I'm shrinking

I'm shrinking.
I can feel myself doing it. Not on a physical level, but a mental one.
Part of it is next weekend. I'm scared, I'm anxious, I'm freaking out, but I promised to go, so I'm just bottling it up and compacting it and compartmentalising it, until it's this brick of negativity in the back of my head. I'm stuck in another country with people who care about me, but don't know me. People who miss me, and so I feel like the biggest bitch ever, because I'm dreading being trapped with them for a weekend.
What's scaring me? The plane. The travel. Being in an apartment with my dad, my sister, my cousin and his girlfriend. A day with no plans but to spend time together - God, how I hate that phrase. Then more time together. Then a meal together, where someone, usually my dad, will invariably make a comment about how much I eat. Then another day of time spent together. Then a plane home.
But I promised to go. My airfare is paid for, it's Granddad's 80th birthday, I have to go.
So I shrink. I turn it all inwards, and panic silently, so that no one sees it.

At home, I can feel myself doing it.
It's like she needs all the oxygen in the room, all the time, and so I shrink so that I take up as little as possible. I feel as though my time is not my own, because it is eaten up by appointments and meetings and everything else. Sometimes, I feel as though I am not mine.
So I shrink, to keep as much of myself mine as possible.

We have more stuff to get through this week. Parents evening, a vet appointment. I have to pack, she has to pack, we have to be ready.
I should be looking forward to next weekend, looking forward to the break. But I'm not, I'm just ... So caught up in my head that I can't think straight. I'm worrying, because me not being home means that she has to manage everything here. I know, realistically, when I can think that way, that things will likely be fine. But that quiet voice in the back of my head keeps asking, but what if it's not?
I don't want to say any of it out loud, because I don't want to project my fears, make them real. I don't want to make her worry about it more than she already is. I don't want her worrying about me more than she already it. I hate worrying people. I hate it.
They worry because I am anxious, and them worrying makes me anxious.
It's a vicious cycle.
So I try to shrink, hide it and keep it in that brick, so that no one worries.
But I worry, so I shrink, and I shrink because I worry.
I'm stuck.

This is NOT a diet blog....

....and I have no intention of it turning into one. But I don't actually do much - as you may have gathered by now - so it makes sense that I let you know what I've actually been doing since 31st December 2018.

Many, many years ago, I lost nearly 7 stone following a VLCD called the Cambridge Diet. For all sorts of reasons - including an ex who hated me losing weight because it made insecurities pop out of the woodwork - I never actually reached my goal.

Anyway, I started seriously following my version of a VLCD at the end of December. It has had to be my version because I can't afford to follow one with a Counsellor, and Lighterlife is expensive AF if you go through the programme. So I've been buying my stuff from Exante, Superdrug who do Lighterlife Fast and Slim'n'Save.

My first week I lost 35lbs. No, your eyes are not deceiving you - I lost 35lbs in the first week. Complete food replacement, three products a day. The ONLY reason I lost that much weight is that I am a complete and utter camel and hold onto water like there's a drought planned. That, and I have (had) over 250lbs to lose. So that was an incentive to keep going.

It hasn't been easy. Obviously Da Boss and Monster-teen have to eat. And there have been times when I have wanted to rip the food out of their hands and shove it down my throat so that I looked like a snake with undigested food shapes sticking out! But on the whole, I have managed to stick with it. Periodically I have needed vegetables because on a VLCD, you don't *ahem* create a lot of waste. So sometimes constipation can be a problem. Having the odd meal of meat/veg gave my body something to gather up and expel.

Then I have had some problems with the ready-to-drink shakes. I have no idea why - as far as I'm aware, I don't have any sort of dairy intolerance. But every time I had one of the ready to drink shakes, I had a MAJOR explosion in the bathroom. Like, OMG, I need a hazmat suit and a CDC team to deal with this. Fortunately, I have finished nearly all of the RTD shakes so that shouldn't happen any more.

Last week was week 8. Monster-teen went to visit her dad. And I went down with the mother of all viruses, including a hacking cough that made me think my eyeballs were going to explode out of my head, and my brain was shaking in my skull. Everything hurt like you wouldn't believe. So I ate. All week. Mostly one meal a day - pizza one day, tagliatelli another day, MacDonalds one day. I planned a couple of times to get back on track and then wanted food - it was very Arianna Grande: I see it, I like it, I want it, I get it. (Apart from the complete fail by UberEats that we won't discuss but that almost made me cry!) I haven't managed to kick this virus completely - still coughing a lot, headaches are still bad. But better than I was.

 But today, my order arrived from Slim'n'Save, and I'm back on just the packs. I weighed in and have been fortunate enough to only put on 1lb which is a complete miracle if I'm gonna be honest.

My knees are bad again - I think it might be time for another steroid injection. I'm not looking forward to the actual injection but by God, I'm looking forward to the relief.

I've now lost 53lbs in 8 weeks. I'm very proud but also completely terrified. I haven't been this successful on a diet in years. Quite possibly a decade. I can't actually see much difference in myself. But yeah, it's been messing with my head just a bit.

So that's me. I'm trying to keep track of things on Instagram Chutney Spires which is a daily log of what I'm eating and how I'm doing. And I'm kinda hoping to use this place for the headstuff. But it's definitely not gonna be a diet blog.

Oh yeah. I missed my MRI because of the virus but it's been rescheduled for March so that's happening. I don't know why, but I'm scared they're going to say they can't see anything wrong. Like somehow, the MRI isn't going to see the arthritis etc and they're going to label me a fraud. Does anyone else ever have that stuff go on in their head?

Happy New Year!

Don't act all surprised that we're well into the second week of January before I'm writing that!

Okay, how do I catch you up? No shock to anyone, I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes back in September. Just over the edge of, but enough to kick me into the next level of medical attention. That means Dietician, eye checks, foot checks, you name it, they want to suddenly check it because I've gone from level 44 to 48.

The Dietician - I am not really a violent person, despite what this blog might have you believe. But I wanted to kill her. At our Doctor's surgery, they know I use a wheelchair. So imagine our surprise when the appointment with the Dietician was upstairs. Through two heavy fire doors to get to the minuscule lift, then out of the lift we were basically re-enacting the 'Friends' "PIVOT" scene in order to get round the corner to go through two more fire doors to get into her office. Where I promptly fainted - exertion, stress, whatever.

She did everything but flap her hands and go 'oh dear, oh dear'. Then she asked us why we were there. Once we explained that we had been sent following a diabetes diagnosis, she proceeded to give us (no word of a lie) two print outs of diets you can find for yourself on the internet, which just so happen to contradict each other on the advice they give you. When it came time to weigh me, she had to go and find some scales which were dead (needed new batteries that she didn't have any spares of) and her manual scales showed me as 20kg heavier than the ones in the Dr's office had less than two months previously.

She knew nothing about VLCD diet plans - I had to find the products I've been using on her website for her to have a read - and she said she couldn't give advice on them as she didn't know about them. Obviously she can't know about every single diet out there - I wouldn't expect her to - but considering the Government are considering funding people who have Type 2 Diabetes to follow them in an official capacity, you would think she would have at least heard of the plans.She then said I needed to be booked in for bloods before we could talk any further - which seemed fair enough. I stated that any future appointments would need to be in a downstairs room to which she replied 'well she can't promise that' (like, WTAF, does she seriously expect me to go through this every time I have to see her?!) so I said well if it's not downstairs then I won't see her again. She kinda looked relieved!

Booked ourselves in for bloods. Letters received giving me dates for my Diabetes review, telling me where I can go for appropriate eye tests, etc. Need to have recent blood test results from no more than three weeks (I believe) in the past. Well that doesn't gel with the blood tests the dietician has booked us in for. Umpteen phone calls later, it turns out that no one at the surgery has any idea what tests she has booked me in for, they make no sense to the blood team, the receptionists, none of them. But they don't want to cancel them in case she has a reason for it. I swear, I thought I had boiled my brain, the sheer amount of steam coming out of my ears following these conversations.

Anyway, had my Diabetes review this week. Because of Christmas, my numbers had gone up a little BUT they are still in the green so Diabetes nurse is happy with me and wants me to keep going on the weight loss front. Giggled my way through the foot check (very nice man put up with me snorting, giggling and hiding in Stripes' teeshirt to muffle my sounds) and that was quite possibly the nicest trip to the Dr's we've had in years!

Hmmm, this is gargantuan as it is, and I haven't filled you in on LM yet. I shall write more once I've recovered! If you made it to the end, well done you! 

Learning to let go

This Saturday just gone, I burnt my hand.
I was in the kitchen, working with some isomalt for my Cake International competition piece. Isomalt is basically a sugar derivative. To use it, you have to melt it down to the correct working temperature, which is above one hundred and twenty degrees. In other words, it's really bloody hot.

I've been trained in working with molten sugar, and I know how to avoid incidents. But occasionally, accidents happen.
I was checking my mould and the side split slightly, spilling liquid isomalt across my left hand.
Immediately, I put my hand under the cold tap and let the water run. Lil Monster heard me cry out when it happened, and rushed to my side, where she was a major help. She got me my phone, so that I could do some research on burns, as well as getting me paracetamol. She stayed with me whilst I was on the phone with NHS 111, and helped me through the flat, so that I could ask Wheelz to take me to A&E.

Wheelz and Lil Monster were fantastic, getting me to the hospital in record time.
I have nothing but high praise for the NHS, as I was triaged and treated very quickly, as well as being given supplies to dress my wounds.
The burns aren't too bad, thank goodness. A few second degree burns, where the isomalt touched me first, and a splatter pattern across the top of my palm and the base of my fingers in first degree burns.
The problem, of course, was that I was thoroughly wrapped in bandages, rendering my left hand pretty much useless. I hadn't even realised how much I use it on a day to day basis until suddenly, I couldn't.

Having to take a step back, and let people help me, has been a real learning curve over the last few days. I struggled to carry things, couldn't feed the cats properly, preparing food was too difficult. Basically all of the things that I'm used to doing, both for myself and my family, I couldn't do. Wheelz and Lil Monster had to step in with sorting dinner, feeding the cats, arranging the washing etc.

In fact, it started even earlier than that.
Usually, when we go out, I take a bag with me. My bag usually contains (this is not a complete list):
Phone
Keys
Purse
Wheelz's phone
Wheelz's keys
Wheelz's purse
Water bottle
Cereal bars
Boiled sweets (in case Wheelz faints)
Lip balm
Tissues
Pens
Paper/Notebook
etc.

Lil Monster had to pack a bag instead. I walked her through the basics of what I usually tow around with me, and she packed it into her hastily emptied PE bag.
The journey to the hospital was quick, and easy.
The next obstacle was parking. Usually, when there's a pay and display, I'll go over and sort it. If I don't have change, I'll find a nearby shop or food stall and make a small purchase in order to make change.
Lil Monster never usually has to think about this, as it's always handled. Thank goodness the pay and display was broken and we were allowed to park for free, because her distressed toing and froing was quite stressful to behold.

Next came the wheelchair. It seems so easy when you think of what needs doing. Remove from car, push into seating position, remove brakes.
But I couldn't do any of it. I just stood there like a lemon, unable to help with it at all, because it takes two hands. It hadn't ever occurred to me that Lil Monster didn't know to grab the seat cushion. That she didn't realise that Wheelz needs the brakes off if she's walking with the chair, and on if she's going to sit in it. Push down on the seat bars to put the seat in place, but make sure it's not too close to the car, so it doesn't hit it.
I felt micromanaging, because I felt as though I had to walk her through each step of what I do as a matter of course. It was a weird feeling, and one that I wasn't at all keen on.

For the most part, things at home have been OK. From Saturday afternoon, when we got home from the hospital, until last night, I was given 'invalid' status. So saying, I was off duty for my usual have to's, and would need helping out instead.
I'm not a very good patient. I have developed a fierce independent streak over the years, and having this stripped away has been a real learning curve. I've had no choice but to sit back and let other people help me out. I've had no choice but to let go.

And it's been hard. I suppose, because of the things I'm used to handling, I've developed my own way of managing things, and it's been difficult to let other people take charge. I've had to bite my tongue a few times, when things weren't being done in their usual way. Because not-my-way doesn't mean wrong (with the exception of weighing out cat food. Lil Monster has been overfeeding them, hence the four piles of cat sick Wheelz and I had to clean up last night).
I've been off duty for two and a half days, and nothing has fallen apart. We're all still standing.
Lil Monster really stepped up for me, and it was heartening to see.
So maybe me being forced to let go hasn't necessarily been a bad thing?

Having said that, my invalid status expired at midnight, so it's business as usual from here on out.

Dear N (potential trigger)

Sometimes, I wish I was mute.

That's not true.

Yeah, it kind of is.
Sometimes, I wish I couldn't speak, so that I wouldn't have to speak. Because sometimes, in our home, to speak is to pick a side. And to pick a side is to start a war.

For whatever reason, you argue less with me.
This is shitty. I am thrust into the middle of every argument, because without my presence, they descend into shouting, crying, yelling. Admittedly, even with my presence, this happens, but moreso when I'm not around to translate.
 It's so fucked up that I'm needed to do that. She makes sense. She does. She speaks with clarity and precision, as she's had to over the years dealing with you. She makes sense.
 You, on the other hand, play dumb. Is it because you like the attention of both of us? Is it that if you're going down, you want to drag me down with you? What makes you argue for hours and hours over the smallest word choice, until I have to get involved and dumb it down to three letter words, because it's half eleven and you need to go to bed?

I hate having to get involved, because it means that, whatever I say, it will be twisted and warped until it barely resembles my original words. I hate getting involved, because if I try and reason out either viewpoint, I feel as though I am betraying the other. I hate getting involved, because I'm so exhausted. I hear the same arguments, all the damn time, and nothing changes. I ask why, phrasing it in a million different ways, to hear I don't know, in that awful dead voice. I hate getting involved, because it makes my stomach clench and my head ache and my shoulders crunch up to my ears.
I hate that a simple question, a basic conversation, can lead to now; all three of us in separate rooms, feeling various levels of hurt.
I hate feeling like it's become one of my burdens to try and reform us, after Hurricane N has visited. I hate feeling like I hate my younger sister. Because I do feel that way. I do sometimes feel like I hate you. I listen to the things you say, and see the way you act and I think, God, why are we still living this? What epic mistake did we make that karma is paying us back, this hard?

I'm so tired of this. Of feeling so empty inside, so dead.
Sometimes, I feel as though you are a leaky bucket. You can never be completely filled. But instead of asking for help patching yourself up, you go around punching holes in everyone else, so that they hurt, too.
There are days when I wonder why we didn't make you go and live with your dad, last year. Logically, and when I'm feeling capable of looking to the future, I think it's probably a good thing. Your dad is actually not dissimilar to mine, and I know how hellish I found it living with him.
When I'm not feeling capable of looking to the future, I curse the fact that a train didn't come last year, when I was standing on the tracks, looking for a sign.
I made a promise to myself that I would be the sister to stick around, I'd be the one who was there. Sometimes, I can stand by that. Other times, I think I was a fucking idiot to put that on myself.

I don't know how to keep doing this. I don't know how to keep being there. I'm so tired of this. I'm so tired of feeling like I can't ask you to do anything. I'm fed up of dreading the time I know you'll be home from school. I hate the feeling of pure terror that fills me when I think about the upcoming summer holidays.

I don't know how much of it is in my control. I've spent hours, in my own head, trying to work out what more I can do to help you. Trying to figure out which parenting book to read, so that I can get through to you. Hanging around on parenting forums, trying to see how other families have coped with children like you.

The idea that some of it is not in my control, that it's in yours... I can't actually bear to think about it. Because sometimes, I'm not sure that you can change.
Sometimes, I'm scared that this is just... you.

The Wheelz haven't fallen off my cart - yet! * * * potential triggers* * *

...and to be frank, I feel like I've one sweet fuck all.

Stripez and I visited one of the (many) Doctors at our Medical Centre. He proceeded to lecture me on the dangers of staying on the opiates I take daily as they are addictive (no shit) and despite being prescribed to me for the past fifteen years, are proven to be a placebo. So he wanted me to come off of them. Completely cold turkey. Said if I stopped taking them and 'rode out' the withdrawal, I stood the chance of becoming a useful member of society again. Also, I need to lose just over 200 lbs in weight but that's just the small matter of showing some willpower.

Now, I wonder whether or not this guy had read my medical records. He seemed to know nothing about my stroke, the vertigo, the depression and anxiety - in fact, based on what he had to say to me, all I needed to do was stop being the next best thing to a drug addict, drop a few hundred pounds and I could be back on my feet, working in no time.

He almost convinced me. In fact, I'll admit it, if Stripez hadn't been there, he would have me convinced that I'm just a fat, lazy waste of space who needed to stop malingering, stop taking masses of drugs for no reason whatsoever, and get a job.

We reminded him that we had asked (more than twice) about the option of weight loss surgery and been told each time that a referral was being put through. We let him know that I had managed to lose nearly one and a half stone following a plant based diet (check out spudfit if you want to know more). His response? Do you want me to refer you to Slimming World? Seriously, I don't think this guy heard one thing that we said.

Anyway, wanting to show willing, I have spent the last four weeks weaning myself off of Tramadol, also known as Zydol. And a flippin' trippy four weeks it has been. I can't remember the last time I have been in so much pain so often. Walking, sitting, lying down, standing - all of it hurts like someone is smashing me in the base of the spine and both knees with a giant hammer (although if it was Chris Hemsworth doing his Thor impression, it might have been worth it). I don't sleep worth a damn (if I take paracetamol and gabapentin at the right time, I can grab six hours on a really, really good day), I'm constantly tired, cranky, depressed and wanting to top myself. But, maybe I'm coming out the other side?

I haven't managed to stick to Spudfit because tbh, Lil Monster has been a complete and utter ****. As in, I still have no idea how she is still breathing because I actually dreamed at least twice that I went to her room and smothered her in her sleep. Last word merchant, rude, disrespectful, lazy, unappreciative - sounds like every other teenager out there, right? Well this one can argue with you for HOURS at a time over whether or not she should have to sweep a floor. Like, seriously.

She gaslights me on the regular, tries to pretend that she doesn't know she's doing it. Will pick at every single word I say until I am almost scared to speak because I can't stand another fight. Sometimes Stripez and I, by the time Lil Monster has gone to bed, literally sit there in a type of shock. My Counsellor described it as domestic abuse and she was right. But there's no escape because the kid is mine, she's only 14, and because I don't beat or abuse HER, Social Services will do nothing.

But that's a whole different rant. 

Anyway, I've made three wigs, am learning to do a cut crease (playing with make up is SO much fun) and have rocked pink/purple hair for the month of May and most of June. Who knows what delights July holds for me?

Not gonna make any promises about writing more often. But I will recommend reading the Harry Dresden books by Jim Butcher as I re-read them (first one came out in 2005 I believe) and am catching up with the last three. And, I might have the minutest germ of a plot bunny to actually write a short fanfic story - but don't hold me to that because I may just have been hallucinating whilst not sleeping!

P.S. - Stripez, if you read this, you're my best friend too and I don't say that just because you occasionally share your particularly plumptuous pillows with me in the evening so that we are propped up and can watch TV comfortably!

May. Whoops...

So much for blogging more often.
It's not that nothing has happened - a lot has happened over the past few weeks, actually - but the words just haven't been there to write.

As always, Wheelz and I will try and do a month of something. This month, we elected to try and take better care of our feet. We used Footner (have you ever used Footner? You should use Footner), and peeled off the top layer of our feet. If that sounds disgusting... Well, I mean, it is. But it's also weirdly satisfying, pulling literal strips of skin from your feet. Plus, the soles of my feet are now baby smooth.

We've also had quite a few appointments between the three of us this month. Wheelz had pain management, which necessitated a doctor's appointment to change her meds over. I've had more counselling, a carer's clinic appointment, a blood test and a med change. Even Lil Monster has had a few, with one to book her in for some counselling and another to deal with her gammy feet.

I've actually sat down a few times this month to try to get some words out there, but just... nothing.
Part of that, I'll attribute to the med change. I mentioned at carer's clinic that I didn't feel the Citalopram was doing much, so she changed me over to Sertraline. It really knocked me for six. I spent days feeling nauseous and tired when coming off of the Citalopram, and then tired and nauseous when I started taking the new tablets. I can't say that I've noticed much of a difference thus far, but it's only been little more than a week. I probably ought to give them more of a chance.

This coming week is half term, and I'm kind of dreading it. Lil Monster is home for the whole week.
She needs to tidy her room - which is a fairly terrifying prospect. One, because there are juice cartons, McDonalds cups and God knows what else in there. And two, because she has reacted badly to tidying her room in the past. The incident in which she went at Wheelz with a knife for trying to tidy her room plays on my mind often, and it's an incident I'm desperate to avoid.
She is a... high octane kid, and the idea of a full week of keeping her occupied fills me with no small amount of dread.

I mean, I know we'll get through. We always do. But sometimes, I wonder at the mental cost that 'getting through' takes.

I don't know. We'll see.
Hopefully, my writer's block has decided to leave me alone for a bit, and I can write on her a bit more often as we move into June.
Here's hoping!