Tweeeet.

I was supposed to finish the GI system today. I'm still 2 lectures off. Bah!

I was supposed to wrap the Christmas presents tonight. They're all sat on my bed. Unwrapped.

I was supposed to not buy any more alcohol til at least next week. I have a new bottle of wine in my fridge. Now half empty. Bonus - I did not get ID'd for it. Antibonus - I'm supposed to be over 25 for that to happen. Shit. Boyf suggested that I have gained wrinkles from excessive drinking.

Boyfriend may have said "We shall see" and then "You may get lucky" when I said that I didn't think we would get married in the next decade (his idea, not mine). Am 80% happy and 20% scared shitless. Do not want to plan a wedding in the next five years.

Flatmate has gone out with friend (amid much giggling) so I have the flat to myself. Myself and Sauvignon Blanc are bonding. We are nearly best friends already.

I am out of Oreo's. This is a national disaster.

I am currently discussing my black cloud treatment with a relative stranger, in full internet view of many medics I know in real life. This is my confession.

Stormclouds and fairy wings.

Just came up with an awesome audit proposal over lunch. Future A&E doc is in on it. Plus the flat cat. I think my secret is safe with the interweb. *whistles innocently*

Meeting with the tutor in two weeks, so we shall see if he think it's feasible. I probably have to re-earn the right to audit, though. My week off put me at least three weeks behind. A month later, that's shrunk to two weeks. By Christmas, it should be ok. Maybe.

The big dark cloud has swung back over my head and I just cannot shake it off. Not properly. For a few blissful minutes, I can push it away with a glass of wine. For an hour, with a furiously competitive badminton game (impressive, on my shitty lungs). But it always comes back, with a vengeance.

Now it is stealing from me. Taking words from my mouth. More and more times, I discover that the word I want isn't there. It's on the tip of my tongue, blocked by something invisible. I write instead, my handwriting spiralling across pages. But letters are missing, misplaced, miswritten. P's become b's. S's get inverted. My hand shakes with it's own frustration.

But I am hanging on to everything else. I know I passed the formative. Five hours of painstaking copying from scribbled clerkings produced an extended clerking that will pass - with a few red scribbles criticising my use of abbreviations, no doubt. My videoed patient interview today was pretty good. Not amazing, but better than alright. I got all the symptoms and concerns out in my time limit, and showed some degree of competency in communication skills.

So I know I can do this clinical stuff. I damn well know I want the end product. I just can't hack the mind-drain in between.

Goodbye Prozac.

You have been my friend, and my enemy. I officially sever all contact with you; we shall not even be acquaintances. You are a significant footnote in the history of my life. But this is my new decade (I just hit 20). I will go on, and your green and yellow curves will drag me no further.

1 week today, I will be me. Just me. Not chemically altered Jelly.

For a year and three months, I have been a slave to Prozac. It has been my staple breakfast. Skipped pills gave me hell in the following days. Nothing compared to the week of horrific nausea (I am reliably informed by a GP friend that I did actually go green for the first day - big thanks to that same friend for the Metaclopramide!), but still noticable and enough to put fear into my heart, fear that if one skipped pill produced that depth of low, then how would permanent absence of that life-saver be?

Time to find out. It was my New Year Resolution. It's on my 101/1001 list. I have seen my mother sink so low as to end up hospitalised, and her subsequent intense long-lasting pride at kicking the SSRI habit. My experience of depression was much milder than hers. So I know I can do this.

I have insight (in the psychological definition) into my condition. I can tell when I'm sinking. I know the triggers (bloody hormones!) and have coping strategies. Now is the right time to do this. I've had a fantastic first year at uni, proved to myself that I deserve to be a medical student, sailed into second year, and there's an awesome summer ahead of me. I have amazing friends, brilliant housemates, and the best boyfriend I could wish for. And I have God. Despite our correspondance being minimal over recent years, I know He is always there for me. Through Him I can do all things.

"But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint" Isiaiah 40:31

An aside: microwaved scones with butter = the BEST snack ever.

Normality postponed (temporarily)

Ok, so the abject happiness I was expecting didn't happen. Nor did the discharge from mental health. So I have another two weeks before I am 'normal'. Kind of a probation period, according to K, to see how I get on without her support.

So far, so not good.

I cried on leaving the centre. Partly cos I absolutely adore K and I'll miss having our weekly chats. Partly cos, like, what the hell will I do with my Wednesday afternoons now?!

But mainly cos, once again, I am out in the big wide world with a handful of leaflets and a head full of psychobabble.

I sat in the car and screamed like a big wussy baby.

Then a song came on the radio that had so many happy memories. Laughing with my bro, A. Driving six hours with H to hear this sung live.

And it made me smile.

Despite the fact that the rain is coming down in blankets, not sheets. Despite the fact that there is a massive pile of ironing calling to me. Despite the fact I have to go back to work tomorrow and face the arsey manager again.

I'm still smiling.

Therapy has made me a new person. Yep, there'll be setbacks. But I can cope with that.

Life's ups aren't half as good without the downs to define them.

Normality (t minus 1 week)

As of next Wednesday, I am officially normal.

My CBT course will be over and I will be freed from the clutches of the Centre.

I will finally get to wave goodbye to my buddy K.

I will never again have to beg for time off work to go to appointments.

Next week, I am officially discharged from the mental health team's caseload.

I'm gonna be a sane member of the public again!

Ok, so a little exaggerated, but I am just so ecstatic to be done with it. I've been on the mental health team's books since November, but I had my first psychiatric assessment as a toddler.

In this referral, I've had:

1 assessment

8 CBT sessions

9 Dr's appointments

7 blood tests

1 ECG

11 CPN appointments

900mg fluoxetine

10,000mg propranolol

Ok, so I still have 4 months of taking fluox, but that's for maintenance rather than treatment. I am officially in recovery!

I even double-checked with a friend. Apparently, I am noticeably happier and less stressed! Woo!

According to K, I'm visibly more confident.

I feel more confident.

I feel stronger.

More able to deal with what life might throw at me.

Ready to deal with my arse of a manager. I'm a new me. I'm not gonna take that patronizing shit any more.

Get ready world. There's a new Jelly in town.

The A Word

Ever since my Mum told me that as a child, I was 'probably autistic', it's been going round and round in my head.

It would explain a lot. Like how I don't always understand questions unless they're phrased directly without tons of metaphors and colloquialisms. And how I am a tad OCD about having my cupboard doors and drawers completely shut. And how I don't adapt well to change. And I always feel socially inept.

I've always been very against the labelling of children. I don't see why you have to diagnose a child as dyslexic because they have trouble spelling or reading; to me, the label is simply an excuse. Just like ADHD - a perfect excuse for why little Jimmy won't behave.

But autism is something that I don't think is debatable; people have it or they don't. There would be no reasoning behind saying your kid isn't autistic if they are, because without being statemented, they can't get support at school.

But if I allow myself to carry this label of 'childhood autism', how does that affect me from now? Will I use that as an excuse every time I make a social faux-paus or don't understand what somebody's said? Am i going to be able to make new friends at uni if they're aware of this label?

I know I'm being hypothetical; there's no diagnosis, and what's the point in looking back at how I was as a small child and analysing my behaviour until we can say yes, you are autistic, or no, you're not.

If I had started secondary school with a label of autism, instead of just being 'that shy geeky girl', would I have the friends I have now? The qualifications? Would I have ended up a social outcast, like the Aspergers kid a few years above me?

I don't know what to do with this information. I'd feel stupid mentioning it to my GP, cos she's a close family friend and she's like an aunt to me. I don't want to discuss it any further with my Mum, cos she'll feel bad for mentioning it in the first place.

I can't just bottle it up and let it eat away at me, though. Therapy has taught me that much. On that note, I may discuss it with my CPN. It feels like this post is just a load of if's and but's, but it feels better to just put what I'm thinking in words.