Get Me Out of My Head

Things at home have been slowly returning to status quo after the weekend from hell.

I saw my GP a couple of days after I last posted. She was of little help. I asked if she could give me an extra PRN oxazepam, or even something different, just for a week or two while I work all of the synthetic crap out of my system, but she said to make do with what I have. Basically, keep on cutting, and they'll keep patching me up.

The nurse was lovely though. She even walked me out to the car after she finished with my dressings, since mum doesn't even come into the waiting room anymore.

Whenever I stop smoking, it hits me like a tonne of bricks just how little I have in my life. It's easy to not think about it when you smoke so much, and it's very confronting when you do have to face it.

This is probably a good time to mention - I'm doing much better this week - as far as smoking goes, at least. I haven't smoked anything but tobacco since the weekend from hell. A little over a week mightn't sound like much, but this is pretty much the longest I've gone without in years (with the exception of hospital admissions).

As it tends to happen, though, one coping mechanism is quickly replaced by others. Not only is, ED-head in overdrive, but the urges to self-harm and OD have been unbelievably strong and impulsive. Twice, while making coffee, I've ended up pouring boiling water straight from the kettle onto my hand and arm.

There is a huge urge to OD, just to get out of my head and stop feeling for a little while. There is nothing to dull my senses anymore, and I'm feeling every ounce of pain amplified. It's time like these I suppose I should be grateful for my GP's insistence on daily dispensing. There are rarely leftovers because I'm so desperate by each medication time, skipping them to stockpile is simply not an option.

Since my first OD at the age of 12, medication has been heavily supervised and generally kept hidden from me, apart from a few things like antibiotics, prednisolone and basic ibuprofen. One night, I spotted my brother's hypertension meds sitting on the bench. My head started spinning, wondering if they'd drop my blood pressure to dangerous levels. In a moment of impulsive clarity, not wanting yet another ambulance call-out, I pretty much threw them into mum's room and said she should probably hide them.
  "Otherwise, cutting won't be the worst thing to happen to me tonight."

I regretted it almost immediately. But they're gone now.


Things at home have still been very stressful though. For one, mum will no longer pick up groceries for me, and I just can't get to the supermarket anymore. I ended up making a delivery order when payday rolled around, but in the days before, knowing I couldn't get groceries, I spent the last of my food money on a four-bottle buy of wine - because we could just go through the drive-through and I didn't have to get out, and it was an easy exit from my head for a couple of hours.


Saturday was a bit of a disaster, and in the end, narrowly avoided mum calling another ambulance. I think it's safe to say I've not been the most stable of late.

It was election day, and mum made sausages for lunch. For those who don't know, it's a bit of an Aussie tradition to have sausage sizzles at voting stations - 'democracy sausages', they call them. Since I vote via post due to agoraphobia, I've never had the pleasure of joining in, and I was a bit surprised when I emerged from the lounge room to find a pan of sausages sizzling away. My mum, brother and I sat and watched the election coverage on TV as I weighed up my sausage in bread, and I decided it was the perfect excuse to crack a bottle of wine at midday.

Things were going well for a while, despite the constant tension in the house. It was only when mum started freezing the chicken tenderloins she'd bought at the butcher that morning that the shit hit the fan. Usually, she'll wrap up a few seperately for me, and I pay her back. This week, though, she wouldn't.

In my head, that equalled her obviously not wanting me to eat. And I lost it.

I went back into the kitchen and, having had a few glasses of wine (which probably makes me far too bold and fancy-free for my own good), I stuck my tongue out, picked up a piece of chicken, and rubbed it all over my tongue right in front of her.
  "That's disgusting!" she screamed "Why would you do that?!"
  "Because I hope I get fucking sick."

Things only escalated from there. That night, I was really upset over dinner, and sat outside in my armchair crying as they ate. When mum came out, I couldn't stop the tears, and so bolted inside and locked myself in the bathroom.

I kept hitting my head against the wall, which, if you don't already know, is probably my current self-harm method of choice. Mum yelled through the door, to 'stop damaging her house'. Her care for a solid wall over my head only upset me more, and I kept banging, banging, banging. After a while, my negative self-talk mantras turned to a stutter. My head was bleeding.

Mum got worried at the stuttering, and got a knife to jimmy the lock open. When she got in, she saw the wall covered in blood splatters and smudges, and freaked out. She thought I'd cut myself, and kept demanding to see where. I was still crying hysterically, curled up in a defensive ball, and just pointed at the side of my head.

I kept telling her to leave me alone, that I'd stopped damaging her house.
  "I don't care about my house - I care about my daughter!"
But you can probably see why I didn't believe that.

After a while of back-and-forth, she helped me up and down to the couch. She gave me some of those hidden 500/30 paracetamol/codeine painkillers, and I sculled (skoled?) about a liter of Coke Zero straight from the bottle. Slept like a rock.

The next morning I awoke with a lump and a decent chunk of dried blood in my hair. Amazingly, no headache, though it's sore to the touch. I did consider trying to get an emergency appointment at my GP's clinic, but when I thought about it, it didn't seem there was much they could do besides send me for an MRI, and I've already got one coming up this month. The bleeding stopped by the time I got to the couch, so it's not like I needed stitches, either.


Now, I'm resting, and waiting to see if salmonella sets in from the raw chicken incident. In retrospect, it was a really stupid thing to do, but that self-harming part of my brain just wanted to make myself really damn sick.

I honestly don't know if I'm more stable on or off synthetics.


Also, I really wanted to say thank you to you all for your feedback on my last post.

I fully anticipated losing a couple of followers, but I think it's an important message to get out there, no matter how you may judge me. It's been too big of an issue with my mental health to just omit it or glaze over it like I did for so long. Like I said in my last post, I hope my experiences with synthetics can have a positive influence on even just one person.

#democracydoggage

My coffee splurge

 I finally bought myself a wine rack

The Bar

xxBella

Still Alive

2016 is not a good year as far as health and hospital goes.

I've lost count of how many ambulances and trips to A&E I've had, but it's definitely a new record. 

Six months ago, the closest I'd been to an ambulance was patient transport and a couple of paramedic call-outs that didn't require transport. In previous emergencies, it's been quicker to drive the 5 minutes to hospital than to wait for overworked, understaffed paramedics. But between seizures and self-harm and smoking and starving, I've had at least 6 emergency ambulance rides this year, with two in the past three days.

The first was on Friday. I'd been messing with my meds and literally attacking - not just self-harming - myself with steak knives. Mum went for a walk, and as soon as she left, I deadbolted the doors and grabbed a knife and my stash of razors and tore my arms to shreds, stabbing, slashing, slicing, and emptied the medicine cabinet. I don't think I've used knives before, but it seems to be my current weapon of choice.

The whole day was just a mess. I pretty much had to beg mum to call someone since I can't talk on the phone and I needed to see my GP. I texted the dietician saying I was mid-crisis and asking if she could please contact my GP to phone mum. Mum wanted to call either an ambulance or her psych, but no one for me. When I told her I'd texted the dietician, she called my GP herself, and I went in to get my wounds dressed and have a chat.

It was only the day before I had to get dressings for more self-harm. On Friday, I saw her around 11am, and she gave me extra meds to replace what I'd taken, but they didn't last the day. I actually asked if she could give me any sort of sedative just so I wouldn't do more harm and wouldn't be so distressed, but there wasn't anything she could give me. 

At home, the day just kept escalating. I was cutting and hitting myself more and more, absolutely hysterical, crying and screaming. Not my finest moment, by far. Two knives snapped clean off their handles. Mum got tired of putting up with me so she went out for a drive.

I locked the doors, wrote a short note (in case of emergency) and emptied the (sparse) medicine cabinet. 

I'm still on daily dispensing, but I ended up taking two days of lorazepam, oxazepam and seroquel, plus a couple of day's worth of leftovers I hadn't taken this week because I'd been smoking and sleeping so much. I also took random painkillers (ibuprofen and 500/30 Panadeine) and leftover cold & flu meds just because I wanted to hurt myself. I've not used painkillers or codeine for self-harm in a long time, and I have to say, it scared me. I was also supposed to have my MRI later that day, but obviously it didn't happen. Partially because my GP gave me an extra 3mg lorazepam for it, but I'd scoffed them down as well. 

Around midday, mum and I started seriously clashing. By 1pm, I'd taken nearly a whole week's worth of meds. This was the third day in a row I'd overdosed to some extent. I had too many leftovers I didn't take from daily dispensing. We don't keep much in the house, for obvious reasons. Even basic painkillers are kept hidden from me. 

Mum got home and saw the carnage.

"Oh, Jesus!"

She called my GP straight away. She suggested calling an ambulance, and since I was so distressed and actively self-harming, it's protocol for the police to come too. 

Next thing I know, the house was invaded with not one, not two, but seven strangers - 3 or 4 cops and 3 ambos. It was absolutely terrifying. Obviously lunchtime during the week isn't an overly busy time. I should note: guests stopped being welcome after a particularly horrific assessment by the emergency mental health team several years ago. That was the final trigger, and I've barely let anyone in the house since.

I hid in the garage, in the car, with all four doors locked. Head in my hands, eyes closed, crying, I just kept saying "Please just leave me alone." 

The police all had cans of mace in their hands, ready to go. Given some of the shit I've done over the years, this was actually my first encounter on the other side of the police.

In the end, I had no choice. I could either go willingly with the paramedics, or go in the police car. I told them I wasn't harming myself anymore (true) and just wanted to lie down and cry. Since when is depression a crime?

"Well, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

In the ambulance, I mentioned my GP, who shares a first name with the Horrible Psychiatrist. The ambo with me asked "do you mean the Horrible Psychiatrist?" and I totally freaked. But it turns out he no longer works in A&E, which takes a lot if the fear out of the public emergency room (the private hospital, where I go for COPD exacerbations, doesn't do psych). 

At the hospital, I turned out my pockets before going inside. I'd accidentally left a razor in my pocket, and sliced the tip of my finger. I spent from about 1-4pm in A&E, but ultimately left without a fuss. I'm not quite sure how I managed to escape even just a 72-hour hold after pressing a knife to my throat twice in three days. Probably only because I'm meeting this new psych soon, and have regular appointments with my GP and dietician.

At home I had a little bit of chicken and rice and polished off my last bottle of red, knowing it'd be coming back up anyway and desperate to get out of my head. Today's the first day I haven't thrown up everything I tried to eat as soon as I swallowed it. It's like my body knew I was poisoning it, just from that one lungful of smoke. 

Saturday was probably the worst day in my head, although it didn't last long, and I managed to avoid the emergency room. 

I had a big mess this morning. You know how I smoke those legal synthetic cannabinoids**? Never ever again. I scraped down all of my containers to find traces of powder for one tiny smoke that morning, since I had no actual meds left and was desperate. I either mixed the wrong trace chemicals or plastic/metal scrapings or something, because within a minute I'd fallen over and dropped everything I was carrying. 

Mum found me sat on the kitchen floor with my trackies around my ankles, talking utter nonsense. I didn't know where I was or what was going on. She asked me something, and I told her to check with J (my non-abusive ex). This was bizarre. Mum screamed "That was over four years ago!"

Thankfully it doesn't last long before it starts to wear off, so I avoided mum calling another ambulance, and was back in my head within 15-30 minutes. But I'm never touching those chemicals again. I've said that before, and they've nearly killed me before, but I think this is it for good.

I went to the bathroom and turned the cold tap on full blast, folded up my towel to give me some padding to sit on, and emptied all of the ice cubes from the freezer into the tub. I sat clothed in the bath until it was about halfway full when mum convinced me to get out. Then I went into the kitchen and pulled the bottom three drawers out of our upright freezer, then sat in and pulled the door shut with about an inch open. That's also a new one. 

I'm also getting scarily good at suddenly turning cold and saying calmly to mum "Oh, but I'm fine!" with a shit-eating grin. She did call for help, but my creepy calmness meant there was little they could do. 

Yesterday (Sunday) involved more police and paramedics, and was probably a worse situation than Friday.

The morning went okay. At midday, I asked mum if I could please have privacy to eat my 170-cal cheese & Vegemite sandwich, as the lounge is the only room I eat in. I spent 25 minutes nibbling  at it, trying not to throw up, and it was over. Mum came back in, because I had apparently had more than enough time, but I'd not even made it through the third quarter. 

I lost it. I was darting around the house screaming

"You don't want me to eat, you just want me to die and then you'll be happy."

I threw out most of my food and semi-trashed the kitchen. 

I locked the back door with the only key, threw it into the garden, and gussied up all of my strength to drag the heavy chimenea in front of the side gate to stop anyone coming through.

I gave Billy a hug and cried "I'm sorry, I can't do this, I love you."

Next thing I know, I've got three cops staring out the kitchen window at me, then coming around the side gate with the paramedics. Three of them watch and try to talk to me while the rest scour the yard for the key (the only key). 

They ask if I have blades or knives. I say I do, and reach for one to give up, and he grabs my arm. I try to stand up to get my purse of razors from behind my armchair cushion. And he grabs my arm again. 

The other day, they just asked me for my sharps and turned out my pockets. This time, although I was much calmer, I got a full bloody frisk for the first time in my life. I wasn't even allowed the safety pin to hold up my trackies, or the disposable chopstick holding up my hair.

I kept telling them I'm fine, I just want to be alone, I just wanted to eat my sandwich in peace, I'll be fine, just please leave me alone and tell her to let me eat my sandwich.

It's scary how strongly I believe I have a right to self-harm or die if I want to. 

My new favourite line seems to be

"It's no one's business if I want to hurt myself, it's not illegal, if I want to die, it's my body."

Then they throw the 'duty of care' line.

Damn.

"I just want to be alone and lie down. I'll be fine if I can just lie down quietly."

"It's too late for that,"

Again, "we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

The policewoman held my elbow as I took the walk of shame out to the ambulance, crying with my hand covering my face. Mum says she wouldn't notice emergency vehicles parked outside houses in our neighbourhood, but I know I sure do - especially when it's an ambulance and two police cars, one of which was parked right outside the neighbour's window, and especially if it happened multiple times in a week. As if I'm not the neighbourhood freak enough as it is. This is why mum parks in the garage and I won't go out to the street to get in the car for appointments.

"I'm not a horrible person" I cry to the paramedic, trying to convince myself it's true.

In the back of the ambulance, I apologize for wasting their time and money and resources. 

I texted the dietician again from the ambulance. I told her I was sorry for texting again, but I'd fucked up again, and mum doesn't want anything to do with me and that I was just totally lost and alone. She was wonderful, and asked me to go see my GP the next day with mum to make a plan. 

I sat alone in the bare interview room of A&E crying, scared and alone with the police guarding the door, watching to make sure my multiple school friends that work there wouldn't see me in such a state.

Stomach acid and bile kept coming up. Eventually someone from the mental health team came to talk to me for an assessment. Mum never came in, and I dreaded the conversation when my brother came to get me, so I babbled randomly on the drive home to avoid a conversation I desperately didn't want to have. 

And that brings us to today. This morning was rough, with another meltdown full of self-harm and locking myself in the backyard so no one else could get to me. I got a text from the dietician first thing, again asking me to make an appointment to see my GP. When mum called to make an emergency appointment, she was booked out, and instead I saw the nurse for dressings, as they didn't do them in A&E yesterday.

When my GP came in to have a quick look, I asked if I could go on her cancellation list to possibly see her before Thursday, but she said no.

"I'll just see you on Thursday."

As soon as we reached the car, the mental health team from the hospital called for a follow-up,  and were worse than useless. For the first time ever, I'm begging, pleading to talk, but no one cares to listen. This is my comeuppance for not taking the help that was offered for so long, for keeping my mouth shut for so many years.

At home things just got worse. I needed so badly to talk to my GP, and her refusal to put me on the cancellation list drew me to the conclusion that she must want me to die so she doesn't have to deal with me any more. Took the whole day's worth of meds, slept, and here I am now. It's nearly 10pm, and I've spent most of the day writing this post.

After smoking synthetics on-and-off for a little over 6 years now, it's not the first time I've had a scare. They've nearly killed me more times than I can count. But I think this is it. I'm done. If I touch them again, I hereby give you all permission to bitchslap me until I come back to my senses. 

For the next week, I intend to do nothing but lay on the couch watching silly movies, writing in my journal and trying not to think.

Tomorrow, I see the dietician in the morning. Then on Thursday I'll see my GP, and hopefully work out where to from here.

A lot of this is very embarrassing, but I've got nothing to lose. If my experience in the last six years of synthetics hell can some day be put to good use, help legislate against them, or even just in research, I'll be happy. Nothing can make it 'worth it', but I really hope at least one of you read this and think twice before trying it just because it's not technically illegal.

Apologies for going AWOL again, especially for so long. Everything's a bit of a blur. Most days I couldn't even bring myself to open Blogger, but I think I'm all caught up now (although I haven't had the energy to send as many comments as usual). My memory of the last week is very fuzzy. I've tried to piece it together as best I can by looking at dates and times on messages I sent, notes I scribbled and asking mum questions. I've tried to post for the last few days, but more and more crises have kept popping up.

And an extra special thank you to my two lovelies who were constantly spammed with my panicked messages over the past week or two - my English Starsister and my Bahraini Sweetheart - especially at the times when my family weren't there. The dietician will be getting a massive hug tomorrow, too.

** I don't talk about my smoking a lot, mostly because it's a very complicated issue once synthetic chemicals are involved, but I did write a bit about my experiences after they gave me my first seizure. 

The offending cheese & Vegemite sandwich (170 cal)
I managed to eat a little less than 3/4 before the defecation hit the oscillation
(Sunday)

Never let anyone tell you that instant coffee (black with liquid Stevia - no funny business)
doesn't add up to anything significant

Backward handwriting skills are on point, though
(Friday, before the first 000 call out)

In A&E
(Friday)

Sat alone in the interview room with police by the door
(Sunday)

xxBella

AWOL

The dietician was supposed to be back on Tuesday, after not having seen her for the past two weeks.

I was having a really rough morning. My mood was rock bottom. I didn't even want to see the dietician because it felt like a waste of her time since I didn't want to talk about food or my weight. Mum urged me to go, and to see my GP, but there's nothing they can do to stop the thoughts.

I gathered myself up and left for the appointment. In the car, I asked mum if she could please sit with me in the waiting room instead of walking me in and leaving me, because I couldn't stop crying and I felt like a fool.

I waited and got more and more anxious by the minute. After 30 minutes passed, the waiting room was filling with people, and one of the receptionists asked mum and I over to the desk.

Obviously, the dietician did not turn up. It took half an hour before they got in contact with her husband, who said she wouldn't be back until the next day. I think it's the first time in the four years I've been seeing her that she's unexpectedly not been in. I asked if she'd be in on Thursday, and I got her last appointment at 6:30pm.

Usually by 6:30pm, I've had my dinner and am winding up my day, but on Thursday, I was headed out to see the dietician. She works the morning on Tuesday, but only afternoon/evening on Thursday, and this was the only appointment she had left.

I didn't get on the scales. We'd already talked about the fact I'd gained a few kilos since my hospital admission, and I told her I really didn't want a gain to be logged. She said I need to weigh soon, I said it's obviously fine (which is not fine with me). We agreed to weigh in on Tuesday morning in two weeks There's no way I'd let her weigh me even at midday, let alone the end of the day.

I've also started exercising again in this past month. The dietician's concerned, and wants me to limit it to no more than four times a week, because I start intending to do just 30 minutes, but it always builds into 60, 90, 120 minute sessions.


And I wanted to say quickly - I was amazed by the response on my last post. I figured it had to be something more than just beating myself up. That's one thing I love about this community - you're never the only one.

Happy long weekend.

xxBella

Pep Talk

Yesterday, after a bit of a breakdown, I was trying to explain to mum the logic behind what I refer to as 'negative mantras'.

I tell myself over and over again, for example, that I will never be good enough. Mum sees it as a negative reinforcement of he belief. But to me, it makes it better. When I'm upset, I can cry and scream that I'll never be good enough and work myself into a frenzy. Then I'll calmly start repeating the same words.
  "I'll never be enough, I'll never be enough."
And I stop panicking.

As I tried to explain to mum, I think it's my warped way of trying to convince myself it's okay. It's okay if I'm never good enough/thin enough/happy enough/intelligent enough/beautiful enough/successful enough/enough in general. If I achieve it one day, great, but if not, at least I've prepared myself.

Then today, I remembered that in Unbearable Lightness. Portia de Rossi writes of when she was younger:
    "In order to prepare myself for a less than perfect result, I would occasionally give myself the opposite of a pep talk by writing hundreds of times in a journal 'I will not get honours', as I awaited the results of a ballet exam, for example. I'm not sure if this ritual actually helped me to accept the less than perfect grade I was preparing myself for, because I always did get honours."

It got me thinking, maybe it's not an uncommon thing for people with eating disorders, or even other mental health issues, to do this. So, open mic time. For those of you who can relate, I'd be interested to hear why you think you do it, in your words.



On a lighter note, I've always been a hoarder. One aspect of which is food hoarding, which I know a lot of people with EDs do. Usually with food, it's just having a hard time throwing certain things out, or not throwing out packets (empty or full) until I replace them.

I've recently discovered Nature Valley oat bars. I don't eat them every day, but they've become a bit of a staple for me. They've been on special over the past few weeks for as little as $2.00 a box, and between my recent savings attempts combined with marathons of Extreme Couponing and the aforementioned hoarding, I couldn't resist starting my post-apocalypse stockpile, I mean, taking advantage of more than 50% off.

Over roughly three weeks, I bought nearly 30 boxes.





Misty, feeling much better than she was last week. She's currently taking full advantage of the heating being on due to the current wintry chill.


xxBella

Monday Musings

I finally saw my GP last week, after putting it off for over a month. Maybe 6 weeks? But everything was fine. We're working on a plan to get me to this new psychologist in the next couple of months, so she's really not budging on that one. On the upside, she didn't make me choose a benzo to drop, which was a huge relief. It'd be nice to have a more regular dosage again, but for now, it's better than nothing.

She and the dietician are now helping me make appointments while I'm in with them, as until I can get on the phone (which I've never been able to do), it's the only way. Getting to the reception desk in the busy waiting room alone is such a huge barrier, and I'm not even sure why. For now, the girls bring the EFTPOS machine into the room, and an appointment time if necessary.

I've been putting off getting weighed. When the dietician last weighed me, I'd just been discharged from hospital, and was nearly at a new lowest weight. I'd been eating so much in hospital - similar to how much I'm eating now - 900-1,200 calories most days, which was a big increase from before hospital. But I'm starting to think the only reason I lost so much weight was because I was fighting an infection and having my system constantly flushed from the IV antibiotics. Since reaching that low weight and coming home, I tried to keep my intake up, but much to my distress, the scales just kept slowly crawling up.

Since then, I've put on a few kilos, which was to be expected, but I've not been coping with it as well as I thought I would. Now I feel like I have to drive my weight back down before she can weigh me again, even though when I was last weighed, my GP warned it couldn't drop any further.

Now she's away for two weeks, and we've agreed to weigh-in when she gets back. I don't want to get in trouble for dropping even lower, but I don't particularly want to have gained, either.

I'm not as concerned about food as I am about... well, everything else. For some time now, since mum started backing away, the dietician's been the only person I can talk with face-to-face. It's not the same with my GP. With the dietician, I can be open about what's on my mind, and not having that contact over the next few weeks is going to be hard.

I've also been reading a lot of literature on the Australian Dietary Guidelines, the food groups, how big a serving should be and how many servings I should be getting. After calculating my 'serves' for the last week, I don't even get halfway, even on 1,000+ days. The only food group I eat enough of is dairy, and the most deficient being protein (I should be getting some 2 ½ 'servings', but I never eat more than ½ over the course of a day).


My little miss Misty hasn't been feeling too well the last couple of days. She's seemed a little 'off', and last night I spotted a sizable cut at the base of her tail. I have no idea what happened, as she rarely leaves the fenceline of the house, and it's been a while since there's been a cat fight on our property. She's having trouble moving and jumping, so I've put blankets down throughout the house, but for now, she's being treated like a princess.


xxBella

Newest Sewing Projects

In slightly unrelated news, last week I finally finished the apron I was making for the dietician.

In December, my local fabric store had this gorgeous Japanese printed cotton. I'd seen a couple I'd liked before, but when I asked mum to pick me up a sample scrap, they were all too light. This was the first one that was a suitable weight, and I couldn't resist the vibrant colours. Having seen her taste in fashion every week for the past four years, I knew she'd love it (or at least, I hope she will).

It might be a little belated for a Christmas gift, but between my health, both physical and mental, and juggling the contents of my sewing room around the house while I repainted (which is finally done, after unexpectedly needing more paint), I haven't been able to sew as much as I'd like.

I'm still working on drafting and sewing a few of my own patterns - a nightie and pyjama shorts, a few camisoles, trackies - which is a new experience for me. Hopefully once I have everything back in place in my 'new' sewing room, now that it's finally painted, I'll be able to dedicate more time to it (it's been gutted completely, right down to the furniture, so I currently have a blank slate).

I even made a matching oven mitt (which I've always intended to make with aprons, but never have).

I've also still been slowly working away on my "Shearing at Newstead" tapestry. I've spent over 80 hours on it in the past two years, and I'm not even halfway done. I think I underestimated the enormity of the project.

I also wanted to share this picture that I got from the lovely Katie Elizabeth a couple of months ago. Last year, I sent her a couple of little dresses for her beautiful baby girl. It was such a joy to see her wearing her little sailor dress. My only regret is that I didn't have time to make matching headbands.

xxBella

23

I suppose I should probably start with a bit of follow-up on my birthday.

I wish I had something positive or poignant to say, reflecting on times gone by or what the future may hold.
But I don't.

The day itself was a bust. It was a blur of tears and medication. I had two full days of meds, plus four days of PRNs I'd managed to save. I kept nodding off, had crazy restless legs, and couldn't focus enough to hit the right keys on my phone. It was a mess. I was a mess. I woke up the next day with a blank memory except for dinner (Japanese and the better part of a bottle of red).

I hate birthdays more and more with each year that passes. Talking with my brother about the joys of getting older, I realised that what I feel is beyond the "it's just another day, no big deal, with I could just skip it" mentality. My birthday actively depresses me. I could come up with a million reasons why, but the most obvious is that it's a day to celebrate another year of life, and I've never seen that as something to celebrate.

Talking to the dietician, she asked if I'd had any good birthdays in the past, but I haven't really. Last year we went down the coast, went out for dinner, but I still ended up locked in the hotel bathroom self-harming all night. My 19th, I went out drinking for the first time, and ended up freaking out and running home in bare feet. The only good birthday I can remember was my 13th, when I'd just gotten out of hospital from The Big OD and was celebrating survival and life. Ten years later, I can't say I'm celebrating it.


The dietician has been my biggest support, even more so of late, since mum started stepping back. This morning I asked if she could help me book an appointment to see my GP next week, since mum won't anymore. When mum stopped coming to reception with me, I stopped going. The girls bring in the EFTPOS machine and I pay in the office. I don't know what it is - I know all the staff and get on well with them. I think it's the waiting room and the amount of people and just feeling 'out there'. Today when the dietician went to get the receptionist, she asked when I was thinking of seeing my GP. When she came back, she had a card with an appointment time good to go.


Later this week, mum's going away for three nights. I'm probably looking forward to it more than her. Over the past few years, things have really changed. It's no longer scary. I want to be alone. It does also help that my brother is now single, so I won't actually be home alone which helps with a lot of the fears.

It wasn't for my birthday, but mum's falls one week after mine, and so I made her a carrot cake. It's not my neatest job - the frosting was left out of the fridge for too long so it's a bit sloppy.

xxBella