broke-bitch-diaries-blog

[broke-bitch-diaries-blog]

Time to heal, I guess

I never thought I’d ever say this, but I finally took the step to get professional help for my mental health. I was thinking about doing so since early January, but, fearing being defined as crazy or weak by those close to me, I procrastinated and tried finding a reason not to book a psychologist appointment every single day. In all honesty, the main thing I was telling myself this whole time was “I’m fine. I’m over-reacting. Other people have it worse.”, despite knowing full well that my mental well-being was going downhill every day. 

I grew up in a family, where seeking help for being depressed or anxious was seen as weak or unnecessary. When I was younger, I’d constantly hear the phrase “You’re just a child, you have nothing to stress about. You don’t know what stress is.”. As someone who was severely bullied during my middle school years and the first few years after a transfer to a more artistic and laid back school, I had intrusive thoughts of worthlessness and suicidal tendencies since a very young age. I mean, I hated my body since the age of seven, I self-harmed on multiple occasions between the ages of 12 and 16, I constantly thought of ending it all and felt useless and disgusting, seeing myself as nothing but a burden. And yet, I had to bottle it all up.  Growing up, I would constantly hear how people who raise a hand against their own selves, people who turn to addiction or suicide are nothing but selfish, cowardly losers. So, I stayed quiet and never let my problems be the topic of conversation within my family circle. 

Around the age of 15 or 16, after my mother saw my self-harm marks a couple of times and clearly showed her disappointment and anger at what I had done, I turned to emotional eating. Before that, even at the age of 13, I would skip meals from time to time or throw them up in the school bathroom whenever the guilt of a binge hit me. The stress of the abundance of exams that I was facing, both in high school and my after-class music school terrified me. I found comfort in food. And yet, after every binge, I felt so fucking guilty. This, tied with my low self-esteem and body-image issues, lead to me consciously avoiding my reflection, wearing copious amounts of makeup and being unable to even look at my own body in the shower. I spent so many nights hiding in the bathroom, quietly crying on the floor, not knowing how to reverse the damage that I had done. After the exams had passed and my parents noticed how the stress was treating me (throwing up before every exam, minor panic attacks, problems breathing and high blood pressure), my mum decided we should tell my paediatrician. So we did. She asked me if I wanted to go see a child psychologist. I got scared of being looked down on by my parents (also because back at home, to work in my field of study, you need to be completely mentally stable) and said no. She thought I still needed something to help me calm down and prescribed me over-the-counter sedatives. 

At the age of 16, I was also admitted to a hospital for stomach problems caused by extreme over-eating. While there, my endocrinologist also decided that I needed to lose weight as I had hit 103 kilograms. The number scared me. I never thought I’d reach it. So, after a week of inpatient treatment and loads of testing, I was given a diet plan with restrictions of what I can’t even think about eating. I was committed to losing weight, so I followed it. In less than two months, I dropped down to 87 kilograms. I was ecstatic. The diet was working. But, as diets normally go, the weight wasn’t dropping as quickly anymore as my body was not shocked by the changes in diet. I didn’t know what else to do but restrict my calories even more. I got fixated on all of the numbers. I made my own diet plans, worked out, did anything I could to drop weight. I was getting complimented on how good I’m doing every time I’d say no to unhealthy foods and all that. It made me want to stop eating completely. And yet, one of my friends noticed something was off. I would bring food to school and only eat a small portion of it, giving away the rest to my friends, saying how I was full and such. Later on, my mum caught on as well.  After that, I started eating normally again, which made me instantly gain back some of the weight. For the next 2 years, I kept going back and forth between not eating and over-eating (which often lead to purging). It wasn’t before I started university, that the obsession with numbers fully came back. Purposely not buying a scale, hoping it would help me stay healthy and not get fixated on my weight didn’t help. I got fixated on my caloric intake, making it lesser and lesser with each month. As soon as I started noticing how my clothes were getting looser and looser on me, I went back to the same mindset -” I need to eat way less. This is working.”. And, of course, with the stress of exams crushing me, giving me more anxiety than ever and making depression be my constant state of being, I started not eating again. I started going without food for multiple days, eating like a normal human being for a couple and then going back to not eating again. This is where I am now. I admit it. I am sick and I need help.

A few weeks ago, I booked an appointment with a psychologist after avoiding that for months on end. I knew that if I didn’t, I might do something stupid. I didn’t trust my own thoughts anymore as they were constantly telling me how worthless I am and forcing me to believe that everyone around me secretly hates me. Deep down, I know that that is not true, but, when your brain is sick, other pathways of thought are permanently closed. I’m not going to lie -I was scared of where these thoughts were getting me.

Yesterday, I went to my first appointment. It was definitely bad timing, as I’m leaving the UK to go home for the summer in a couple of weeks, which is not allowing the psychologist to sign me up for weekly verbal therapy. As soon as I got to the waiting room, I was bricking it. Every second I waited felt like hours. I wanted to leave so bad, but something inside me was telling me to stay. When I finally got called in, my hands started shaking. I was so scared to tell her about what was happening in my life as I’ve never talked to a stranger about these things. It just never felt right since my whole life I was taught that your problems should only be talked about at home, with your family. Ironic, isn’t it? My problems should only be shared with my family, who believe that mental illnesses are signs of weakness.  I felt so relieved letting everything off of my chest and sharing it with someone, who I knew understood me from a professional perspective. Still, the whole time I was talking, I couldn’t stop picking at my fingers and nervously shaking my leg. But I did it. I told her everything that was going on with my feelings and eating habits over the last few months as well as sharing a little bit of my past. Before I knew it, I was leaving the health centre with a self-help book and a prescription of Sertraline (I had to do a little research to realise that this is the same thing as Zoloft, which I’ve heard more about). The doctor told me to expect side-effects, so did my friends. who had taken the same medication before. 

For some reason, I was actually kind of excited when I walked up to the counter today and asked for my prescription. Maybe I unconsciously saw it as a glimpse of hope? I’m not sure.  After taking my first dose, I can say, it’s not too pleasant. it took a few hours and I was already feeling nauseous and irritable. Hopefully, this doesn’t last too long. I’m coming home in ten days -I can’t show up looking and acting like a complete fucking mess. I have to be fine.

P.S.: I have told my family about the appointment and the medication. After all these years, they finally agreed that this is what I need. All it took was for them to see how the stress caused by uni was affecting me, thankfully. I just hope they can continue being okay with it and not see me as weak. 

-D,

[broke-bitch-diaries-blog]

Can I just get well already? It’s been two days.

I knew the week I was having was too good to be true -the universe had to fuck me over again like it always does. I’m surprised how I didn’t get all suspicious about my good luck and an even better mood. Who’s happy for a whole week? Definitely not me. So, as per usual, the universe chose to kick me in the arse as hard as it could and made me ill.

I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t been this ill in ages. I also didn’t have to do the whole adulting thing the last time I was this ill. I had my mum there to make an appointment for me, I had my dad picking up my medication and my brother making me tea up to twelve times a day (yes, I do like to use my illnesses as an excuse of being useless and having people do things for me). But here, I am on my own. It all started Friday night -woke up from a nap with a sore throat. It wasn’t bad, so I shrugged it off as a cold and didn’t think too much of it. That shit got worse in mere hours. I felt as if my throat was closing up by how badly it was swelling. It was time to face my fears and check if I was once again visited by the tonsillitis fairy. I took my broken mirror, turned on my phone’s flashlight and opened my mouth as wide as I could. And there they were -white spots of pus on my tonsils. Instantly, I got annoyed, as I realised that I’ll need to make a doctor’s appointment and go pick up meds and actually take care of myself, like the adult that I’m supposed to be. With a slight feeling of dizziness caused by a fever, I stomped downstairs to go pick up my mug and salt. Gargling salt water was always one of those things you do when you’ve got tonsillitis, sinusitis or even a sore throat. I have no idea why, but it kinda’ works. For like a second. Then everything sucks again.

In the morning, I woke up feeling like a human bin-bag. As soon as I sat up, I started coughing up blood and pus (probably should’ve grabbed some tissue before I coughed all over my onesie, but I didn’t think about that). Disgusting. Thought about going to my GP -those fuckers weren’t open. Didn’t know what to do. My friend offered to call 111 -a non-urgent health line. The lady that talked to me was not only super nice and thorough with her questions, but she booked me to see a different GP in a health centre fifteen minutes away from my house the same day. Unlike the hospital, she thought it was serious and that I couldn’t wait until Monday when my GP actually worked. While I was still feeling like complete shit, I got dressed, drew on some eyebrows so I didn’t look that horrible and left the house for my appointment. Not gonna lie, being sick and trying to understand where Google Maps is taking you isn’t a fun experience. I honestly thought I was lost when the app told me I’ve reached my destination. All I needed to do was look to the other side of the road. Took me about three minutes to even think about doing that and another two to find a crossing since the streets in that neighbourhood were hella busy. 

So, I walk into the health centre, tell the receptionist I have an appointment at three. She asks me to sit down and wait until I get called. As I do that, an angry chav starts screaming her head off at the receptionist, calling her and the whole health centre idiots and druggies, telling the poor receptionist that if she goes into the bathroom and dies, it’s gonna be on her. She tries to enter the toilets -locked. Someone’s in there. Seconds later, a guy storms out and screams at the chav to fix her attitude and runs downstairs and out. While she goes into the bathroom for a second, the receptionist runs to get some guy from downstairs. While she’s out, the chav leaves the bathroom. Who’s the only person in the area now that the receptionist left? That’s right -me. She fixates her eyes on me, lifts up a piece of aluminium foil in her hand and proceeds to tell me how the guy that left was smoking heroin in there and she needs to tell the receptionist. Thankfully, before I have to answer, the receptionist comes back and deals with the situation. Turns out the chav was right. The guy did smoke heroin in there. At this point, the situation has my full attention -what an amazing neighbourhood. Soon enough, I get called in. I tell the doctor that I think it’s tonsillitis. He confirms my suspicion, tries to pronounce my last name at least three times before giving up, prescribes me antibiotics and lets me go. 

As I’m walking back through my neighbourhood and towards Tesco’s, one of my neighbourhood junkies compliments my coat. How nice of him.

Get my meds, get some extra stuff from Tesco’s, get home, fall on my bed, realise my flatmate’s kids are over again, get annoyed at them being loud, do nothing because of my fever. I literally angrily laid in bed until they shut up (one of them is screaming in the shower right now, as I am writing this. Isn’t it weird how the kids are eleven, but their dad still stays in the bathroom when they shower? Should I call child protective services? This is not normal back at home. Seems kind of paedophile-ish, not gonna lie). Eventually, took some meds and fell asleep. Spent the whole day sleeping. Keeping in mind the fact that I was too dizzy to make food that whole day up until forcing myself to do so at around 10-11pm, imagine how confused and disoriented I was after my nap. Ate canned ravioli, threw up from the pain that swallowing the food gave me, went to bed.

Started this morning by throwing up as well. How exciting. My whole mouth and throat were filled with pus and bits of blood, so, as soon as I woke up, I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Twice. Throwing up when you’ve not really eaten anything in the last 24+ hours really isn’t pleasant. Still didn’t eat anything but soothing lozenges after that and napped up until I had to take my meds again. Not gonna lie, I still feel horrible, but at least I made some stew, which was soft enough to eat and I didn’t throw one bit of it up. Success!

A normal brain would go into survival mode at this point, telling the person to eat as soon as possible, right? My dumb eating disorder brain kept suggesting that not being able to swallow the food or keep it down is a good thing since it results in lower caloric intake. And still, I’m not letting the ED thoughts win. I know I have to eat if I want to get well by Tuesday (which is extremely important since I have an exam that day). Sure, I’m not gonna be fully cured of tonsillitis in three days, but as long as I can concentrate on my exam and actually get a decent grade, I should be good.

Fucking hell, this upcoming week is gonna be hard. At least last week was good, right? Gotta keep things balanced.

-D.

[broke-bitch-diaries-blog]

Dealing with it all

Being away from home isn’t always exciting and pretty. In my last blog post, I mentioned my constantly spiralling mental health and the inevitability of stress due to the whole university experience. It’s definitely not easy. Before I left home, before I even booked my flight, I saw going away as a big step towards my dream. I never thought that that big step would feel more like a drive through a bumpy road in an old model of Lada. Normally, people explain experiences like these as a rollercoaster, but I can’t really see it that way -I’ve never even been near a rollercoaster. So, I chose an analogy that would feel closer to home. Plus, I feel as though it represents the rough side of it all way better.

Tonight is one of the many nights that I can’t sleep. I tried for hours by now, but my body and mind are refusing to let me close my eyes. I’ve got thoughts racing in my head, memories -good and bad -replaying over and over again. I feel exhausted. Not because of a busy schedule or a rough day in uni. I’m knackered because of me: my thoughts, my state of being... I’m so tired, but I can’t stay put, can’t contain all of the thoughts going through my mind. What better way to deal with it than vent to my blog, right? As of now, it is a quarter after two in the morning. I just chain-smoked three cigarettes outside and am now laying in my bed with my favourite composer softly playing in the background. It’s late -I can’t just put the volume up and submerge myself in the music. In all honesty, I don’t even know what to write, so, to anyone that might read this -sorry for the word-vomit that this post is becoming. Then again, one of the reasons I created this blog is to have an outlet for all that is inside my messed up head as I make my way through university. 

Lately, I’ve been feeling unwelcome here. Not for any particular reason. I’m surrounded by amazing, supportive people, I’m sitting in class learning about something I love. And yet, there’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I am out of place here. I don’t know if it’s the homesickness or just my never-resting anxiety, but it’s just there. Sure, when I’m around people I try to be myself (well, a version of me that I’ve chosen to show whilst I’m here), but, as soon as I close my bedroom door, hang my coat up and kick my boots off, I’m sat in my own self-pity. Pathetic, I know. Especially when I know that there are people -both here and back home -that I could call and talk to. But would that make everything easier? Doubt it. I grew up in a home where being over-emotional was frowned upon. I could count on fingers how many times I’ve seen my mum cry. Being strong is something my family prides itself on. So do I. Therefore, I choose to deal with my issues in silence. It’s not too healthy, but it’s the best I can do. I hate talking about my feelings. Mostly because once I start -everything comes out: every minuscule inconvenience that I’ve faced through the week, the dark thoughts that I like kept hidden, my fears and paranoid theories about everyone secretly hating me. What follows, of course, is a waterfall of tears. Been there, done that, hated it -crying in front of people is not really my thing. It’s not really me. Anyway, as I mentioned, I feel unwelcome. I feel like a plus-one that was brought to a party of unfamiliar people. I always hated the idea of being lonely in a crowd, but, recently, I’ve been feeling as though it’s more than an idea. I keep catching myself looking through old pictures and videos of my friends and family back home, remembering all the gigs and gallery exhibitions I went to, reminiscing of such seemingly unimportant things as playing a game of cards with my mates or singing loudly during a walk in the forests. I miss the sea and the docks, I miss my crime-ridden neighbourhood and the loud streets of the city centre, I miss my feet getting caught in the rocks of the antique germanic streets of the so-called old-town. Mostly, I miss knowing that whatever happens, I could take a five-minute walk to my best friends’ homes or a thirty-minute bus ride to the seashore. There, even when I was alone, I felt like I belonged. Unlike my British friends, I can’t just hop on a train and go home for the weekend. I’m stuck here.

When I had everything, I didn’t cherish it. I didn’t even see it as special or highly important. It was just there. I never thought I’d miss it this much. I never thought I’d need it so badly. Sure, it isn’t lost -it’s still there and I’m going to be a part of it again in a few months, but just knowing that it’s not at an arm’s reach anymore pains me. I think about home all the time. Even when I’m in class, concentrated on at least listening to what the lecturers are saying, in the back of my mind I’m thinking about how badly I want to go back. In a way, I feel like I left a part of me there. A part of me that I can’t put in a suitcase and bring here, a part of me that can’t just be sent to me by post, a part of me that will always be there -a key detail to my identity. Maybe this is why I can’t seem to feel whole? Maybe this is why I feel so numb and alone? Maybe this is why I can’t sleep at night? I don’t even know anymore. 

-D.

[broke-bitch-diaries-blog]

Here’s some backstory, I guess...

The making of this blog is long overdue. I got the idea for it before I even started uni. Of course, back then, it was nothing but a thought: I didn’t have a name for it, I didn’t know what I would write about (hell, I wasn’t sure I would have anything to write about), I didn’t know which platform I would choose for it. I have to admit it -I didn’t even see the blog as a good idea. It was simply a whim.

As soon as my journey began, from the second I loaded my suitcase into the trunk of my bus to the airport, I was overwhelmed with new responsibilities. I was starting a new chapter of my life and, let me tell you, it wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds. First trip alone, first flight in my life, leaving home so far behind -I was absolutely terrified. And yet, in the back of my mind, there was a tiny whisper that kept pushing me forward -it was my own persistence. I knew I could do it, no matter how many challenges life threw my way. I’m not going to bullshit and say that I worked on my fears and I’m doing great now. Life’s still kicking me in the arse and I still fall on my face every time -I just came to terms with it and accepted it as my reality. 

I spent the first month in a different city, living with my aunt. Sure, it was a headstart -I had a place to stay until I found my own and I wasn’t instantly left on my own (looking back at it, I kind of wish I had been). It was hellish. I was stuck in a studio apartment with an over-sharer and her cat, sleeping on a blow-up mattress next to the balcony, I had no place to go and no real human interaction outside of face-timing my family and friends on the daily. You would think this would have saved me loads of money, right? Wrong.

My aunt convinced me that it was a good plan for us to share the responsibility of buying groceries by me paying for them every other week. She asked for fifty quid just for the groceries. The first time, it seemed reasonable as I was just getting to know the country and figuring out the cost of everything. Later on, I realised it was just empty spending (now I spend no more than a tenner a week, sometimes it’s even less than a fiver, no matter what my financial situation is that week). I’m not the one to waste money on random shit, but I can’t deny that I like to treat myself to a pack of custard creams or a can of Rockstar. But that amount of money on food for two people? Absolutely bonkers.

I was stuck in that damn flat. My aunt worked four days a week. She would leave early in the morning and come back around 7 pm. While that gave me some alone time, I was desperate to do something other than go for a stroll in the park or play with the cat. The days were going by dreadfully slowly. I couldn’t find a day-to-day job, I was only beginning to freelance, and I had a lot of university expenses. My mental health hit a new low. I spent my days on the couch, watching Netflix, walking around in the local park or taking a bus to the city just to escape the house. I had nothing to do and it was killing me. It’s not hard to guess what happened next, is it? I became irritable and more anxious than ever, my depression was at its lowest and the intrusive thoughts were echoing in my head every waking minute of the day. My aunt and I already had personalities that clashed pretty badly, but I was trying my best to be civil, polite and not make a scene out of anything -she was providing me with a roof over my head, so I had to live by her rules, right? That was until she pushed me past my breaking point and towards a breakdown on the bathroom floor with her convincing me to get out and talk like adults (yeah, as if her making me feel like my worth was equal to zero just because I couldn’t find a job was a reasonably adult thing to do). I wanted to drop everything and fly back home: I was missing my parents, I was missing my friends -I was missing every single thing about home and I couldn’t do anything about it. Thankfully, I had moral support from the people whom I love the most, of which I will forever be thankful. It helped me push through that absolutely dreadful month and gave me hope that everything would get better.

Not to spoil it all, but everything did get better. Well, slightly. I moved to the city my university is located in, I got my own room and had the opportunity to decorate it however I want, turn my own little space into a home. In a way, the move here was a whole new chapter as I can’t push myself to bond it with my first month in the UK. 

I made it to the international week that my university had organized for students and met my first friends. At first, I thought I’d be alone. I thought my anxiety and crippling fear of social gatherings would be the end of me. As soon as I got to the celebratory dinner, I realised that everyone there was just as lost and alone as I was. In all honesty, it was also the only time I was happy for ice-breaking activities. 

Not too long after that, I met my course-mates. Over a hundred and fifty soon-to-be Forensic Scientist. It was insane. In less than a week, I picked out the ones I liked and the ones I hated and I based all of that solely on their behaviour in the introductory lectures and practicals. Before I even knew it, I was already having lunch with my closest friends (I don’t even remember how we came to be this close, but I’m sure it must’ve been just me asking for directions when I was lost or something along those lines). Not too long after that, I tried out for fencing and met a girl I now call my little sister -one of the sweetest, most caring people I’ve ever met. Fencing turned out to be quite boring, so I ended up in the student choir, which was equivalent to finding a family away from home. An amazing bunch of people mixed with my love to sing -what else could I have asked for? As it turns out, uni wasn’t as bad and scary as it seemed.

Of course, let’s not go too soft and happy -this girl is still struggling. I’m constantly financially unstable, my irregular schedule is stopping me from getting a regular job and my freelancing is just not a thing anymore. My mental health is slightly better, but it definitely has its ups and downs (mostly downs, but let’s not focus on the negative here). I’m still unbelievably homesick, even after coming back for a couple of weeks. I’m stressed to the max on the daily and I barely sleep, but that’s just normal for everyone that’s trying to get a science degree (to some extent).

That’s all I have to say for now. I truly didn’t expect the introductory post to be this massive, but I believe that everyone who may come across my blog needs a little backstory. No case study starts without a short briefing. In conclusion: university life is hard, I’m constantly broke, but hey, it’s not all bad.

-D.