Crisis Management

I’m broken.


734am – Wake. Weight 47.3kg, BMI 15.44, DOWN 0.8kg (1 day)

900am – Appointment with Disability Network. You’ve got funding for this and that, generic support, money for transport. But a dietitian was not approved. I’ve been granted funding for being disabled from Anorexia Nervosa and they won’t let me see a dietitian. Fucking Australian system. I have access to one in community mental health, but I’ve waited now about 2-3 months to see her and no doubt once I finally do it’ll be scares. And useless. All I wanted out of these disability people was for them to fund a psychologist and a dietitian, so I could see the same ones consistently and regularly and maintain my physical and mental health enough to keep my job. They wont allow me a dietitian and they wont fund my specific psychologist. Now I’m rapidly declining. Drinking, cutting, seen the psychologist once, waiting a month between appointments. Losing weight, to the point where I’m gone. One track mind and can’t turn back now. A dietitian would have been helpful a month ago, maybe could have even prevented this. And they could be helpful in the future. But right now I’m completely unable to stop the weight loss.

1100am – 60 hours B/P Free. Intake of caffeine and vodka only for that time.

1200pm – “Emergency” Appointment with Psychiatrist. Talking. Meh. Talking of a brief voluntary crisis admission. Case Manager was there (she also went to Disability appointment). Talked with psychiatrist for a half hour. She wants alcohol free 2 nights a week and a max of four drinks on the other nights. She want’s minimum 49.0kg. She can’t condone any amount of cutting. In all honesty I can’t agree to any of those. I hate lying. Can’t tell the truth. Say nothing. Psychiatrist had to go to a meeting at 1230pm. I think she said we’d talk in 2 days after I’d thought about it all. Case Manager kept me there for another 40 minutes. Worried, wearing me down. It’s Tuesday, Work is unusual this week due to supervisors holidays so extra shifts – Full Days Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Eventually I agreed to 2 nights in the hospital to “break the cycle” / “keep me safe”, until work starts. Case Manager seems relieved. Starts calling people and takes me home.

330pm – Case Manager calls, no beds at the psych ward tonight. “Will you be safe tonight” blah blah. “Can you see your GP for stitches today” blah blah. Yes, yes. No, I’m going to nap. I haven’t eaten for 60 hours and caffeine tastes great and gives me something to do with my mouth and hands but does nothing for me chemically. Bed. Arm is fucked. Impromptu decision. I will see GP.

400pm – My lovely GP isn’t there, see the nice lady I’ve seen for stitches once before. So much pain. Something’s fucked. Cleanser hurt like a motherfucker, much more than the injected anesthetic, which is the reverse of what’s usual. My whole body was literally shaking, maybe even convulsing in pain. Never happened before. It was a bad cut. I hadn’t looked at it til then – since I was drunk and did it last night. I’m not squeamish but when i took the band-aid off I outwardly swore and had to turn away.

440pm – Pays in. Buy vodka, SF cordial, energy drinks, treats for dog. Drinking, but I’ll try not to cut tonight. Blood splatters over my computer floor, printer, outside (smoking) table.

I just want to lose weight.


The last 24 hours

About 24 hours ago I was drunk. Drunk and cutting.
It went real bad.

I could see my heart beating in the muscle, meaning once again I could see the muscle.
This is a newly achieved depth as of late. And it would have been “fine” if it wasn’t gaping like 1 inch and had I not been drunk.

Drunk “wisdom” says I better call for help.

I called the Acute Care Team.
They called an ambulance, though thankfully listened to my request of no lights or sirens.
They took me to the ER.
It was okay, for I don’t know how long. Til after an hour (or Three?) I freaked out. I don’t remember if it was triggered by me trying to leave for a smoke or leave for good because I decided I didn’t want to be there. But either way, it ended with me being pinned to a bed by I don’t know how many people. I couldn’t move my head but it felt like 5 or 6.

This went on for a while. They shoved a needle in my butt cheek. It did nothing and I knew. “It’s Lorazapam isn’t it?! That shit doesn’t work on me, I’m immune”. “what does work then?” “So it is Loraz! I knew it. I’m not telling you?. Another injection. Fake sedation. Restraints loosen. Thrash free. Another injection, actually I think it was two more. Whatever it was it wasn’t Loraz. I slept until 3 or 4 pm. When the injection was probably at around the 300am mark.

I dont remember much from that time. Beds moved. A lady tried to talk to me but got angry when I was incoherent. It must have been around midday when i talked to someone. I don’t remember their position. Psych nurse or psychiatric intern maybe. Said I wouldn’t be talking to a registrar.

But it must have been 3 or 4pm and a lady came in. I don’t remember her name but she was a Psychiatrist or Psychiatric Registrar. She was lovely. Tears started rolling down my face when i mentioned my inherently anxious dog stuck at home alone, and my rostered shift to work tomorrow. She gave me a tissue. Not from a box that was handy she fished a little bag out of her purse.

We seemed to be teetering the line between going home and forced psychiatric admission. She tried to get me to find someone that I could stay with for the next couple of days. I couldn’t. I have no family in town and only have one IRL friend who was working the night shift. I don’t know what did it but she agreed to let me go home but said she personally would see me soon because my real scheduled psychiatrist appointment was too far away for comfort.

Is it bad that I hope she does contact me. She was nice, that’s all

She asked to see my cuts.
After sounds of shock or despair she stopped. “…There’s no stitches” she said
“Did they say they stitched them? They definitely needed stitches” I told her.
She kicked up a fuss. I get the sense in a setting like an emergency room psychiatrists probably aren’t taken with too much esteem. That must be difficult for someone who’s worked so hard for respect.

After a bit an ER doctor came round. Looked at the cuts. Said they’d stitched the muscle back together internally but not done anything form the skin. 20+ hours and ER and I’m finally getting real stitches. Nurses coming in saying like “you were here for so long, and asleep, and the files, we just thought they’d been done”. Ah the supreme treatment of mental health patients in public AU system.

Head ER doc I think came over to stitch. Joined by a junior too. I think the one that did the internal stitches cause he seemed to be learning and said “it wan’t gaping so much when we did them”.

They were ALL really nice after that. Let me go, complete with a taxi voucher to get home.

Home at 623pm

I told the nice psychiatrist I wouldn’t have any caffeine when I got home. But I was on sedatives and slept all day so I’m not going to sleep toning anyway. A brilliant welcome and forgiveness from puppy dog ❤ and 2 "strong" cappuccino sachets.

Vodka. Technically I didn't tell her I wouldn't drink. Silly think not to ask for really.

2 reasons drinking is okay.
1) After being completely sedated ALL DAY there's no way to sleep without vodka, even for me who can sleep at the drop of a hat. Straight after an energy drink and all.
2) I am CERTAIN I will not cut tonight.

So, tomorrow.
Work 1000 til 300. I am absolutely beyond relief that I do not have to call in sick. After calling in sick Monday last week for self harm that got out of hand (job is 2-3 months old, first time calling in sick/injured)
Apparently I'll be seeing my Case Manager tomorrow. Not scheduled but nice psychiatrist said she'd contact her and it would happen.
Calling my 1 IRL friend tomorrow. Spoke to her today (briefly – she was at work) was honest about what had gone on the last 24 hours, and said I'd call once I finished to either chat it through or catch up in person
Have to call my mum. On Saturday (I work – and can't deal with social interaction after 9 hours at work) so was like "I'll call you tomorrow :)" Didn't realise til like 700pm that I'd said I'd call and didn't cause I was unconscious. Told her the truth, spent the day in ED. Said I'd call her tomorrow/as soon as I could with appointments and work. They're really good. All this involuntary "treatment" and exposure to my mental ILL health over the last 5 years they know that I cant talk when I'm worn out (work) or otherwise in a mood. Mum, to her immense credit, didn't even send me a message today asking why I hadn't called etc. ❤

I've poured one more vodka. This ones only 1 shot instead of 1.5. Makes it 7 shots once I've finished the glass. I WILL go to bed after this one. After, of course, I puke out what calories and hangover I can.

Goodnight. Hope your last 24 hours were less traumatic.

November 20th 2017

I’m drinking again.
I’ve drunk 6 nights out of the last 7. Binge drunk.

Today’s been… whatever.
I woke up at 744am. Late for me, cause when I woke up at about 5 I didn’t want to be awake. 2 sachet cappuccino’s, 1 B/P (6754 Cal), then I slept again, for over four hours because I didn’t want to be alive. 2 sachet cappuccino’s. It’s past 500pm. That justifies vodka right?

If I can not binge again it will be a major achievement to have binged between 800am and 1000am and not binge later in the day. Hell pre vodka it would be a major achievement to end the day at 3 instead of 4 binges that day when starting early. I don’t know if I will binge again. It could go either way. Drunk at dark out means if I do it’ll be from work shop. How low is that? Shopping for food you’re going to throw up, while being drunk, at your place of work. But yes. I am that low of a human being. Scum.

What I do need to do is cut. There’s not much left in the vodka bottle.

Plan. Plan is to finish vodka, avoid B/P, incise my flesh down to the muscle, home job repair.

I got a text from my new (Private but Bulk Billed for 10 sessions) Psychologist today (I’ve only seen her one time). I was bingeing when I got the text, didn’t notice. Slept without checking my phone and didn’t reply til after 400pm. But it said that my GP (re stitches) had contacted her asking her to get me an earlier appointment, and when was I available. I haven’t done my homework. I didn’t know my GP was worried. I had 3 cuts stitched by her. 1 cut stitched by a different doctor when she wasn’t there. I refused to get the last one stitched because it wasn’t fair on GP. Til too much pressure (or, support?) from appointment people and I caved. She wasn’t there and I thought I’d skated by by getting a different doctor to do it. But that doctor or maybe one of the nurses must have mentioned it too my GP and she thought, as I knew she would, that it was one time (in a short space of time) too many. I’m just relieved she didn’t contact my case manager. Case manager is part of the PUBLIC system. And public system is all too trigger happy in institutionalising me.

But, saying that. I haven’t seen my Case Manager for a number of weeks. I’m due to see her on Wednesday morning. But work rescheduling means Wednesday is well, doable but not ideal. I’ve been meaning to reschedule her for either tomorrow (Tuesday) or Thursday. So shit’s happening and I can’t avoid it.

I need to see my Psychiatrist. I love her but it always seems she’s away or incapacitated when I need her. I wonder when she’s back in the fucking country?

I need to cut.

I’ve lost weight since the alcohol started at least.

Memory, Emaciation and Survival

When I talked about the memory problems I’ve suffered due to ECT, no one believed me. Well that’s not entirely accurate – 1 person believed me, R but she’s related to job searching and participation requirements for my disability pension, not my mental ILL-health directly, and my friend, well you’ll think I’m just saying this for effect but I genuinely don’t remember what her stance on the situation was. But my parents, my case manager, my doctors all insisted it was a normal response that would alleviate with time, that I was overthinking and that I “remembered the important things”. It didn’t matter that I reminded them I’d had ECT treatments PRIOR to the offending round and it wasn’t like this. It didn’t matter that I told them I KNEW with every ounce of my being that this wasn’t within the realm of normal or that it wasn’t improving or going to improve with time. I knew something was seriously wrong, and I don’t know if others were in denial, or afraid of culpability/covering themselves, thought I was uneducated or just dramatic. But of all the things I have forgotten, and still am forgetting I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feeling of a NO DOUBT problem falling on a crowd of deaf ears.

Even when my Case Manager conducted a memory and cognitive test on me I honestly believe it was done with the intent of easing my concerns rather than assessing me. But it was an assessment. And I failed that assessment. I failed that assessment enough that my Case Manager is now set to consult with workers on the aged care team who have experience with dementia. We have to be taught how to use some sort of computer program (pseudo-educational) to assist with trying to bring my results up. I have to be retested I don’t remember when, to see if it’s improved.

But the point of this post isn’t strictly for me to vent about my memory. What I realised while I was out smoking, before I just HAD to open this page and write is that misunderstanding and marginalisation of KNOWING something and being constantly told you’re wrong is also what happens with me and my eating disorder.

I know that I NEED to lose weight. I know that it’s the only thing that will keep me alive. I’m told I’m wrong.

At BMI 17 and heavily B/P the doctors and nurses and MH staff and support staff and family and society tell me I need to recover, that it’s dangerous and my weight might be stable and high for me but it’s not healthy and it’s risky and it’s just food and numbers.

At BMI 13 and heavily B/P they see emaciation and an irregular heart rate sitting at 28 and jumping dangerously high just by standing. They see low potassium and a mass of other electrolytes. Critically low blood pressure and blood sugar. Whatever else. They see dying that they have to fix. They see disorder that I have to fix.

Those problems they see, I’m totally asymptomatic. I’m not in denial, they just don’t matter to me OR my body because I’m doing what I have to. What I KNOW is right. The risk of one or a combination of those things killing me is real, and at that weight, or the BMI 12 I need to be it’s even imminent. I KNOW that. But what I also KNOW is that the risk of my death by suicide due to my depression is far more real, more painful and more imminent – especially at BMI 17. I’m not being dramatic. It’s real both in psychology and biology. At a low weight my MIND is more focused and satisfied by living in a world of numbers and achieved or achievable goals. Simplicity. And a far lower level of self loathing. Not because I’m classic AN with body dysmorphia and see an overweight girl in the mirror. But because of these goals, the feeling of changing, of taking forward steps in a direction I NEED to go and because of my (I’ll admit disordered) obsession with numbers, purity, deprivation and societal rejection. Physiologically a deprived BRAIN is slower, thinks less, processes less, doubts less. This is science. And when your internal environment is brutal and dangerous and full of blood and hate, this is a welcome reprieve. A LIFESAVING reprieve.

Do they understand yet. Do you understand yet. There is no healthy wonderland when your reality is turmoil. There is only SURVIVAL. And this I KNOW.

Depressive Apathy

I’m tethered to the couch. Blanket, pillows, dog. There’s a working TV, and Netflix when the former becomes painfully tacky – weekend daytime TV sigh. Caffeine limited. Just enough to avoid a headache. I don’t want to be awake and anyway the effort required to get an energy drink out of the fridge or worse, make a coffee is just monumental. Too monumental. 

I have no money. Related is no desirable caffeine options. No WoW distraction thanks to an expired subscription. No smokes – but a good chance to quit. No food. At all. Not even restriction options. No B/P. No fucking motivation.

I might not live off “good” things. Healthy or desirable or moral. But these things give me a reason to be concious. Right now. 90% of these tbings are gone and I can’t even fathom the thought of being functional. 

May 18, 2017

I feel like today has been a roller coaster even though I don’t really think that much has happened. I don’t know, it probably really doesn’t help that I’ve resorted to alternating my meds, I’m on 6 and 4 are running out. I literally can’t afford to by them til Tuesday (at this point) so I’m down to taking x every second day and y on the other days etc. Not smart, not deliberately self destructive but it’s what my financial situation has forced. That’s genuinely the ONLY small benefit of being on an Involuntary Treatment Order (ITO) – free meds.

Anyway, felt miserable this morning. Turned World of Warcraft on and it was running at 1 fps. Devastated. Me and my very limited practical knowledge actually managed to fix it though. Surprised cause all the websites were telling me to clean out the fans which I couldn’t do with the wrong screwdriver. So I found the issue and fixed it successfully all on my lonesome. I’m rather impressed with myself.

Volunteering with a youth organisation at 930am. That’s every Monday and Thursday. Really didn’t want to go. I was (am?) at that point where ED and Depression collide and the only conceivable way of leaving the house is by putting on the blackest and baggiest clothes I own. What a fucking cliche, but it’s the truth. I live in black anyway, did the “gothic thing” for years, now I’m just too apathetic to care but people probably still use or think that word tbh. So I drag myself there and rock up on time. There’s me, one of the 2 coordinators and the other volunteer. NO YOUTH. Good job guys. So hung around for 20 minutes while the co-coordinator called those on the student list before sending us home. I wasn’t relieved. I’d fucking forced myself there while I was drowning. I didn’t want to go, but the person I WANT to be is reliable, so I fought and pulled it off. I felt let down. Walked home in the rain. Stopped to by binge food. -$19.45 of my $36. Great. Started BUCKETING down while I was in the shops. To get the rest of the way home I had to carry my (slippery) sandals and walk bare foot and even with an umbrella my pants were literally saturated by the time I got through the front door. Good excuse to change baggy black pants to baggy FLUFFY black PJ pants at least. Oh and the rains so bad the 2 trees in my backyard have lost their grip to the earth and have fallen over onto the back fence. I have no idea what if anything the real estate can do about that but I still have to tell them.

So Real Estates. I moved house 2 or 3 weeks ago. Spent days and a lot of money cleaning the old place and a lot of time worrying about if it was good enough. Old real estate lady called today and thanked my profusely for such a wonderful job and talked about how rare it it and I’m glowing. And relieved cause that’s $640 worth of Bond I get back. But I do owe them 1 days rent cause yeah IDK. But that’s only $22. But right now? Yeah literally don’t have $22 which means its coming out of the bond and i think it’s a bit more paper work and maybe a bit more of a wait time. I’ll find out more tomorrow. I really have no idea whether the process from now is like 1 working day or 2 weeks… I’m so fucking broke. At least this might force me to quit smoking. I only started again recently. We had a cyclone that cut power and roads and cell phones for days and I was actually kind of traumatised by being stuck in the house suicidal with no distraction and no way to call for help. Thus the smoking. Australia is crazy about trying to get people to quit. There’s a SIGNIFICANT price hike on tobacco every year for like… IDK maybe 6 years. I might write a post on my opinion of that later but it doesn’t belong here. I don’t even know what this post is, diary crossed with word vomit.

I should just end this before I keep rambling. It’s 511pm. Tobacco critically low. Debating B/P run with critically low funds and pouring rain. But I also really don’t want to leave the house. I want to curl up on the couch with the TV on and never get up. But I guess I have to see what tomorrow brings. It’s the weekend thats really going to destroy me. I wonder if I could nap for 2.5 days?

May 17, 2017

I’ve spent the day thinking about someone I shouldn’t be thinking about. I miss you, I don’t know why, and I know its the epitome of futility. My memory is impaired (more on that later), but I remember losing control and screaming at you for something you did or didn’t do. Screaming and crying and probably bleeding, mental patient personified. But you apologised, sincerely. You were the “them” and the “them” NEVER admit a wrong, let alone show compassion or regret. But you did, and I knew you were different. That was a long time ago, and I don’t even remember the details. But I remember that’s when I knew you were special. And that’s what I can’t get out of my head today. I want to see you again, that’s all.

Maybe I should take a minute to talk about my sexuality. It won’t go for long, cause frankly I’m rather baffled. I couldn’t care less if someone is straight, gay, or bi. I couldn’t care less if I am either. But you see I’m not, or I don’t think I am, and that’s where I get confused. I’m almost 27, you think I’d have figured something like this out by now. I like some people, male, female, as friends, and as a want – for more than friends. Simple, until you move past “romantically” into “sexual” because for me, they are very different things and sexual is something that I don’t think I’ve ever desired. It’s not something that’s ever felt natural. There is something called asexuality. I guess that’s kind of what I’ve identified with most, but it’s difficult to deal with and accept, on a personal level, when I do “want” someone, and even more, on a societal level. For all the fight and acceptance (which I fully support) of the LGBTQI… where is the A?

Anyway, that’s where my heads at at the moment, and it’s a very confusing place to be, but unfortunately its also a background status quo. However, emphasis on the “background”. But this is my mental illness blog/diary (that again I’m going to try and be active on). So there’s this – I don’t care how it sounds – I’m actively pursuing AN1. I’m sick of the bingeing, I’m tired of the purging, I’m drowning in self loathing and am in extreme financial strife as a direct result of this vile behaviour. My weights been high-yo-yoing for months (maybe I don’t really remember anymore). More self loathing. I don’t want recovery and again, I don’t care how that sounds, I’m not going around corrupting your children so lets leave it at that. I NEED to lose weight. 17 to 13. And I fucking will. But of course lets look at today, 3 B/P’s and fucking useless. I have to cut soon. To bleed out some of this corruption. I can’t even fucking afford my meds at the moment.

I’m going to write more. Online and in notebooks. I love notebooks but I also miss being engaged with people who can relate.

– Sidenote Memeory Problems: I had 12 treatments of ECT last year. It had mild side effects and did lift my depression for a few months. But a few months later I was unconscious and bleeding out in a bathroom with a backup suicide means ticking away as well. So I had more ECT. I had something like 16-18 treatments before I withdrew my consent. It was not lifting the depression and more importantly the side effects were devastating. I struggled through weeks or months of people telling me that memory problems were common and mild and would ease with time, until enough time had passed for my Case Manager to conduct a clinical cognitive and memory test on me. I failed. I’m an intelligent girl. Now I’m the girl who runs into someone on my street who knows my name and all about me and I have no idea who they are or how I even know them. It’s difficult. And just one more reason to hate myself. Oh, and now that there’s documented proof this isn’t “normal” my Case Manager has started blaming my diet/eating disorder. Like, fuck off. I’ve had an ED for 8 or 9 years, ECT and memory problems both started at the same time this yeah, that’s not a fucking coincidence.

Okay, that’s my rambles for tonight,
Until tomorrow x