Make Them Never Want to Hurt You Ever Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween!

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

but my new neighbourhood was swarming with them! 

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

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

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

First body check in new home, with and without jacket

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

- 22g taco shells (103 cal)

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

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

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



xxBella

It's Always Darkest Before The Dawn

The past few months have been very, very busy, but for the first time in years, it's mostly been for positive reasons.

It's been a long hard road, but after a year of unstable housing, one real estate agent finally took a chance on me, and now I have a place of my own for the first time ever!

At the end of August, one of the units I'd applied for finally gave me approval, after endless unsuccessful applications.

No one had ever bothered to even call my references before. Whether is was the fact that I'm on disability pension, have no rental history, or own a cat – or a combination of the three – they all took one look at my application and binned it. There's so few rentals available for so many people who need them, and I'm not exactly an ideal candidate compared to others.

Just a week after looking at the unit, I got a call saying that my application had been successful. I went in to sign the lease that afternoon, and two days later, I picked up my keys and went to look at my home for the first time ever.

Even though it was empty, it was lovely. Since it would be five days before the movers could get my things out of storage, I was planning to still sleep at the refuge, but go to my place during the day. I took Misty with me, just to try to get her used to a new environment, thinking she might take a while to adapt. But she and I were both so comfortable and at peace with our new home, that I slept on the floor with blankets and pillows for those five nights. It was just too depressing to think of going back to the refuge, so I only went back a few times to pack and clean.

After living in such terrible conditions, this place feels like a palace. Don't get me wrong – I had no other options for the past year, and I do appreciate being able to stay there. All I can say is that I'm relieved to be out of such a toxic environment.

One bonus to having my own place, is having a kitchen of my own. I don't feel self-conscious like I did in the refuge. There's no one to stare or ask questions about what I'm cooking or why I use the scales to weigh every morsel of food, no one to judge or interfere. I can feel comfortable knowing that there's just me. I've even started a little herb garden on my kitchen windowsill, which I'm very excited about for when they're fully grown.

As far as drinking goes, the less said about that, the better. I'm drinking less standard drinks per day since I've moved, but I've only had three days off in three months (and all three of those days were in the past month). I was on a bender the months before and after moving. Before moving, it was dealing with the stress, depression, and drama. After moving, it's been just wanting to relax, and being overwhelmed with having so many things to do. I had 77 days drinking in a row, which I think might be the longest bender I've had.

I need to get back to having at least a few days off each week, but it's a struggle at the moment. I'm having trouble breaking the habit. If I am trying to have a day off drinking, I need to hide in bed with my meds and go into lockdown, blocking out the world, to avoid a potential trigger. The hardest part is trying to distract myself from the things I need to/should be doing, and stressing out because it makes me feel lazy.

The only reason I'm even trying to have days off is because of the calories and weight. I was at a 50/50 ratio of days drinking vs days off for quite a while, but as the stress at the refuge built, 50/50 became three days off a week, then two, then one, then zero.

For the most part, the majority of my intake calories come from alcohol. My food intake still averages around 600, whether I'm drinking or not, but alcohol is usually anywhere between 1,000-1,500. I hate it, but it's so hard to get back on track. I don't even drink sugary or fatty drinks – it's all just vodka and wine.

With the extra alcohol calories, I'm working my butt off to try to burn them off. I rarely get more than halfway through the alcohol calories, but it's enough to keep my weight stable instead of gaining. But I'm so disgusted in myself. I lost 5kg at the start of the year, but after a few months, things started to get worse at the refuge, and so I began drinking more and more.

When I was at the refuge, they had an exercise bike sitting unused in a storage area. I'd asked if I could borrow it while I was there, and was told I could take it with me when I left. The computer on it doesn't work, so I just figure out a rough burn by time/steps/heart rate, but for now, I'm happy with it. I'm also trying to get out for walks with one of my support workers, as part of my exposure therapy for agoraphobia. She brings her two little dogs with her, and we walk at a quiet part of the river.

Apart from that, I'm not getting out much. I am doing click-and-collect orders for some of my groceries, which my support worker takes me to get. After increased rent and all the new bills and utilities, I'm struggling to afford more than the most basic groceries, let alone delivery.

I see my support workers six days a week, for two hours a day. A lot of it is just to give me some routine and make sure I'm okay. It gives me someone to talk to if I need to, and just having someone check in on me each day has been really helpful. But they can also help with things like picking up groceries, taking me to appointments, and general things I might need help with or want to do.

Life isn't perfect. I'm still dealing with the same issues I was last year, but I don't have to deal with the stress and drama of living in a refuge. It gives me a degree of feeling calm and content, living in my own place.

It's taking a while to learn how to run a house and be a real adult, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely. I'm just trying to find some semblance of routine again. For the past year, I've just been getting through the days, but now I want to have things to fill them – journaling and blogging being one of those things.

I've had no motivation to write, or even communicate with the outside world beyond my team, recently, and I really need to get back on that. So by the time I get around to needing to blog, so much has happened that I didn't know where to start, and it was just too overwhelming. It might still be a slow process while I finish unpacking, but hopefully you'll start seeing regular posts from me again soon.

It seems like I've barely even had time to read blogs, with the insanity that has been the past year, and I feel so disconnected, but it's time to change that and get back to being a regular member of the community, which slipped away as my housing situation grew increasingly worse over the past 18 months. I'd had no energy or motivation to do anything, but now that I've got stable and safe accommodation, that's starting to return.

I'm sorry I've fallen off the grid. But I love you all, and I'm sorry I let things slip so far for so long.

For now, I'm off to start a long overdue catch-up on everyone's blogs.

Misty is loving having huge windows to sit and watch the world go by. 

Without a courtyard, she can't roam in and out as she pleases, 

but she's adapting well. I take her outside in her harness when 

it's quiet outside, as my street can get very busy and loud, 

but she seems content just snoozing on the windowsill. 

I have most things set up and unpacked. The only things 

left are half a dozen random boxes, and my sewing room. 

When it's all done and looking nice, I promise I'll post some photos.

xxBella

"You don't have to be invisible to disappear."

In the months since I last posted, my support team has basically tripled in size.

For a long time, it’s been my GP, dietitian, and psychologist. Now, since my NDIS plan has come into effect, I also have two support workers, a support coordinator, a drug & alcohol counselor, and an occupational therapist.

The only day that I don’t have any appointments is Sunday. I see one support worker Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturday. The second one, who I only met a couple of weeks ago, I see Mondays and Thursdays. They’re there to mostly have a chat, help out with issues that might be bothering me, and day-to-day things. I see my GP and dietitian every other Tuesday, and my psychologist on alternate weeks. I see the drug & alcohol counselor every few weeks, to try to come up with coping mechanisms to cut back on drinking. My support coordinator basically runs things, but I don’t see him much, and the occupational therapist is every month or two (basically to set goals and create more routine in my days).

The organization my support team are from run groups during the week. I’m supposed to try to get to them once or twice a month, but I haven’t yet (when I do, it’ll probably be the exercise oriented ones). They also do BBQs each Saturday, which I try to get to every 4-6 weeks. A few of the people there I already know pretty well from when I was living at the SRS, so that makes it easier to be around so many people.

I’m still too nervous to eat at the BBQ, between eating in front of others and whipping out my scales like a weirdo, but my Support Worker buys me a coffee on the way. Since I’ve always been so isolated, I’ve never really had to deal with people pressuring me to eat. My family would ask if I’d like to try what they were cooking, and obviously wanted me to eat, but accept it when I declined. At the BBQ, even when none of them know explicitly about the ED, at least half a dozen people will ask “have you had something to eat?”, “aren’t you having lunch?”, “are you sure you don’t want something?” Even if I was hungry and the food smells good, I’d rather wait until I get home and cook a low-fat sausage in a dry pan and eat it in wholemeal, instead of a fatty budget sausage cooked in oil and put in white bread.

None of it’s helping much at the moment, but it’s nice to have the extra support and know that, most days, there’ll be someone around if I need to talk.


A few weeks ago, I slammed headfirst into a massive ED trigger. I won’t go into detail, because I don’t want to trigger anyone else with it. In the space of a few days, I made after hours crisis calls to my support worker, dietitian, The Butterfly Foundation (which I could unfortunately not get through to), Lifeline, and an emergency GP appointment. Those who know me, know that it takes a lot for me to actually pick up the phone, or to go and talk to a doctor I’ve never met before.

I’ve had to be more cautious with food, with only the safest of safe foods on the menu to avoid another breakdown. I’m stocked up on fruits (currently apples, mandarins, kiwis, strawberries, watermelon and cantaloupe), yoghurt, crispbread, multigrain bread, and boiled eggs. If I want a main meal, I’ve got veggie soups and stews in the freezer, and I’ve always got things to make baked potatoes around (usually a little low-fat cheddar, garlic, and 97% fat-free shortcut bacon).

One of my favorites is a light version of potato latke - a medium low carb potato, shredded and mixed with No Egg egg replacer, and cooked in a couple of teaspoons of butter. Even though I use a little butter, it still works out to under 200 cal. I’m also partial to chicken cooked in Mexican seasoning, to have with salad in either a wrap or a couple of crunchy taco shells. And with winter hitting hard, hot chocolates (45 cal) are flowing in abundance. It’s not 100% full proof. Especially if I’m drinking, my food choices vary (not so much by calories, but different options that aren’t necessarily as safe).

On the plus side, I’m also drinking less, even though it’s mostly because of the calories. Last year, I consumed a total of 136,700 calories in alcohol alone. That translates to 17.75kg (39 lbs) extra on the scale that I could’ve lost if I didn’t drink.

My dietitian is concerned that I’ve barely been getting any protein. I’ve been averaging 20g a day, and she wants me to get up to at least 40g. I’ve been trying to add in things like more yoghurt, boiled eggs, and nibbling on cashews instead of crispbread, but I still struggle to even hit 30g. Since the Big Trigger, it’s back down to barely 20g.

My weight’s slowly been dropping since cutting down on drinking in the past year, although it’s been stagnant because I’ve been drinking more again in the last three months, mostly due to a lot of traumaversaries at this time of year. Whether I’m drinking or not, my food calories average around 600, but alcohol can easily add an extra 1,000 in a day.


Mum has since decided to move back to Geelong, after spending months looking around the state to figure out where she wants to go. Our relationship has definitely improved in the past 6 months, but it’s not without effort. We’ve started going for walks, to get me out of the house and to help with her health issues. About a month ago, we did the walking track at the beach (unfortunately I did not take photos). Then last week, we did the river walk (pictures below). I’m still not getting out much - the only other outings this year have been two birthday dinners - but hopefully between these walks, the BBQ, and trying to start some of the groups, that might improve.


I’m also going to be looking at a couple of places this week, for the first time since the house was sold in August. I’d been looking a lot before that, but since Billy passed, I lost all motivation. Even though it’s never been an overly pleasant place, the refuge has become even more stressful and depressing in recent months, and I need to get out of here, especially after being here since October. So wish me luck!


And I’m sorry I’ve been terrible at answering comments and emails. When I get them, I tell myself I’ll post an update the next day, but can’t find the energy to get out of bed and sit at my laptop. I know I say it every time, but I really will try to update more often.







xxBella

Where's Bella?

I’m sorry that I’ve disappeared for the past few months.

There has been a lot going on. Losing home, and then Billy barely two weeks later, has shattered so much.

I’m working on a post explaining how I ended up where I am living now. The long-story-short version? Neither The Salvation Army or any homelessness organizations could find somewhere for me in time. Mum put me up in a motel room for two nights. A caseworker from a mental health organization got me into a Supported Residential Service, where I stayed for six weeks (basically a nursing home for all ages, and while wonderfully supportive, it also drained 99% of my income, while still having to buy my own food because I couldn’t eat theirs). I am now in short-term accommodation at a share house for homeless women (which I hate and am too scared to leave my room).

As I mentioned in my last post, Billy and Misty were cared for by a charity, staying at volunteers’ houses and being well cared for. Both they and my team were working to have Billy classes as an emotional support animal. The SRS had agreed to him coming to stay with me there (a friend I met there had his dog there too). Fate being cruel, he was mere days away from coming to be with me when he had his accident. We parted on August 23rd. He injured his eye on September 6th, I visited him before his surgery on the 7th, and spent a few hours with him on morning of the 8th. By 8pm on the 9th, he had gone into cardiac arrest.

I will never forget the fear those days. That they weren’t sure he’d make it through the surgery. The relief when he did. The shock of seeing him missing an eye with a very swollen head (but otherwise in good spirits). But the most vivid was when I was sitting on the porch of the SRS with the rest of the smokers on that Sunday night, and saw the vet who’d been taking care of him the past two weeks walking up to the building. Trying to hold it together as my new friend (we’ll call him J), who’d been a great support through it, came with me when the vet asked the staff for a private room to speak to me in, trying to convince myself that it was something else.

Then, she held my hand,

  “I’m very sorry...”

Before she could finish her sentence, I was hysterical. Sitting there, crying and screaming, Billy, my baby boy, oh god, why. Staff and residents coming in because someone was suddenly screaming uncontrollably.

I called mum on speakerphone within minutes. I couldn’t bare to make the call, so I wanted her to hear what the vet was saying. When she said she couldn’t drive the 6-hour return trip to take me to see him that night, and it would have to wait until the morning. I called my brother, just over an hour away. Even though it was late and he had to be up early for work, he agreed straight away.

The vet had told me I could only see him for 20 minutes, as it was a very busy emergency clinic, and then I’d have to say goodbye. When I got there, the staff showed us to a room and brought him in. I held him. I lay on the floor, sobbing, singing “You Are My Sunshine”. After an hour, my brother nudged me that it was time to let go. I knew I had a lot more time than I thought I would.

My poor boy. My baby. I’m sorry for rambling on, much of which I’ve already posted. Whenever I start talking or writing about him, I can’t stop, no matter how upset I get.

On top of the homelessness issue, losing him has destroyed what was left of my mental health. I spend half of my time overdosed on my meds, and the other half binge drinking the cheapest Shiraz I can find because I have no medication left. I spend all day lying in bed. There have been many times I should’ve gone to the emergency room - times that, if I was at home, mum would’ve called 000. I have very seriously considered joining him. I have been found passed out in the kitchen from overdoses, and at times unable to walk or form simple words. I have even called Lifeline, at the end of my rope, and spent hours crying to them, telling them about Billy.

As I write this, I realize there is nothing else in my life right now. There is nothing else to say. There is homelessness, a more passive issue that I’ll cover in another post, and there is the loss of Billy. Grief has consumed every minute of the past four months. I call mum every day just to talk to someone about him. I often find myself journaling or writing notes on my phone, often repeating myself, just to write about him. I medicate and I drink and I cry. My life has become consumed by loss.

Thankfully, I do have Misty here with me, after a few weeks of trying to convince the owners. It has been a great comfort after spending the first two months alone. But part of me realizes it will never be the same. When I first picked Misty up, I cried. Not necessarily because I hadn’t seen her for so long, but because it was now just the two of us. And don’t get me wrong, I love her... but it’s just not the same. Billy and I had such a deep connection. He’d been by my side since I was 10. He was my world.

I haven’t had a mental health safety plan since losing Billy. Under the section “Reasons To Live”, the only reason was ever Billy. I know Misty would be fine to be re-homes, that she could still be happy and thrive. But Billy, anxiety-ridden and codependent... it always effected both of us a great deal if I even went away for a night. We needed each other.

Tomorrow, it would’ve been Billy’s 15th birthday. It also marks six years since losing Silky, our family dog. Six years since I realized they are only mortal, and started making plans for what would happen when Billy’s time came (Silky’s passing was very sudden, going from fine to gone within hours, and none of us knew what to do. We never got her remains, and I knew I wanted more for Billy). I’m planning to spend the day with mum, as my psychologist doesn’t want me to be alone. My brother will be joining us for dinner. On the 9th of every month, each month since he passed, I’ve been fasting. I don’t even drink. It’s become a near-religious routine. But tomorrow, especially considering I’ve had no medication for a week and won’t for a few more days, I’ll be taking advantage of having access to decent wine.

I’ll try to get my post about my journey with homelessness up soon. I’m sorry that my posts have been so depressing and rambling. I think I’ve avoided posting because I knew it would come out as another long sad story about Billy, when I’ve wanted instead to update you on my living situation and everything that’s been happening alongside.

How cruel fate can be. To lose everything and have life turned upside down in the span of two weeks... It just feels like a sick fucking joke.

P.S, I’m sorry for disappearing. I know some of you have been concerned or wondering if I’m okay. Everything just takes so much effort right now.

A couple of people have asked about contacting/following me on other social media. I don’t use Instagram or Snapchat or tumblr or twitter or any of that. I am always on Facebook, although I don’t really post much. You can find me under the email address  too-much-not-enough@hotmail.com

To end this post on a less negative note, a few pictures.

When I ventured down to a pub a block away shortly after moving to the share house.

Christmas lunch. I didn’t get to cook this year. Instead, my family came down and we went to a nice pub. Everyone actually enjoyed the food, which was surprising given a set menu. I was slack with pictures, but we all had Korean BBQ lamb ribs, eye fillet steak with scalloped potatoes and broccolini, and mud cake. I may or may not have had a bottle of wine...

The same pub. The night after leaving home, staying at a motel in town and heading to the SRS the next morning. It was right next door to this pub and I’d always wanted to go. So, I took myself out for a steak and a nice bottle of wine, as I knew it’d be the last time for a while I’d be able afford it.

xxBella

Empty

It's been nearly weeks since Billy passed, and it's not getting any easier.

I'm sorry for disappearing, both after moving out of home and after losing Bill. I'm having trouble finding words lately. My phone is full of notes of keywords and jumbled thoughts from the past few months, and I've been trying to compile them into something halfway comprehensible.

When mum came down to visit, she brought me some of his things. The pillow from his dog bed stays next to me on my bed, and I've been holding that instead of my stuffed toys, which have been demoted to the foot of my bed. His urn stays on my bedside table, with his paw prints on the wall, and a mini shrine on the shelf above. When things get rough, I lie there holding him. Billy used to always sleep behind my knees, and I spend the night hugging his pillow with him nestled behind my knees. Just feeling the weight against me, when I close my eyes I could nearly pretend I'm back home in my bed with him there.

But that can never be again.

I've lost all care for where I end up. I don't care about having everything I own locked away in storage, or when I'll be able to have my sewing set up again. I don't care about finding my own place, because I know that when I do, and when I get Misty back, it's going to hurt even more. The emptiness will be amplified. Being in short term accommodation, it feels a bit like being in hospital and only being away from him for a little while. When I'm somewhere permanent... I don't know how I'll cope.

Some days are worse than others. I'm completely overwhelmed by life, and I'm not coping as well as I could be. There isn't much support around at the moment - my case manager has disappeared, and my GP is away for six weeks. My psych has been calling me at least once a day (and yes, I've actually spoken on the phone with her). The past few days have been particularly rough. She came to see me for an emergency appointment yesterday, and the first words out of her mouth were "I think you need to go to the psych ward."

I have never felt as alone as I do without him.

Even writing this, I kept breaking down in tears, hence it's taken so long to post an update. It has even made me physically ill. A few days ago, I was sitting outside with my second coffee of the morning, trying to write this. Then I started getting a headache and feeling sick. I went in to have my meds and lie down, and I threw up all of the coffee along with the meds. I've felt ill from emotions before, but I don't think I've ever thrown up from them.

I am full of grief. There is no room for food. There is nothing I want. I just want him back.

My world is empty. Everything seems pointless. I don't game. I don't read books, or watch movies. I don't do any sewing or crafts. I don't cook or bake. I go outside to smoke cigarettes, and I lie in bed. My psych wants me to give myself permission to be happy. But how can I ever be happy without him?

I'm not okay. But my heart is still beating and I'm still breathing.

I don't want to make this post into an epic, so I'll leave it here for today. I'll start drafting a post to update on the big move (and several subsequent smaller moves), and hopefully get it posted in the next week. I just wanted to quickly check in and let you all know I'm still here.

"She was tired, with that tiredness that only emptiness brings."


Those who have me on Facebook will have seen these already.

My boy has had a beautiful send off. The urn is beautiful, and I also have a necklace that holds a tiny part of his ashes, so he is always with me. I'm so grateful to the Cherished Pets Foundation, not only for taking care of him and Misty when I ended up homeless, but also for funding Billy's vet care, and for helping make arrangements and supporting me through such a difficult time.

When I have the money, I'm going to get his paw prints tattooed, either on my ankle or the back of my leg. I've been meaning to get a couple of different tattoos, but having to go out into town and find a tattooist I like has been too daunting. But now, the want is great enough to do so.

I couldn't bring myself to throw out the flowers Cherished Pets gave me. By the time I thought to press them, they were already too dry, so I kept the whole bouquet. At some point I want to cut them down to a smaller bouquet, and find some sort of container to keep them safe in, but that's a project for another day.

xxBella

Forever my Sunshine

It is with a heavy heart that I write this post, to let you all know that my baby boy, Billy, passed away on Sunday night.

After a lifetime of health issues, his little body just wasn't strong enough to recover from another bout of surgery.


On Thursday, I found out that he'd injured his eye, and it had to be removed. There were concerns as to whether or not he'd make it through the anesthetic, given his age and plethora of health issues.

I went to see him on Friday morning before the surgery. His eye was entirely dark red, and he was very confused.

He made it through the surgery. I went in the next morning to see him before he went back to stay with the vet nurse who'd been taking care of him. As much as I'd tried to prepare myself, I was shocked by the amount of swelling and bruising on his little head. I gave him cuddles, and took him for a little walk. He seemed to be doing really well.

Someone anonymously offered to pay for all of his vet bills, which was a huge relief. At nearly 15 years old and tens of thousands of dollars put into his medical care, it was at the point where I couldn't afford any more surgery.


On Sunday night, I was outside having a smoke. I saw the vet walking up, and I knew something was wrong. We went inside to talk, and I was already crying. She said she had some really sad news, and I just lost it. Crying and screaming hysterically.

Even though the surgery went well, they took him to a 24hr vets for the weekend because they were concerned about the swelling and his pain levels. He had a cardiac arrest and they tried to resuscitate him, but couldn't. He just wasn't strong enough.

My brother came down so I could go see him. I was told it could only be 20 minutes, but I was with him for 1hr 15mins until my brother gave me a nudge to let him go. I just held him and lay on the floor next to him and sang 'You are my Sunshine'.

I've chosen an urn, and am also getting a locket with part of his ashes in it. The vet said a lot of people put something special in to be cremated with them, like a flower. Since I want so badly to be with him, I put in a lock of my hair, so I'll always be with him. He went on his final journey with my hair nestled by his heart.


I don't have words right now.

I am staying in supported accommodation until I find somewhere longer term. It's basically like a nursing home for all ages. I will update more at another time.

My GP, psych, and the people from the organization who were taking care of him were all writing letters and working to have him classed as a therapy dog, so he could be here with me. He was supposed to be here this week. And now he's gone.


There are no words for how heartbroken, devastated, and destroyed I am.


Rest in peace, my best friend, my strength, my everything.

20.01.04 - 09.09.18

Post-Surgery




Last night, the vet brought over a beautiful bouquet of flowers,  a book of poetry, a card, two blocks of Lindt, and some tea.




xxBella

Homeless

I didn't get an apartment in time.

I'm writing this to you from a cheap motel room. 

I've cried so much this week, I ran out of tears. I've been retching because the stress is making me feel physically sick. 

The mental health case worker assigned to me after my last hospital trip visited me every day this week. He said he'd gotten in contact with someone who could help me with housing, and seemed optimistic. That never led anywhere. 

Yesterday mum was locking up the house and leaving to stay with her friends. She'd been planning to leave by midday. But no one could find me a place to sleep. I've gone through three different services this week, which is all that's available. I'd even gone into the Salvation Army in the morning, but by the end of the day, they couldn't find me anywhere either. 

By 4pm, with no where to go and time running out, mum decided to pay for a motel for me to stay at for two nights. Her friend helped me move my things in his ute, because it wouldn't fit in a car. He'll even help me when I leave the motel, and when I find an apartment. They both sat with me for two hours, smoking and chatting outside, trying to help me settle in. 

Billy is with a pet sitter. Letting him go yesterday was excruciating. I cried my eyes out handing him over, and spent the next few hours lying on the floor, crying with his blanket. I'm very worried about him. He's nearly 15, has a hoard of medical issues including anxiety, and whimpers and howls and panics whenever I leave the house. At least he has a person around though, and won't be outside in a noisy, cold, lonely boarding kennel. He'll be warm and inside, sleeping on the bed, being loved and cared for and getting cuddles. If Billy can't be with me for now, it's the best place for him. She's a vet nurse who volunteers for people in crisis, and she specializes in dogs with acute anxiety. I don't really care where I end up. I just worry about him, but am glad my case worker listened when I told him that Billy needs a person and cannot go to a kennel. Misty is much lower maintenance, and is staying with a vet (at her house) for a few nights before going to a very nice cattery. 

There are a couple of leads for places I might be able to go tomorrow, and I'll be in contact with my case worker today. If it doesn't lead anywhere, I go back to the Salvos at 4pm, and they'll try again.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'll update when I can. 

I never thought I'd be homeless.