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.

Dr Jelly is in the house...

My super-diagnostic powers have been proved correct.

Remember the two calls last week?
1 stroke, back home waiting for a follow up in Out Patients.
1 NSTEMI, admitted to CCU and now transferred to a regional cardiac care centre.

Shut up, anyone who says that's a barn-door diagnosis. I know it is. But it doesn't detract from my feelings of intelligence and clinical intellect. Much.

And while watching Street Doctors on telly the other day:
The patient was explaining the problem he had with his hand, and before the doctor on telly got a word in, I leaned over to my Mum and said "I bet you a cup of tea that it's Dupuytren's contracture."

One cup of tea and one smily Jelly when the doctor finally spoke. Go me!

I am a diagnostic genius :)

Let's hope it's as easy as this when I am actually a doctor.

Vegetarian, ye shall die a painful death

As told to me by a senior colleague the other day.

Ok, so she may have phrased it differently. The gist of it was that all vegetarians are anaemic and protein-deficient and don't have enough Omega-3 and something else. I think I tuned out for a bit.

I'm not the most strict vegetarian you'll ever meet (or meat, geddit? No? Oh...)

I eat my veg, but I hate most types of fruit, and if you take me to Damons, I will be ordering the BBQ ribs. The sauce is so fantastic it makes up for the rubbish meat underneath.

I don't even like the taste of meat any more. It's been five years since I was an omnivore and I don't think I'd go back. I love my Quorn, and my vegeburgers, and nut cutlets and everything.

But Ms "Ye shall burn in hell for your dis-service to the meat industry" has obviously implanted some thoughts in my head.

Meaning that breakfast now includes an Iron and Vitamin C tablet.

I'm also drinking Diet Coke plus antioxidant. Not for its super-drink powers. Just cos it was BOGOF in Tesco and I fancied trying it.

The verdict? No. Diet Coke and green tea were never meant to be in the same drink. Ever.

It does make me feel more healthy from drinking it. Not physically more healthy, obviously. But easing my conscience, like those freaks that think buying a Prius makes them eco-friendly, ignoring their three other cars with a carbon footprint the size of a Yeti. Numpties.

"Never mind the patients, this is giving me mental health issues"

^My colleague, trying to figure out if some patient really had a history of psychosis.

I spent all morning with brain-ache. I thought I'd got my head round the Mental Health stuff I'm doing at work, but it seems I haven't. Of course, I pick the week that my supervisor is on holiday to become a doofus.

It doesn't help that the full extent of my medical knowledge on this consists of personal experience and google.

But it was a great way to spend four hours today, looking like I was working really hard but actually just reading through patient's notes. I think I've perfected the art of looking busy.

So the product of four hours work? Three emails sent out, 4 pages of notes written, and one quarter-hour meeting with a colleague to try and decipher the damn thing.

Meaning the most productive thing I've done all day is watching Ashley Tisdale vidoes on YouTube.

To the pointe

Ballet starts again tonight! I am possibly the least graceful or elegant person you'll ever meet. No sense of timing, rhythm, balance.

But at every opportunity my toes are pointed. I wear thin flats at work so whenever no-one is looking, I can stand en-pointe. Badly.

The show is, like, four weeks away and I am terrified. I don't know the routine properly, and I still struggle with some of the moves. I can't do a consistent pirouette to save my life. Argh!

I'm not a natural performer. I only started ballet less than a year ago. I'm unfit. I'm the wrong shape. I'm the shy-body. But I am longing to prove myself.

To prove to myself that I can dance. To prove to myself that I am good at creative things as well as academic.

So I can continue to pretend to be a female version of Billy Elliot when I'm alone, that I'm not just kidding myself that I can dance. So when someone asks, "do you dance?" I can say "Yes. I performed in my dance school's show this year."

So if you happen to be at an amateur dance show in a few weeks time, spare a thought for that tall, awkward looking dancer. The one looking at her fellow dancers, not the audience. The one stumbling through the moves. The one half a beat behind the rest of the group.

She'll be loving every minute.

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.

Engage brain before opening mouth

I actually spoke to Prince Harry (aka F2 Dr) today. Like, actually held a conversation without stuttering, stumbling over my words or blushing. Even I'm shocked.

We talked about nursing clinics.

At no point did we discuss movies, music, university, specialties or how he likes his coffee. You know, the important stuff. We discussed nursing clinics.

Which is why I am now working my way steadily through a dairy milk and an iced caramel macchiato. I do not care that it will make me fat. Calories will heal the pain of my stupidity.

Despite the fact that I have worked at our surgery for damn near nine months, I told him that there were no nursing clinics on that afternoon. He was a tad surprised, considering that he'd driven in specifically to observe one and that it was on his timetable.

Was there a nursing clinic that afternoon? You bet your ass there was. There were three. Three nursing clinics, that I was mysteriously oblivious to despite spending all morning staring at the appointment system.

I felt like a numpty.