Why am I here?

The first few days here were okay. I think I was running on adrenaline. After that, it's just been a downward spiral to the point that I'm worse than I started. Today is Day 15, and I can't help but feel like I'm not in the right place, that we're working towards different goals.

All the hope I had was hanging on this admission. Now, I just want to give up. Nothing's ever going to get better. And I don't want to keep fighting for life if that's the case.

Yesterday was the worst day I've had so far. At 7:30am, I got a text from mum, informing me that she will no longer be driving me anywhere. She said I need to learn to cope with people. It's not like I have enough to deal with at the moment. It's not like I'm trying to take enough steps as it is. And everyone keeps throwing more crap on top of the pile.

As most of you know, I don't go out except for appointments. That's the only place she drives me. Now, I'm losing that. Can you see the problem here?

I don't know why I'm still here. Why start working on the trauma when I'll lose it when I go home?

For so many years, up until only in the past year or two, getting help revolved around the fact that I had to because mum wanted me to. Increasingly, she just doesn't care anymore. And now, without appointments, without my dietician and GP, I've got no motivation or reason to keep going at life in general. I don't know why I still bother.

Forcing and bullying me into being around people and making me feel like worthless when I can't is not a solution. It will not change anything, and when I go home, I'll be back to where I started. It's just a band-aid. Both with mum and the staff here, they're all trying to fix a symptom without dealing with what's actually wrong. And until I get help with the abuse and all the other reasons that stop me from wanting to be around people, that will never change.

I'm going to kindly ask mum to keep her mouth shut until I'm through here and have been discharged for at least a week before dropping anymore bombshells.

The psychiatrist was okay on Monday, and I'll be seeing him again tomorrow.

The plan for a two week admission has now grown to three or four weeks, dependant on when I can get an appointment with my psychologist to start the trauma work, which was the whole reason I came. Her earliest appointment was the 23^rd (the end of week three) but I'm just hoping there's a cancellation earlier, because otherwise I'm looking at four weeks to get two appointments in. I don't know if I'll even be able to find my voice to talk about it.

He just expects that I get out of my room, go to groups, and be around people, but I'm making no progress. There are three groups a day, and I only got to one last week (art), and two this week (relaxation, and yoga). I've barely been leaving my room. I'm not even coping with hearing people have conversations. He said if I'm going to isolate myself, I can do that at home.

He said he'd talk to the nurses and organise for them to walk me to the groups and talk to the facilitators about not asking me questions and just letting me observe, although it's still not been enough to get me to groups most days.

I can't say I care much about their goals to get me around people more. There are too many people. Too much noise. It won't continue once I'm home, anyway. I can't pull people out of thin air to bring into my life.

There are a few outpatient groups he wants me to consider, but I'm not too keen. I'm better off with one-on-one and don't function well in group situations, and I at least need time to go home, settle back in, and think about it before I sign up to anything.

As a long-term goal, he wants me to work with my GP to cut back on the benzos. Between the lorazepam and oxazepam, he said I'm on the equivalent of 60-80mg valium a day, and that's since cutting back when I was admitted.

Yesterday, after mum's announcement, I stayed in bed all day, and didn't even try to get to groups. I skipped breakfast, the first meal I've completely skipped since being here. I couldn't even face the safe yoghurt mum brought in for me. Instead, I walked 50 laps. What's the point of trying to eat? I'm making no progress here. I've lost my appointments. I don't know why I should even try anymore.

The nurse came up to me and asked if I'd be here for lunch and dinner, as they do daily.

  “Umm... no.”

  “Are you going out? Where are you going?”

  “I don't know.”

I think she could tell I was bullshitting, because the kitchen still sent both meals. They brought in lunch. I didn't touch it. Toward the end of the day, I asked the nurse she could ask the kitchen to just send some toast, as I hadn't eaten yet and didn't feel up to a full meal. She said she would, but dinner still arrived. I nibbled at the potato wedges, ignoring the fish and everything else, and had a few crackers after, 24 hours since my last intake.

I tried talking to my nurse after I got the text, but she doesn't understand. None of them do. She thinks I just need to change myself, and will be able to take public transport and magically won't be isolate when I go home. Like I said before, forcing it doesn't work. It just pushes me further into retreat. Everyone's trying to fix the superficial issues without addressing the real ones.

So I'm not talking anymore. Yesterday, my nurse pulled me aside during my walk, asking the routine “are you safe?” question. I said “I don't know”, and when she said she needed an answer, I just snapped “Yes” and kept walking.

It's the same thing every day.

  “Are you feeling safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “No thoughts of wanting to harm yourself, or end your life?”

  “No.”

I answer flatly, the same every time, no matter how I really feel. Sometimes I say “no more than usual” or “nothing I can't manage”, but that seems to cause concern and prompt them to ask for 'more details.' If I tell the truth, they won't let me stay because I can't guarantee my safety. All I can guarantee is that I'll hide it.

I got another text from mum that night, saying that at one of her appointments, she'd run into my GP, who asked how well I was doing. Obviously not even mum knows how I'm really doing, because my GP is apparently 'impressed'. I wish I could call her and tell her I'm worse than when I came in.

Mum has come in a few times. She brings me cans of Coke Zero, sometimes some safe crispbread of muesli bars, and any mail I might get (including the adorable parcel pictured below from Sam Percy).

Over the weekend, we drove down the coast to Torquay, which was one of the goals, to go more than a few kilometres away from home. I didn't get out of the car though – that's the next goal – but it was stressful enough as it is. It was a lot to take in, noticing all the changes since we used to drive down there on a regular basis, and there were people everywhere.

I'm still walking pretty much every day, for up to two hours. I'll have time to fill in, and my head says “Walk! Walk while you have the chance.”, and so I throw on my nearest shoes and go, even if I'm in my pajamas. I just walk around and around in circles, numb.

You know how some people say they walk to think? I don't do that. I walk to not think, just counting laps and running numbers through my head.

Every now and then, a nurse will pull me aside.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “I just have to do five more laps.”

  “I'll come find you for a chat when you're done.”

Sandwiches are still making up the bulk of my meals, dismantling and reassembling them to weigh the components and adjust it to my specifications. If there are no sandwiches, I'll have chicken or fish with potato and veggies. There have been one or two exceptions, but they are few and far between.

One curious addition. If you've been reading for a while, you've probably heard me talk about the Horrible Psychiatrist at the public hospital, most notably how he sectioned me, let it lapse without the 72 hour review, and held me for a week more while he figured out the legalities of if he could keep me against my will or not. The registrar who used to work with him, his Right Hand Man, now works here. I've seen her around the corridors quite often, and even seeing her is enough to strike fear into my heart.

CLINIC GOALS

1. Go for a drive more than a few kilometres away from home (achieved)

2. Go out in public somewhere quiet for a coffee, walk, etc. (potentially a visit to the cemetery, or a piercing if I can get into town)

3. Go to more groups

4. See my psychologist at least once, ideally twice, to start talking about the trauma

A cherry cigar one of the patients gave me xxBella

"Crying helps me slow down and obsess over the weight of life's problems."

I'm starting to doubt if I'm going to achieve anything by being here. I've been inpatient for a week now. The first couple of days were okay, and I felt like I was making progress, but now, I feel worse than I did before the admission. Right now, I'm seriously considering giving up and going home. I'm just wasting a bed. It's not even a matter of wanting to go home, but feeling like I should.

I saw the psychiatrist again on Monday, and am seeing him again tomorrow. He was happy with the steps I've made – staying here for more than one night for the first time ever, leaving my room to smoke in the courtyard, even though I hadn't been to a group yet. His goal for for is to break the isolation and just be around human beings.

When mum's back, apart from seeing the psychologist, he wants me to try going out for a coffee or a walk somewhere quiet. I'm thinking of maybe just going for a drive down the coast. I don't think I can get out of the car. But even going more than a couple of kilometers away from home is more than I've done in months, and scary to think of now, even though I used to feel safe as long as I was in the car.

I don't know. I feel like I'm not achieving what's expected of me. The last few days, I've been even more isolated. I'm scared of all the people. I'm scared of the noise. I've barely moved from bed. I'm wondering why I'm even here and if I really want the help or not.

As soon as I go home, I'll be just as isolated again. I still won't be able to leave the house. I still won't have friends real life. It feels like I'm physically losing my voice. It can't get past my throat, and when it does, it's barely more than a whisper.

Yesterday during morning OBs I broke down into breathless tears when the nurse said it'd be good for me to go to groups. The psychiatrist is happy with me just being around people. Why isn't that enough? They tell me to focus on the achievements I've made, not the ones I haven't, but not everyone seems to agree.

I still say I'm fine, even when I'm so anxious and low I can't move, even when I'm in tears. I don't know why. I just can't say how I'm feeling.

Every day, I can't wait for my night meds to get here and for the day to be over.

I've been to a grand total of one group, art therapy on Monday. I'd asked a nurse if she could come get me and walk me to the group to make sure I got there.

We made stress balls out of balloons filled with flour and rice, which was ironically very frustrating. I'd get flustered when the balloons would pop, and people looked at me and laughed, which didn't help. Thankfully, I'd had an oxazepam before the group, and now have a purple and black striped stress ball.

I was going to go to yoga this morning, but woke up with a headache again, so am just taking it easy for now. I've been planning to get to one group a day this week, but haven't been able to do it.

I've still not had a conversation with any of the patients. They say hello in passing, and sometimes comment on my clothes, but that's about it. After a week, I don't think it's going to happen, and I'm too afraid to talk to them. Several new patients were admitted yesterday, and it's just made leaving my room harder. I'm scared of all the unfamiliar faces.

I haven't even been able to open my curtains the last few days, just enough to peek out into the courtyard and see how many people are out there before I venture forth. I hate hearing people talk and laugh. I hate hearing phones ring. I hate seeing them having visitors. It just reminds me how alone, isolated, and unloved I am compared to them.

I got a text from mum yesterday, after five days of radio silence. I've had no leave, no visitors, and no social contact outside of blogger. She's getting back later today, but I don't know if she's visiting or not. I sent her a list of a few things I need brought in, and told her to just leave them at reception if she doesn't want to visit. I'm not going to ask her to unless she actually wants to. If she wanted to know how I'm doing, she would've made contact, but she didn't.

I've also been walking a lot these past few days, just doing laps around the corridors. The other night, I couldn't sleep, and kept getting more and more distressed even after my night meds. So I threw on my ugg boots and walked for an hour. It's easier late at night when there's no one around.

I walk until my feet are blistered, my muscles and joints ache, my lungs burning. I asked for band-aids, and they had to check them first. I told the nurse I tried to tire myself out before asking for more meds, and she said I'm better to ask for meds first.

  “It's also your eating disorder driving that too though” she said, poking my shoulder as she spoke

As soon as I had the band-aids, I was walking laps again. It seems that for every person who says I should exercise, for one reason or another, there are two saying I shouldn't.

It doesn't make me feel better because of 'endorphins' or any of that crap. It makes me feel better because I'm burning calories. When I don't exercise, the thoughts eat away at me until I do. That's the only relief it gives me. It's all just a numbers game.

It's just so novel to actually be able to walk and not just do step aerobics in the lounge room. That's one thing I'll miss, one thing I've always wished I could do but have never been able to – just walk! While I have the opportunity, I feel like I have to do it, because it's not something I can usually do. I have to walk for at least an hour. I have to reach at least 10,000 steps a day. 

Earlier this week, they gave me the wrong breakfast. I smelt it as soon as they brought the tray in. I ordered wholemeal, as always, but they gave me fruit toast. Thanks to ED 'logic', it started a chain of negative thoughts. Breakfast here is my only safe meal, the only one I know I'll be able to eat.

I didn't say anything because I didn't want them to offer to bring me more food. It felt greedy. I took my coffee and went outside to have a smoke and cry, and eventually came back and ate the yoghurt.

There's a mobile cafe van that comes in the morning, so I've been able to get one proper coffee (admittedly with 4 shots) most days.

They also finally refilled the vending machine on Monday, after three days of no diet soda. Over the day, I guzzled down three overpriced cans of Coke Zero. I'm already dreading when it runs out again.

They had a fruit platter out after my disaster breakfast. I was late to the party though, and there was only one tiny piece of watermelon left, plus some oranges and grapes. I miss watermelon so much. Recently, I'd been getting through a melon a week at home as the bulk of my diet.

xxBella

So Far, So Good (?)

Where do I start... I was admitted to the Clinic on Thursday. I'm currently on Day Four, which is longer than I've ever managed to stay here before.

I had my interview on Tuesday afternoon, which went much better than the phone calls. I spoke, quietly and hesitantly, but I spoke. I answered all her questions, and tried to stay as calm and objective as I could. We spoke about why I was there, what I want to achieve. I told her I want to start talking about the childhood abuse in a safe environment.

As always, she mentioned the AN, and said that if I wanted help with that I'd need to be referred specifically to the ED ward. I told her that I really don't, that I'm working with a dietician, that whole spiel.

She asked if I self-medicate through alcohol, and I said no. Yes, I drink a couple of times a week of late, and yes, I might drink if it's been a bad day, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it self-medicating or excessive. I told her about the smoking, and that I quit synthetics a little over four months ago, although I've had a few short 'blips' with the natural stuff.

She said the psychiatrist was willing to offer me a two week admission to deal with the current crisis. She wanted to be sure I wouldn't pull the plug at 24 hours, as I've done so several times before. I told her I'd spoken to my GP about it. I told my GP I knew that nothing would change at home if I didn't see it through, and she pointed out that, more importantly, nothing would change for me. My backup plan was to see my her or my dietician for an appointment and talk it through with them first if I felt like I was going to discharge.

I had to guarantee that I won't try to commit suicide while inpatient, and told her that my thoughts of death are mostly passive, not usually 'having a plan to take action' type thoughts. She asked if I have any protective mechanisms, like “Oh, I couldn't do it to my family”. Honestly, I don't really think about the effect on others. This will sound horrible, but I don't think I really care. This world, and most of the people in it, have never treated me well, and I owe them nothing. The other thing stopping me? I just don't want to die fat.

She said she'd speak with the psychiatrist and try to call back before the end of the day. Half an hour after we got home, she called and said I'd be admitted at 10:30am on Thursday.

I spent the next day and a half packing and just trying to get everything in order. Making lists and double, triple checking my master “What to Pack for Hospital” list that I've built over the past several years.

On Thursday, I was up early, despite having had a few drinks the night before as a bit of a 'last hurrah', as I sure wouldn't be able to access substances for the next two weeks.

When we got to the Clinic, I didn't have to do the regular pre-admisson interview. I guess that was covered on the Tuesday. I just signed the paperwork. I can see why treatment can add up, particularly in places like the US. I yet again got my money's worth from my health insurance. Their fee comes to over $1,000 a day, all of which is covered by my insurance. For 14 days, that's... roughly two and a half years of what I pay in insurance.

They did an extremely thorough bag check, pulling everything out to a heap on the bed. They shortened every cable, bundling them up and fastening them with cable ties. Nothing longer than 30cm, with the exception of head phones. And they confiscated more than I imagined they would.

Starting with the obvious, I'd accidentally left a razor blade in my wallet, still wrapped and unused. I tend to stash them in random places so there's always one close by if I need it. I don't think I'll be getting that back upon discharge. They also took my shaving razor, pencil sharpeners, and hair straightener. On the less obvious end of the spectrum, they took my blunt, rounded tapestry needles, my nail file, and my tweezers.

Worst of all, they took my hot water bottle! You can burn yourself with them, you know. That thing is usually clutched to me 24/7, so they gave me a few heat packs. Thankfully, it's so warm in my room that I haven't needed them. They also initially confiscated my Fibersure, but got it back later in the day once the doctor gave me the all-clear.

They asked for a brief overview of my life history, starting with my dad dying when I was 3 years old (my very first memory is throwing sand into his grave at the funeral), all the way up to the mess I am now. Then the nurse gave me the grand tour, as it's been a while since I was here, and didn't remember where everything was.

On Day 2, I saw my psychiatrist for the first time. It was mostly a 'get to know you' session. It's been over six years since I last saw him, on my first admission here, where he diagnosed me with C-PTSD. We talked about the childhood trauma issues, how it ties in with everything else, diagnoses and medication.

His aim for this admission is crisis intervention, and to get the ball rolling on the trauma counselling. He wanted me to try to set up counselling with a specific abuse counselling service, but then said that maybe the new psychologist I met a few months back might be able to do it instead, and asked me to try to get an appointment or two while I'm still here. If I get leave to see here and come back to the Clinic – not home – that still achieves my goal of starting to talk about it in a safe environment.

They're not going to be changing my meds while I'm here, as it takes longer than two weeks to see the effects. I was really relieved to hear this, although it was one of the things my GP was looking forward to about this admission – finally having my medication properly assessed by a psychiatrist after years of her being in charge of chopping and changing them all.

I asked him about TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation, similar but different to electro-convulsive therapy), as I'm wanting to look at more options instead of just talking and medication after 12 years of it not helping. He said that even if it didn't help, there'd be no harm done, as there's no side effects like medication can have. He also agrees there's not much point in trying more antidepressants, as they obviously haven't helped me.

They gave me some information on TMS. Ultimately, I decided not to do it, not on this admission anyway. You see, it's only covered by insurance while you're in hospital, which would extend my stay to 5 or more weeks. I don't think I can do that. I might look into it at some point in the future, but for now, I just can't.

I kept up a facade for the first day. Saying that I'm okay and forcing a smile. But on day two it cracked. The nurses walk in to do checks and instantly say I look anxious.

I found out the day before I was admitted that mum was planning to go away to visit her friends for a few days, leaving the day after I was admitted to the Clinic.

When I called her on Friday to fill her in, she told me she'd be staying for a week. I can't get to see my dietician on Tuesday, and she'd apparently completely forgotten about my appointment with my GP on Thursday (which was specifically booked for then so I'd be able to see her while I'm inpatient), let alone be able to get to see my my psychologist.

No family support, no visitors. Just a scary place full of strangers by myself. Just being dropped off and abandoned, and more of her sweeping it under the rug, because obviously it's just my issue to

deal with alone. She hasn't so much as texted since.

That triggered the first breakdown, the first tears, of the admission. I buzzed a nurse and talked to her. She gave me a PRN, and asked if I'm eating enough, as she saw the AN mentioned in my notes. I told her probably not as much as I should, and she said she'd talk to my psychiatrist and see if he wants to put me on Ensure while I'm here

I was planning to text the dietician to let her know, and ask if she and/or my GP could pleasepleaseplease come visit because I can't do this alone. I wrote the text, but couldn't send it. I don't want to bother her or guilt them into visiting.

Leaving my room is still scary, but I go out for a coffee and a smoke fairly often. My room looks on to the courtyard, where I can check that it's not too busy before venturing out to my little isolated table for a smoke break.

Most of the tables sit 4-8 people, but there was a tiny round table to the side, just by my window, so I pulled a chair over and have been sitting there most of the time.

I really don't want to talk to anyone. I barely even speak to my family these days, and I feel like I'm losing my voice.

A few people have said 'hello' in passing, but I'm yet to actually have a conversation with any of them. They're all very social though. They all sit together in the courtyard and smoke and talk to each other, and I'm just this silent loner sitting at a tiny table by myself. The men scare me the most. I think this is going to be the biggest hurdle of the admission – actually talking and being social with the other patients.

The thought of groups starting tomorrow is scary. They didn't push for the first couple of days, but tomorrow is the day. I underestimated for difficult it'd be. I'm not at all used to being around people, let alone so many. I'm going to ask for a nurse to come get me and walk me to the groups, as otherwise I'll just get frozen with fear like I did on Friday.

Thankfully, the psychiatrist said he's happy for me to start with just getting out in the courtyard and being around people. When I start groups, he said it's okay to just be a wallflower and not talk, but it's still scary.

The last two days, I've woken up feeling very low. It's the weekend, and I'm alone. No visitors, no one to take me on leave.

I miss Billy. I miss Misty too, but I don't have to worry about her like I do with Bill. He must be so lonely with neither mum or I there. He's probably sitting on the couch or by the front door, whimpering and howling the house down. I guess my brother will be there for the weekend, but what about during the week? I'm worried about him. Whenever I'm away from him, I get so scared that something will happen while I'm not there. It's actually a big part of the reason I've decided not to do TMS. I can't bar to be away from Billy for 5+ weeks. One or two weeks is heartbreaking enough as it is.

I'm trying to keep a daily routine of hygiene, getting dressed, tidying my room, taking my meds notes, journaling, coffee, that whole thing. I've been waking up around 5am, unable to get back to sleep. It takes a while for the fear to pass, not that I have much reason to leave my room so early as they lock the courtyard and kitchen overnight, and I can't get a coffee until 6am.

I keep bumping into my old ED psych, which I hate.

I need to really focus on not self-harming at the moment. Even if I hit my head, I'm gonna need to be quiet about it and keep it to myself. The psychiatrist said that if I self-harm at all, I'll be asked (kindly) to leave, as I need to be able to keep myself safe while I'm here. I'm seeing him again tomorrow.

My pulse has usually been 120-130, and my O2 sats lower than usual. I'm keeping an eye on it, as a few days before admission my oxygen got down to 83%.

There's no wifi here, and with the steep prices for extra data on my phone plan, I'm going to be limited in what I can do and how often I can post, but I'm trying to keep up with at least reading everyone's posts with my morning coffee.

My little isolation table

I take my pocket scales and liquid stevia into the kitchen. I know black coffee is supposedly low in calories, but when you drink as much coffee as I do, it adds up, especially compared to my beloved espresso.    One of the safer, nicer meals I've had, although I never eat more than one egg
My favourite safe meal - Vegemite toast and strawberry yoghurt Although I only ever eat one slice, and the yoghurt is higher in calories than my usual

xxBella

Progress

The past few days have been... turbulent, to say the least.

On Sunday, disaster struck, and everything came crashing down.

The Clinic finally called, but they said they couldn't consider admitting me. Why? Because I just cannot bring myself to speak on the phone.

Mum had it on speakerphone so I could hear. They wanted to know why I want to go, what I want to achieve, what's changed since my last admission. I sat with my head in my hands. As they kept asking and pushing for me to talk, I got more and more distressed. I started sweating and shaking and hitting my head because I just couldn't do it.

Mum told them that my GP would be calling the next day to speak to the psychiatrist personally about what's going on and why I need to go there, but they said that wouldn't be enough to admit me on unless I speak to them on the phone. I've never been able to talk to the phone to anyone except mum. I can't even talk to my GP or dietician. I can't even explain why.

The call ended with the admission worker saying she'd tell the doctor about the unsuccessful phone call, and it felt like the end of the world. This was my only hope, and it as gone. Everything was revolving around this admission, all the hope I had was hanging on it, and now it was gone.

I started screaming and crying at the top of my lungs. Devastated. They wouldn't even consider me going in to talk to the doctor in person, just because I can't talk on the phone.

I couldn't even contact my GP, being a Sunday. I was in total crisis, and she always knows what to do, but I was losing hope that even she could fix this. So I took nearly every pill I had, leaving just enough to get through the next day until the new week's meds would be delivered. I just wanted to sleep. If I can't go to the Clinic, there is no hope of things getting better. There's no where else to go and no other way of getting help.

As a funny (well, not really) side - that night I fell asleep with my favourite knife on the couch. I hadn't yet used it, but sometimes I hold it just for a kind of comfort, knowing it's right there if I need it. I guess I passed out before I could put it away, because I woke up in the middle of the night, having rolled over onto it and stabbing myself in my *ahem* gluteus maximus. I now have a gaping stab wound from unintentional self-harm.


Yesterday, I woke up feeling lost, alone, and hopeless. Later in the morning, they left another voicemail while mum was out. I thought it'd be "Your GP called us, and yes you can come in/no we won't admit you", and either way, that'd be the end of it.

When mum got home from her appointment, she called them back, and it was the same routine as the day before, wanting me to talk to them on the phone. Thankfully, they didn't push as hard, and mum just told them I couldn't do it.

Straight after, we called my GP, and told her about the phone calls. She said she'd try to get in touch with the psychiatrist, plus speak to the admissions people who kept calling me, that she'd sort it out. I didn't think it was going to change anything. She said not to worry, but they'd made it painfully clear the day before that it wouldn't be enough, and unless I get on the phone, they wouldn't admit me.

I still didn't get my hopes up. After Sunday's call and the subsequent breakdown, I couldn't afford to keep thinking it would all be fine, just to crash again.

Then, just before 5pm, they called again. She said my GP had called earlier, but they hadn't been able to get in touch with her, and obviously the psychiatrist wasn't available when she called, so they decided to call for a third time and bully me more.

She said quite clearly, that if I couldn't get on the phone and say "My name is Isabella Rayne and I want to be admitted to the Clinic.", that they couldn't take me, as they can't confirm I'm a voluntary admission, and they don't take involuntary patients.


This morning, I caught my GP for a few minutes after I finished with the dietician. She said she was working on it, and I told her they'd called again in the afternoon.

She pulled me aside, and said she'd called yesterday and spoken to someone, and reinforced the fact I can't talk on the phone. I dug through my purse for the piece of paper mum had jotted a name and a phone number down on from the last call, and lo and behold, it was the same person. I told her that they'd said they hadn't spoken to her, that she'd been unavailable, and she looked as surprised as I was. She confirmed that she had in fact spoken to them.

I told my dietician that I thought they were just going to keep calling and calling, trying to get me to talk on the phone, until they gave up and threw out my referral. My GP wouldn't say I wanted to be admitted if I didn't. I wouldn't get in the car and go into the Clinic for the admissions interview if I didn't want to go. Why was that so hard for them?


Later this morning, there was a fourth phone call. But this time, she said she'd just gotten off the phone with my GP, and was asking me to come in to speak to them face-to-face and answer their questions instead of talking to them on the phone.

Straight after, my GP called to check that everything went through okay. She is seriously amazing. She told me the lady who'd called is nicer and less pushy than the others, and will really work with me to assess everything.

So, at the end of all the drama, I'm going in to talk to them in a couple of hours, at 2pm. As a bonus, mum's surgeon gave her permission to drive again as of yesterday, so after three months, I no longer need to catch Ubers and taxis everywhere.

With any luck (and god, do I need it), I'll have some good news by tomorrow...


xxBella

Isolation is the Best Medication

This isn't an easy post to write, but at the moment, I hate my family.
'Hate' may be too strong a word, but I'm very angry and incredibly frustrated.

How can they just completely ignore D-Day and continue on as if nothing happened?

Mum says they've no choice but to keep playing 'happy family' and just ignore it until everyone gets their own individual help. Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury.

It took all the strength I could muster to lay it all out in the open. More strength than it took to initially speak about it a couple of years ago. It's without a doubt one of the hardest things I've ever done, and I've gotten nothing - less than nothing - out of it.

For a long time, I've been made to feel guilty for feeling anger towards it, or towards my family. But after speaking with my GP about it last week, she assured me I have every right to be angry. So you know what? I am fucking angry, and I won't stuff it down anymore for their sake.

Even writing that makes me feel like a horrible person.

The weekends are the worst. I hide away, even more than I do during the week. I'm the elephant in the room, the looming black cloud, and I can barely stand to be around them. I can't look them in the eye. I can't talk to them.


For many years, I've basically lived in the lounge room. Since the abusive relationship at age 14-15, I could no longer sleep in the crime scene once known as my bedroom.

To start with, I'd just find my way to the couch in the middle of the night, unable to stay in my own room, although I could still manage to spend the daytime in there. But in the past few years, I've been increasingly spending more and more of my day in there, the couch permanently set up as a bed. I had a couple of years of normality, when my ex-boyfriend lived here (who I broke up with and kicked out just days before starting this blog). As soon as he left, I returned to the couch.

And don't even get me started on my fear of the dark. I leave a lamp on all night. If I'm home alone with no one to tell me otherwise, I leave the ceiling light on 24/7.

I shut myself in, safe. Mum had been pushing more and more, prior to D-Day, for me to not leave the lounge room so closed off.

We have beautiful double doors with patterned glass, detailing a classic Australian landscape (not to mention a deer on our front door, and a ship on a swinging door halfway down the hallway, the latter of  which mum has always detested for some unknown reason). I keep one of the doors open halfway most of the time. On bad days, I leave it ajar just enough for Billy and Misty to pass through. The curtains covering the sprawling window are only ever opened half a meter, or maybe a full meter on days when mum pushes.

  "I'm trying to get you out of your bubble" she says
But I'm safe in it.

Since D-Day, she's stopped pushing. She doesn't pull the curtains wide or open the double doors except for when she has dinner, while I'm outside in my armchair with my coffee, waiting to go to bed.

All I want to do is hide, now more than ever. Not a year or two ago, she was actually offering to move my bed into the lounge, but the couch is a much safer vessel. Now, she'd never allow it. And I can't even begin to express how much I long to sleep in an actual bed again.

She doesn't see the steps I do take, but I have (for a while now) had a plan to transition from the lounge back to my bedroom and study. It mightn't seem like much, but they're things I haven't managed for years. Currently, my life is centred around the lounge room and my armchair on the back porch.

STAGES OF TRANSITION

1. Sewing in the study, instead of having everything set up in the lounge

Clothes (both storage and changing) back in my bedroom

2.  Journaling, writing, and my various notebooks back in the study

3. Spending time during the day in my bedroom (writing, reading, gaming, watching movies etc.)

4. Sleeping in my bedroom

Yesterday was yet another day spent waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the Clinic to find me a bed and a psychiatrist. I saw my dietician in the morning, and ran into my GP (she has wonderful timing of coming into work as I leave the dietician's office). She said she'd call the Clinic, and try to give them a nudge. I wasn't holding my breath.

To be honest, I'm starting to have second thoughts about the whole thing. But if I don't go, things at home will never improve. They'll keep up the 'happy family' facade, and just ignore it indefinitely.

In the afternoon, I got a text, asking me to call my GP. Mum rang with the phone on speaker, and my GP said she'd had a long talk with the intake worker. My old ED psychiatrist is on call this week, so it wouldn't happen this week. I refuse to see her due to extreme distrust in her. But the psychiatrist who first diagnosed me with C-PTSD, the one I requested initially but was told his books were full, will be on call from next Monday. My GP said she'd call him to go over the details and try to sort something out, so with any luck, maybe next week I'll get some good news.

Honestly, I don't know how much longer I can wait before I completely break. 

The barricade of my Fortress of Solitude

xxBella

The Eye of the Storm

It's now been over a week since D-Day. Since I last posted, things have not gotten much better.

I saw the dietician again this week. I've reached a point of crisis where the fear of not seeing her or my GP has overridden the fear of catching Ubers and taxis.

At the end of the appointment, my GP came into the room to check on me. I filled her in briefly on everything that happened last weekend. She asked if I'd heard anything from the Clinic, and I said no. She asked mum to call them on my behalf and see what's going on with the referral, if any progress had been made. Apparently the psychiatrist who initially diagnosed me with C-PTSD was on call last week, and thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to get in to see him.

We got home, and mum called the Clinic. They said they were about to start ward rounds, and would call back after.

In the afternoon, the phone rang. Mum put it on loudspeaker so I could hear (I've never been able to talk on the phone). They said there were no psychiatrists that could take me. They were all too busy, even if they had an empty bed, there weren't any psychiatrists that could take new patients. They said that if things got worse, I'd have to go through the public system - to see the psych triage at A&E and go to the general psych ward. There is no way in hell that is happening.

They said they'd keep reviewing the referral each week at ward rounds, but to be honest, I'm not holding my breath. As soon as mum left the room, I raided my meds and slept for the rest of the day. At least when I take too many meds, I don't seem to dream as much.

When mum was on the phone to her psychologist a few days ago, he said he doesn't believe there are no psychiatrists available at the Clinic, and I should get my GP to push harder. It was hard to hear. Obviously I'm so far down the triage list, I doubt they'll ever find me a place.

At the moment, I'm writing this to fill in the gap between morning exercise and taking my last lot of meds. I don't feel like my usual daily dosages are enough to get me through the day, and the best I can do is to take them all at once.

My weekly meds have been delivered on Monday in the late afternoon for the past few weeks, but they never last. On Friday, I asked my GP to authorize four more days of meds until the next delivery By Saturday, they were gone, and I needed the GP on call (who I've never met) to authorize another three days of meds. Now, on Sunday morning, I've only got one day's worth.

Tomorrow, I'm going to try to get in to see my GP for an emergency appointment. I'm going to ask her to take me off the stupid weekly dispensing packs, and just give me the scripts to pick up whole packets. Just until I can get in to the Clinic. I don't know if she'll let me, but all I can do is ask. Then, they can help me get back on track in a safe environment where I (hopefully) don't feel the need to take so many.

My days are like this: wake up, have a few cups of coffee, exercise, process all of my notes, then an endless cycle of watching Netflix or YouTube, gaming, exercise, meds and sleeping. I just need to survive each day until the Clinic can get me in. Any form of productivity has gone out the window.

No one understands how difficult and painful it is for me to be in my head and in this house right now. In nearly four months off synthetics, with two brief periods of the natural stuff, I've never been more tempted to smoke than I am right now.


Thank you to everyone who left support and kind messages after my last post. This community is invaluable to me, and I would truly be lost and alone without it.

I know my last post was pretty intense and heavy on the triggers, but at the moment, that's life. It's not something I'm planning on talking about a lot, but I had to get it out.

Keep your fingers crossed for me that the Clinic finds a psychiatrist to take me after this week's ward rounds...


xxBella

D-Day

Over the last couple of months, there have been certain issues bubbling to the surface. On Saturday, everything came to a head.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to happen until I was inpatient, safe and supported.

I've been putting off writing for nearly two weeks now. Even in my journal, it took days of writing to get it out.

There have been a lot of trauma issues rearing their ugly head of late. Things from my childhood that I've never gotten help with, things I've only started telling people about this year.

On Saturday, disaster struck. D-Day. Everything came bursting out from a deep, dark place inside me, and tore everything to shreds. I'd spent most of the day crying. When I made a coffee to go outside for a some, mum came out and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was scared about going inpatient, about opening up about everything. I didn't want to hurt my family. I told her I thought I'd be better off keeping it to myself. After all, one person suffering is 'better' than all of us.

We ended up clashing about the abuse, again. She thinks I'm angry/blame her/have a 'hidden agenda'. I tried to tell her I'm not, but that I'm scared and don't understand.

After a while, she decided to ask said abuser about it. I blocked the back door with my armchair, and dragged the chimenea to the side gate to blockade myself in the backyard.

Things got messy. Apparently those years are a 'black hole' for him.

I climbed through the kitchen window, grabbing a couple of bottles of liquor, my bag of self-harm tools, and the rest of my week's meds.

Panicking, I stupidly cut my head, right near the top. I lost a chunk of my hair, and now have a mini mohawk. I held my hand to my head, and when I looked at it, it was dripping wet. I panicked. Mum panicked. I had blood running down both sides of my face. Mum passed a wet face cloth through the window, and when it started to slow, I moved my chair from the door and she came outside.

I spent the night crying and screaming “Why?!”. Everything had blown up and fallen apart


Backtracking a little, last weekend, I had a clash with mum over said childhood trauma
  “Why didn't anyone pick up on the signs?”
  “Why do you want to just stay in denial?”
  “Why did no one ever ask me if I was okay?!”
She told me to move out if I think she's such a horrible mother.

I raided my stockpile and curled up on the couch crying
  “I don't understand.”
  “It's all my fault.”
  “I need to go away and leave my family in their blissful denial.”
My fault for letting it happen. My fault for being too scared to tell anyone. My fault for being so selfish for now needing to talk about it.

I slept longer and deeper than I have in a long time. Usually, I wake up somewhere between 4-6am. If not, the sound of the kettle boiling when mum wakes up always makes me jump up. But the next day, it was after midday before I even stirred. The whole night before and that day was just a blur.


Yesterday, after D-Day, I awoke with most of my hair in a knotted clump. I had bags under my eyes like I'd never seen before. I felt sick. Scared I've destroyed everything with the truth. I soaked in the bath for an hour, washing my hair three times, plus a moisturising treatment, combing and trying to untangle it. Blood plus restless sleeping equals a mess. In the end, I had to cut a chunk of it. Even once cut, the knots were impossible to seperate. Now I have an emo side fringe.


After I last posted, that night, I had another laxative overdose, triggered by all of this mess. 116 this time. I know it's probably not a lot for some of the more regular users, but after not having misused them for years (before the other overdose in August, anyway), I have no tolerance for them anymore.

I wanted to avoid public A&E, as they were clueless and I didn't want to talk to anyone from their mental health team. I asked my brother to drive me in. I went to A&E at the private hospital, but was turned away.

I told the triage nurse that I'd taken too many laxatives. She asked if I'd done it before, and I said yes, about two months ago (6 weeks if you want to split hairs). She told me they don't have psychiatrist facilities, and I said I knew that, and I'm getting help, but I just needed help with the physical side of the overdose.

She went back to check with one of the senior doctors. When she came back, she told me the doctor said I couldn't be admitted, as they were obligated to take care of the psychological side too, and I needed a mental health assessment that they couldn't provide.

  “You're obviously upset, and you need to talk to someone. There's obviously something going on if you've done it twice in two months. I think you should go down the road to public and talk to someone on the mental health team. I'm really sorry.”

I went home. The night was rough. I found leftover painkillers and Buscopan to help with the cramps.


The next day, Wednesday 28th, I got an emergency appointment with my GP to get bloods done and check in after not going to A&E. I also had a double appointment with her on Thursday anyway. When I saw her, we talked about going inpatient at the Clinic for a little while. I was hesitant to put the referral through straight away, and she said to contact her this week if I wanted to go ahead.

It's been made clear to everyone that I'm not going to the Eating Disorders program. It's mostly to deal with the trauma issues, the flashbacks, nightmares, not taking my meds properly because I'm too scared to sleep, then stockpiling them to knock myself out when I get desperate, the self-harm, overdose urges...

My GP is all for it. When I tried going there earlier this year, I had a seizure in the waiting room and they couldn't admit me. But I've been cleared by the neurologist, my GP, my dietician, and I have a psychologist on the team now (granted, I've still only seen her the once). She also wants my meds to be assessed, as she's been in charge of them, with advice from a psychiatrist she consults, for years now. I'm worried they'll change everything and I'll lose my benzos.

It's not so much for active treatment as it is to stabilize me and keep me safe, as well as trying to work through some of the trauma issues for the first time, not to mention getting me back on track with my meds. It could be anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. I've not had a great track record with following though on admissions there - out of several attempts I've never made it past 24 hours. Even on medical wards for my COPD exacerbations, I'm not the best at staying put. I go in with the best intentions, but I get scared quickly.

Once the pain and discomfort of the overdose wore off, I was slapped in the face with all the reasons why I did it in the first place, the reasons why I need to go inpatient.


I finally saw the dietician last Tuesday (the 4th), after missing 8 weeks of appointments. I'm going to try to get in to see her tomorrow too.

After the appointment, as mum and I were waiting for the Uber driver, my GP came in. I'd had mum leave a message for her the day before, wanting to clarify a few things about the inpatient referral. She apologised for not calling back the day before. I asked if she could make sure the admission would be to a private room (sharing is just not possible, whether in medical or psych, I just can't do it), and was wondering if I could be referred to the psych who initially diagnosed with with C-PTSD when I was 16/17.

Unfortunately, his books have been closed for a year now. I told her I just wanted someone who understood C-PTSD, and wanted to avoid my old ED psychs. She said she could do that, and I didn't have to worry about my ED psychs, as one of them didn't work at the Clinic anymore, and understood I didn't want to see either of them.


I fucked up my first week of weekly dispensing, after being on daily for at least a year. I thought I'd skipped a couple of days of meds, as I tend to do. I couldn't remember if they'd been delivered on Friday or Monday, but figured it'd been Friday as they were sitting for a couple of days before I opened the pack. Seven day's of meds disappeared in four.

By Saturday (D-Day) morning, I found myself with no meds. Mum called the GP's office for me, and even though the only GP working wasn't anyone I'd seen, he thankfully faxed the pharmacist to authorize an extra three days of meds.

They disappeared in a day and a half, most of them the same day. Mum thankfully gave me two of her oxazepam (which we both take) to get through yesterday. I'm currently counting down the minutes until my new meds are left at the front door. I know my GP won't leave me without meds, so it kind of defeats the purpose of weekly dispensing. They could all go today (they won't, but hypothetically), and she'd authorize another pack tomorrow.


Now, life is a mess. The world is upside down. I'm even more lost than before, with no clues and no answers.

The referral's gone through to the Clinic, and now I'm waiting on a bed. I've got no idea when that will be, but being a private clinic, hopefully it shouldn't be too long.

I'm so scared. I knew it had to get worse before it gets better, but I don't think I can cope with things getting worse than they already were.

“In a flash, I felt something: disgust ... 

and certainty that we'd never be able to 

put this back together – even if we tried.”

xxBella