wii Fit. It's been an on-and-off thing for the last few months, plus a month after last January's weigh-in. I don't do it everyday, just three or four days a week. I'm still too scared to see my real, accurate, naked-and-void weight on the bathroom scales. The Wii makes it less real, since I don't know my actual weight.

I'm not 100% sure when I'm going to allow myself the real bathroom scale. The temptation is huge, but at the same time, there's a comfort in not knowing my exact weight. The Wii has never matched my scales, but I still know I've lost 3kg since the start of the year. From the dietician, I know I'm around 4kg higher than I was last January. That's enough. For now, at least.

I've just been a wreck about it. I'd been crying all week, since the Tuesday before when everything hit me, and I've been crying all week since. Everything just keeps on stacking up. I can't take it and I can't articulate how I feel. So overwhelmed, so scared, so very low.

Now I have my appointment with her tomorrow and I still don't want to go but I know I should but I'm just dreading it. I can't just go in and pretend that everything's fine, it's not.

I don't even know if I should keep seeing her. I haven't been actively upping my intake for some time, we don’t talk much about actual nutrition and food choices (beyond deficiencies/supplements), there's no benefit of her weighing me any more. She gives me support, but I don't know how much support I even want any more. I'm just so tired of everything.

Please excuse me while I die of shame. I don't know what'd be worse - telling you all I've gained such a horrific amount, or just saying I've gained and letting you assume even worse. I feel utterly disgusted with myself.

Off-topic, and I know this is long enough, but I got a new pair of shoes a few weeks ago. I haven't had the chance to wear them out yet, but I finally took some photos.

They immediately reminded me of a pair of shoes I had when I was 15/16 years
old. I found them at an op shop and wore them 'til they fell apart.

I hadn't bought new shoes in years, but I had my eyes set on three pairs from the Wittner end-of-season clearance. This is the final pair.

I don't like talking money, but these were worth the wait. The first two pairs were bought on clearance, but then they added an extra 20% offer. These ended up costing just $31 AUD, down from $169.

10.5cm heel, oh baby

xxBella

Escape & Avoid

I know I haven't said much since the mental health nurse left. I don't want to even think about it, let alone write about it.
(Avoidance, much?)
So I'm going to try to do a bit of an overdue update

I saw my GP this week, which was mostly trying to figure out 'where to from here'. She panicked me a bit, because she said she was going to do this mental health assessment about both my history and current situation. She thought she'd be able to fill out most of it without asking too many questions. Panic. I said I didn't want her answering them without asking me, it makes me so uncomfortable it isn't even funny. In the big picture she hasn't been my GP long enough to really know my history.

That was going to be unpleasant, but then she offhandedly mentioned that the subsidy from doing the assessment would be around $85 per session, when I know the new MHN's fee is less than that. It turns out she was under the impression I was going to see a psych. Defences up, I start rambling that I wasn't going to see a psych, that it wasn't the plan and it's not okay. But it was just a mix-up in communication somewhere - she thought the new mental health nurse was a psychologist (she's a Registered Nurse) - so I didn't need the assessment at all.

She still wants to leave it a month until she puts in the referral. At the moment I've lost enough motivation to not want to rush into it anyway, so I'm over that. Part of me was even hoping it'd be optional.
"But you need to do it soon. We can't put it off until next year, or even later this year."
"I'm not trying to."

Until then, I'm still hopefully meeting the MHN off-the-books in a few weeks, but beyond that I think that's it. My GP did make an amazing offer though, that she'll try to work a spare room at the clinic for us so it stays within my comfort zone, even though they shouldn't because she doesn't work there any more. I can't even put into words the stress that takes off my shoulders. I wasn't sure if I could do it at all if she had to come into the house or I had to go elsewhere.


Outside appointments, I don't really know how to write about how I'm doing or what I'm feeling right now. I don't want to think about it. I'm journalling a lot, but it's... fragments. Rambles. Rants. Lists of one-word feelings. I can't piece it together.

I'm just not functioning. Everything seems so overwhelming. It's like I'm swimming against the tide. Too many days pass and I've done nothing but stare at the wall and smoke and pick at my skin and breakdown and cry and hurt myself. I'm brimming, overflowing, with anxiety. I try to keep distracted when I can, reading blogs or immersing myself in gaming or binge-watching the same old TV and movie series, but sometimes it's all too much and I'm just... trying to get through the day in the least distress possible.

I just feel so alone. So lost. Scared. I want to shrink away and hide from the world where nothing can reach me.

My sleep is still messing with me, but I think it might be because I haven't been remembering my meds 100% of the time. I have those little weekly pill cases to keep them all organized, and at the end of the week I looked at it and saw I'd only taken my meds 9 times out of 21. Sometimes I forget to take them, but honestly, sometimes I just don't care enough. I've been pretty good these past few days though, so hopefully that'll help

It's kinda nice though, the nights I stay up (though I prefer them when I do get some sleep). It's my time where I don't have to think or do. It's the only time of day I get some respite from the constant anxiety and thoughts and pressure.


When I went to see the dietician, mum's little blue car was being repaired, so we took my brother's big red car. Now, you must understand that I have the earliest appointment of the day, and there's only ever our car in the parking lot. The dietician usually gets there a few minutes after us - it's actually become a bit of a running joke to see who gets there first - and it always throws her for a loop when mum's little blue car isn't there.

"I thought maybe you'd done something and ended up in A&E, what with the MHN and all..."


And thank you guys for your amazing feedback on my aprons. It means a lot, really. I get extremely self-judgemental about my sewing (...in case you hadn't noticed...) Honestly, when I first complete a project, I usually end up either frustrated, hating myself, or crying.

When I last saw the MHN she asked if I could make her one. Red gingham. She loves aprons. I might talk to her about it next time, and I can always post it to her office to take some of the deadline pressure off. Sewing's yet another one of those things that's just too much right now (though I am slowly working on a couple of itty bitty dresses I promised one of the Blogger mommies)


xxBella

Five Special Aprons for Five Special Ladies

Just a short post today, mostly pictures of a few special sewing projects.

The past few weeks have been a mess. I don't know what I'm doing with myself. I feel so empty and lost and alone, I just want to retreat and isolate.

I'm just... ugh. Trying to get my thoughts together, struggling to find words. There's nothing to say.  My sleeping patterns are also a wreck. I'm either not sleeping at all or can't keep my eyes open. Currently it's the former - I've been up since 5am Saturday and it's 8pm Sunday now. It's a mess. But I just wanted to check in with you guys. I'll try to write something more later this week.

Anyway, so a little about these aprons themselves before I bombard you with pictures.

I was horribly late with my Christmas mail, and only sent it out a few weeks ago. Among the bounty included five handmade aprons.

I started planning them in October, and finished them in December. Not being able to just walk into a fabric shop and browse, I was limited, and had to settle for what fabrics I could find online. It also meant I had to know exactly what I wanted to make before I even saw the fabric. I picked up a few little things like buttons and trims when I went to Warrnambool in November, which was my first time going into a fabric store for years, and mum helped track down the rest.

I wanted to make more, but I overwhelmed myself and ended up crashing and not even doing the matching oven mitts. I was planning on having them finished and in the post to arrive by Christmas, which shouldn't have been too hard, but obviously didn't happen. It took me two months to do what should've taken two weeks, at most.

I hope you guys haven't suddenly realized that I'm not that great a sewer, now you've seen them up close in person.

So, pictures! I've given them brief names in the time I was working on them, so here I have for you (in order of appearance): Daisies, Cherries, Cupcakes, Floral, and Oranges & Lemons aprons.

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The bow is detachable. It took me over an hour to tie it just so. (and yes, it was originally going to be purple)

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P.S, I tried to make them as one-size as possible, so I really, really hope I didn't offend anyone with bits being too long/short/big/small.


xxBella

The Breakup

My last appointment with the mental health nurse was this week, and it didn't go as well as it could've.

Long story short, about 15 minutes in, we'd been chit-chatting about small stuff, and she asks about osteoporosis, and if my GP and dietician had agreed on what supplements I need to take yet (which they haven't).
"I wonder what foods are the highest in calcium... it's probably bloody impossible to eat all you need anyway."
"No, most people can get enough through food, I just can't."
"...ohh, because of the Anorexia? I thought you were managing that."

And that's when it all came crashing down. Granted, I don't talk to her about ED stuff. The dietician's the only one I trust enough. But I didn't take it well. I could feel a meltdown coming on, and I left crying

"I might as well just die now, I'm just a worthless, fat piece of shit."

I haven't walked out of an appointment like that in months. And I had to do it at my last appointment. We were barely a quarter through.

Out to the car, full-scale breakdown in the car park. I was so upset, I wanted to tear my skin off.
Mum went back in and talked to her, and they both came out to the car.

I felt awful. She kept apologizing, saying she stuffed up and didn't mean it that way at all. But I felt so low, I was spiralling.
"I'm not managing it, I'm not managing it at all, I don't talk to you about it but that doesn't mean I'm managing it, but obviously I am because I'm such a fucking fatass."

It was the first time any of my team have seen me in full breakdown mode. With the MHN, crying has usually involved sitting bolt upright with my jaw clenched, trying my hardest now to crack. Now I was curled up in a ball, crying harder than any of them have seen me, repeating that I can't do this, I can't do this, oh god, I fucked up.
I heard her ask mum something about if this sort of breakdown was out of the ordinary, but unfortunately it's not.

"It was my last appointment and I fucked up and now I can't see you any more and I fucked it up."

She'd called the home phone that morning, and offered to drop by, but having people over panics me, so mum just put it on speaker so I could listen. Although she can't keep me on long term, she offered to see me once more to catch up when she gets back from her holidays in a month, and to come to the first few appointments with the new MHN.

Since she'll have finished her current job, she'd said we could either meet at her office in town or my house or meet at a park or for coffee, but all of them terrified me. I told her I can't go out to town, or anywhere public in my city, and having people over to the house scares me even more. So she said she could even come for a drive and we can talk in the car, which is sadly probably the safest bet.

I'm just hating myself for it. I needed that appointment so badly and I wasn't even in there half an hour. I needed it so badly that I'd tried to get a second appointment the day before. But I fucked it up. I can't even feel sad about it, because I fucked it up. I want to tear my skin apart.

I fucked it up.
And I deserve to feel as bad as I do.

credit :: Pon and Zi (Jeff Thomas)

xxBella