A re-introduction to my asexuality story | asexuality

Today I attended the 2020 UK Asexuality Conference, and I felt a sense of belonging that I’ve never really felt, or not for a while.

About a year ago, I stopped talking about being asexual as much as I used to on the internet. I didn’t necessarily stop completely, and it’s still in my bios – but I just saw so much aphobia and exclusion and gatekeeping on Twitter that I started to feel like I had to protect myself.

I’m a complete stereotype, being perfectly honest – I had no idea what asexuality was until I found out about the ace spectrum on Tumblr. I read the definition and something just clicked. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that though, because otherwise I would have felt broken for so much longer. Talk about sexuality wasn’t seen on many other platforms back then. It took me a little while to decide to take on the label, but I came out at 14 to my mum.

I had a conversation with my mum in the car one day where I mentioned a friend who had come out as asexual (which was true, it wasn’t even a cover up) to test the waters, and she didn’t understand it. We had a lot of chats about the misconceptions of hormone imbalances and such. She is the most liberal parent you could come across, but it took me a while to feel like she would accept it.

The first person I came out to was a therapist. It wasn’t someone I ended up seeing regularly – it was to fill the gap before I got into CAMHS – but he was teasing me about one of my friends. By that point, my need to tell someone, anyone, was so big, that I just blurted it out. I felt like a bubble had been burst.

Eventually, after many failed attempts of going and sitting in my mum’s bedroom and willing the words to come out, we were in the car again – most of my mum and I’s landmark conversations and deep debates happen on long car journeys – and she simply asked me how I identify.

I identified as demisexual back then. I came out publicly on Instagram on Coming Out Day 2015, and most people didn’t care, but I got some backlash that I was just straight. I can’t remember when I moved to asexual, but it’s comfortable and natural these days.

By age 16, I was entirely casual about my sexuality – I don’t feel like I have to tell anyone and I wouldn’t say I bring it up without context, but most people know and quite a few of my teachers back at school would discuss it with me if it came up.

The intersection between asexuality and disability fascinates me. When I started identifying as asexual, I was in the starting blocks of finding out that I was autistic and chronically ill. Those worlds often collide when I’m accessing healthcare, and doubt can often be cast over my sexuality.

A couple of my most prominent memories from the time I spent in an adolescent mental health unit are related to my asexuality, and I often wonder if that’s because it was the same year that I was having to come out repeatedly anyway. When I was admitted, it was the first time during a physical check-up that I was asked about being sexually active, and I can clear as day remember my laugh and saying I was asexual sliding so easily off my tongue; I remember the eyebrow raise of the nurse and the slightly awkward squirm of the doctor. It’s worth saying that asexual people can be sexually active – but for me back then, it was a much easier thing to say.

The others are conversations in the communal area of the unit, various patients squashed up on the three worn sofas, some knitting or colouring in. One day, one of the boys on the unit told me that the doctors had told him his sexuality was only because he was autistic, and after I exclaimed that I’d heard the same, he asked if I was pansexual. I remember laughing and saying no, I was “the exact opposite” (it’s not that simple, I know, but I was 15 and new to that world). It fascinates me that you can fall on different sides of a sexuality spectrum and still have your identity put down to your neurodivergence.

I don’t need to be fixed. You cannot fix what isn’t broken.

I’ve never truly wanted to be allosexual (non-asexual). I’ve had moments of my heart slightly pulling, that slight moment of desperation to be “normal” simply for your life to be easier, or to be loved. But it wears off quickly, when you remember that there genuinely isn’t something wrong with you.

I want to start writing about asexuality again; I want to talk about how it intersects with my other identities more. I want people to understand it, understand me. I want to advocate for better understanding of it in the healthcare system.

And so, that is a re-introduction to the part of me that I’ve forced myself to neglect for the last little while. My identity is too important to me to fear the backlash anymore. I’m ready to talk about it – or, at least, I will be.

The impact of a late autism diagnosis, and some reflections | disability

I was diagnosed with autism when I was 15, after a few months of the question mark being over my head.

The first time it was bought up was by an orthopaedic surgeon who asked if I had Aspergers as I walk on my toes and was about to start seeing CAMHS; before him, it had never been questioned or considered. My mum and I were stunned, and were upset for weeks. Looking back, I know that we shouldn’t have been – but it was just so shocking at the time. By the time we met my psychologist not long after and he brought it up, we were no longer surprised. But that didn’t mean we’d quite accepted it yet, it didn’t mean the process was without difficulty.

The issue of girls going undiagnosed is well documented. Many are diagnosed much later than me, too, but many boys are diagnosed a decade before I was. There are some that would argue that it’s a simple cause and effect that less girls are autistic, but with the amount of girls diagnosed so late on in life, it is becoming more commonly recognised that this is likely untrue. Regardless of the sex ratio of how many people have it, it can be seen that boys are almost always diagnosed earlier than girls. The impact that can have on individuals, on families, is huge.

I had my ADOS (Autism Diagnostic Observation Schedule) during my time in inpatient CAMHS care. I spent over six hours on my own in my room that day, the anxiety and overwhelm and shame refusing to subside. I’m not sure I will ever forget that day, and how much my heart ached. Due to my anxiety causing me to refuse to partake in most of the assessment, I had to later have a 3DI (Developmental, Dimensional and Diagnostic Interview) in order to confirm my diagnosis.

It is difficult to describe the shame I felt for being autistic for the first year or two. I didn’t understand how I should feel. When I learnt I might be autistic, a lot of things suddenly fell into place. I understood why I am the way I am, why I feel certain ways, why I can’t cope with certain things. But internalised ableism is very, very real. “Autistic” was used as an insult and a joke amongst my year group at school. I didn’t tell anyone but my very closest friends, even once I reached sixth form and my year group was a fraction of the size and I had accepted it myself. I could never have imagined at the time putting anything about my ASD on social media, even though I was already a disability activist for my other conditions, in case it were to be found.

My mum also found it quite difficult to accept – it wasn’t that she was ashamed of me, or that she didn’t support me at all, it was just such a strange concept that after 15 years of knowing me, there was suddenly a label attached to me, a label that meant I was different but in quite a specific way. We had a lot of conversations in that first year, some teary, some productive and analytical. I am so appreciative for the place we have reached now, and for every bit of support she has given me.

I was extremely lucky that my school were very supportive from the moment the diagnosis was in question, and I’m very aware that most young autistic women do not get this experience. My teachers, particularly at A Level, were incredible and constantly made sure they were doing things correctly. Even though I was hiding my autism from my peers, in Year 12 I gave a presentation during a CPD training session to the entire staff body (I hope I get to do more of these in the future), all the while attempting to make sure no-one found out. Sometimes I wonder if anyone knew and helped me keep it quiet.

I spend a lot of time wondering what it would have been like to have been unashamedly myself for those four years at school. I let my proper personality shine through much more during sixth form, but I still couldn’t just be – I spent so much time hoping I wasn’t being too much, taking up too much space, being too ‘weird’.

When I started at university this year, I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself hide it. Don’t get me wrong, I was still a bit guarded, but I never tried to hide it and most people knew pretty quickly. I’m enjoying being myself without apologies, and finally getting to do all the autism advocacy that I always wanted to do.

I love being autistic. Maybe not always, maybe not every day. It causes meltdowns and sensory overload and anxiety. It causes fights with my family when I can’t explain myself. It causes me to spend hours and hours worrying about social norms, whether I’ve done something wrong or embarrassed myself.

But it gives me my passion for social justice and equality and for a better world. It means I spend hours researching a topic I saw in a tweet, or something my old chemistry teacher would mention offhand. It gives me my creativity and my innovation, the perspectives that not everyone has. It gives me my sense of empathy, the one that many people don’t believe we have.

I wish I had been diagnosed earlier. I wish I hadn’t have had to go through the panic attacks and anxiety that meant it finally got picked up. I wish that I never felt ashamed. But I can’t change that part. What I can do instead, is now shout about it. Show the positives and the negatives and the things that need to change. And, overall, I’m grateful I managed to get my diagnosis at all, because so many still can’t or don’t.

Why medication is not the enemy | mental health / chronic illness

Disclaimer: as said towards the end of this post, I am not advocating for the use of medications, I am only discussing my personal experience and the stigmatisation of such medications.

A couple of days ago an opinion column was posted in the LA times, discussing one man’s experience with attempting to come off anti-depressants. As a community, many people have written threads on the issues there are within the piece such as this one by @coffeespoonie including his use of addiction and dependence as interchangeable terms, as well as implying that an anti-depressant is not a prescription drug. Whilst these threads have taken apart the piece very effectively and better than I ever could, I wanted to talk about my own experience of long-term medication use, why it isn’t the enemy, and how much it annoys me that medication are continually demonised in traditional media.

I’ve been on some form of mental health medication since I was fifteen. Originally, for six months beforehand, my GP placed me on a beta blocker as a measure until I could see a psychiatrist, who put me on my first of many tries at an SSRI. I was very unlucky and had a major reaction to it, but it does come down to being unlucky – what happened to me would never happen to more than a couple of people. When I then went into inpatient care a month later, I was instead placed on another form of anxiety medication and, although I’ve tried several others over the last four years, it is the one I am still on today. I couldn’t imagine life without it.

Actually, that’s a lie, because I know what my life is like without it, where there have been periods off it, as well as my life beforehand. I was in Year 9 at a grammar school when I started having panic attacks and they quickly became daily, and often twice daily, occurrences which meant I was out of lesson after lesson and often unable to even make it through the gates. I moved school, and though my anxiety was reduced they were still happening. Fast forward two years of therapy, I attempted to come away from my medication, and it just wasn’t sustainable – my brain moves at a pace that I often can’t even explain; I have five trains of thought running at once, most of which aren’t even relevant and causing unnecessary levels of panic, at such a fast speed I can’t focus on them.

I’m at the best I have been for four years at the moment; those two years of therapy had a huge impact, and in the last year I have had my chronic pain management programmes which were quite holistic and focused a lot on my anxiety. Apart from during exam season, my panic attacks have been increasingly rare. But with my move to university, I don’t know how I am going to be. Often, doctors question me as to when I’m going to come off the medication as if it’s simply for an acute illness. Mental health medication is often seen as the last resort, something avoided if at all possible, and whilst I am a big advocate for therapy, I don’t think it should be demonised the way it is. Therapy got me out of crisis, but my medication is what keeps me afloat. If anything, it was my medication which meant I could get the most out of therapy.

In a similar vein, I’m also on a long-term painkiller, which are equally as demonised in the time of the opiod crisis. It began with 6-8 tablets of paracetamol a day, before endless different painkillers that were all completely ineffective or gave me side effects. Eventually, I found an NSAID that seemed to at least take the edge off the pain and I was on that until I finally saw a specialist rheumatologist who recommended the one I have been on for the last two years. I could probably survive without it – but could I live? Could I have done my A Levels? Almost absolutely not.

I am not advocating that people turn to medication before therapy, whether that be talking therapy or DBT or physio, or even advocating it’s use at all. I’m not a doctor, and I will never recommend a certain medication or slander those which have caused me issues, because everyone is different. All I want is for it to stop being so stigmatised, particularly by people who have never experienced the trauma and issues that mental health problems and chronic pain can cause.

Am I dependent? Or even an addict, as David Lazarus implies in the LA Times? Perhaps I am dependent. But I am no longer constantly frozen by anxiety and out of action due to pain and panic attacks. Is that such a bad thing? Those who say that my age means I should not be depending on medication are correct, because no I shouldn’t have to be – I don’t want to be either, but I have chronic and mental illnesses.

And yes, there is significant irony in the fact that I have been sat writing this piece for two hours and have only just realised that I didn’t take my meds this morning, but here we are. Let this be your reminder!

How to survive your A Levels, by a disabled student | disability and education

As of a few weeks ago, I can officially say that I finished my A Levels but it was definitely not without struggle. Throughout my two years I’ve been dealing with my hypermobility spectrum disorder and chronic pain/fatigue, as well as several mental illness/learning difficulties, and with this came absences for countless medical appointments and I spent chunks of time away on 2 pain programmes. Nonetheless, I made it! So, here is my slightly cynical advice on how to survive your A Levels, whether you have a disability or not.

Take the right subjects for you

This one doesn’t help if you’re going into year 13, but for new year 12s, this step is the starting block that will honestly set up your two years – there’s a fine balance to strike at A Level between taking subjects you like and the ones you’ll do well in. If those go hand in hand, great! But if they don’t, you need to be very prepared to work extremely hard if you’re not as naturally inclined towards a subject. I took chemistry, which I love – even if I complained about it all the time and wouldn’t admit it to my teacher – but I had to accept early on that I wasn’t going to walk away with an A* and I probably worked twice as hard for it as my other two for a much lesser reward.

Get a good planner and always be prepared for setbacks

Regardless of if you’re a disabled student or not, A Levels will provide challenge after challenge. There’s coursework you think you’re done with that comes back, there’s random tests you get two days to revise for, essays due when you have mocks, I could go on. The best way I can tell you to manage it is to get a good planner – I recommend a Personal Planner (not spon, they’re just great as you personalise every element) but definitely get something with a good amount of space for each day. Plan what you’ll do in your frees, give yourself mini deadlines, plan your evenings, and plan when you will rest, which I will controversially say is possibly the most important.

If you then have to schedule in your medical appointments or a hospital stay, it becomes much easier to look at your week and work out when you will catch up. Personally I liked to schedule in after-school sessions with teachers because I prefer to have concepts explained to me when I first learn them, but you can also just work from your textbooks.

I honestly had 2 planners and 3 to-do lists going at any one time to manage things – you really don’t need to go that far but try and find what works for you early on!

Build rapport with your teachers

I definitely recommend that you get to know your teachers and let them know how they can help you. After the first lesson I had with every new teacher during my GCSEs and A Levels, I would stay behind and give them a quick run-down of my conditions and my needs even though they were emailed about me – it puts a face to a name . If you’re not a disabled student, still have a chat with them at some point and just show interest and let them get to know your learning style; it just doesn’t necessarily need to be so urgent.

My teachers have probably breathed sighs of relief now that I’ve finished because I spent a lot of time with most of them, after-school or by email or bothering them in their frees. I would not have wanted to be one of my teachers, put it that way, but I think they mostly got used to it after three years of me tipping up in their classrooms often in tears. I don’t think I would have gotten through my A Levels without a few of my teachers and the sixth form team, so I’d honestly recommend that even if you’re not fussed about knowing your teachers well, you still go to them if you find yourself needing some help, academically or otherwise.

Take as many opportunities as possible in Year 12

Most sixth forms (and I imagine colleges as well) offer a lot of opportunities to their students to help you with your upcoming UCAS/apprenticeship applications, and a lot of universities offer stuff too. I did 2 summer schools at Durham and Bath, as well as going to a seminar on Brexit, me and my best friend went to Manchester for another EU based event, our school took us to Bristol which included a taster lecture, I was a progress mentor and the leader of the mental health advocate team, I did a Cambridge essay competition, and there was plenty of stuff that I didn’t take part in too. Do as much as you can (without sacrificing your work or health) and I guarantee it will help you find your passion and confirm what you want to do at uni, as well as supporting your application in Year 13.

I also did an EPQ, though at my school we did it in Year 13 unlike most, which I would highly recommend if you have a topic you’d like to research more in depth that you won’t be able to in your subjects. It’s a lot of work but if you love your topic it’s so worth it. I really enjoyed researching it, writing it, being slightly (very) argumentative about my points with my supervisor and presenting it at the end. It’s funny how much confidence I gained from having to do a 10 minute presentation about the pill in front of a room 90% made up of men, but here we are.

Remember that you know yourself and your body best

This is slightly controversial, and I’m not sure schools will like this particular tip, but if you can sit there and say you know that a day off will benefit you, take one. I’m not saying take one every week because you feel like it, but if you’re at breaking point, just do it. For me, that was sometimes the difference between getting through to the end of term vs me suffering burn-out and being off for days on end later on. You might not need a day off, but maybe you might need a free period of just relaxing with your friends instead of working hard, and that’s okay too – as long as it’s rare, and because you actually need it.

Just stay out of drama

It isn’t worth it. I promise. Shove in some earphones if it’s around you, block them if it’s about you, get your work done and move on.

…But keep a social life!

I didn’t really have a social life in year 12 between my disabilities and my work, and although I couldn’t really have prevented that, I do wish it had been different. I adore my group of friends and I’ve been very lucky to have them, but I wish I’d spent more time with them. Let yourself have time off every now and then, I promise you won’t drop by 2 grades for every hour you’re out.

On a slightly different note, but it fits here – I’d really recommend picking up some volunteering. I’ve been a Cub Scout leader for 3 years now and not only have I gained skills and qualifications from it, but I’ve gained a family who I absolutely adore. I also did an hour a week in one of the GCSE Science classes through all of sixth form, which… well, it built my resilience, we’ll put it that way.

Don’t let anyone tell you how to note-take or revise

I typed all my history and philosophy notes in both years because of the pain in my hands, but to be honest I think I would have regardless because there’s so much information to get down! But in the bigger picture, I only ever took notes that I thought necessary and I put them informally if I needed to even if it caused confusion during folder checks. Whether you’re a disabled student or not, just get in the habit of working how you need to – you know yourself best. When we were really close to exams, one of my teachers kept telling me I needed to be exclusively doing essay plans, but I knew I needed to drill the content more – so that’s what I did, and it worked.

Don’t procrastinate on your coursework

NOTHING makes me wince more looking back at my A Levels more than my history coursework. I absolutely hated it, to the point that I think my chemistry teachers heard more about that than me moaning about their subject for a few months. But, I really wish I’d just got on with more of it over the year 12 summer and the first couple of months of the year. I came out with a high grade in it in the end, but it was such a slog and it took up time I needed for other things.

________

To be honest, I could probably continue for quite a while with this, but I think those are are the main things – and that’s probably enough sarcasm for one post. I hope that was vaguely useful (or entertaining), and I wish you so much luck for your A Levels!

Could I do more than my best? (post results ramblings) | education

I’ve already written this post once, the day after results day. It was raw and angry and harsh, and a lot of it wasn’t me talking, it was anxiety and annoyance at an education system that I fought against for two years for what felt like nothing. It’s a complex thing, but I feel more at home with myself again now I’ve had time to process it.

Two years ago, I opened an envelope that I genuinely believed was the end of the world. It wasn’t, but I was over the moon. This year, I knew it wasn’t the end of the world – I’ve worked hard to try and overcome the concept that a few letters on a page are all that I am – but I was gutted. And it’s sad, because I’m happy with three out of my four grades, but I automatically discarded those from my mind before I’d even processed them. A few days later I’m upset that I felt no need to celebrate on Thursday, because I know there is more to it than that piece of paper.

I have spent two years fighting an education system that isn’t for disabled and chronically ill youth like me. Although my school have been as supportive as possible, my body has not really been able to cope with 7-8 hour days, or my memory with the density of the subjects I chose – I honestly wish I had done my A Levels back when AS was 50%. It sounds dramatic, but I spent full days in such intense pain that I could barely see the board, and some days my fatigue was so bad I couldn’t read a sentence out of a textbook. I missed weeks off school to be in hospital, and the equivalent of several more in appointments.

I have to remember that these exams pitted me against hundreds of thousands of students, the majority of which will not have experienced these issues. The ones who did may have done better than me regardless, but this isn’t me making excuses – it’s me forgiving myself, letting myself realise that I did the most I could, and that’s okay. Being able to write for 2 hours upwards with chronic wrist, shoulder and back pain; keeping focused and not dizzy for that amount of time – I won just by getting through all my exams, and sixth form in general.

For me, I think part of the reason I felt so upset was because I knew that there would be people I’d either let down, as well as the people who would judge me. Since my GCSE results, I’d been almost put on a pedestal by some of my peers that I didn’t want to be on; shushing me if I expressed concern or anxiety about my grades. And I felt like I let down my teachers and the sixth form support team, but they (naturally) told me I was being silly. My chemistry teacher is a very matter-of-fact person, but with the most human of emotions, and that makes for someone who can talk sense into me. I couldn’t be more appreciative.

It’s cliche, but those grades truly don’t tell my whole story, just like everyone tells you before you get your grades, but you can’t see it at the time. I’ve done three hours of volunteering a week during both years, working with teenagers at school and the Cub Scouts. I did assemblies about mental health and a talk about my disabilities to the entire staff body. I never shut up about things I was passionate about, had debates in class, educated people on feminism and ableism and sexualities. I wrote essays on topics I was fascinated by.

I did three subjects I love, and I still love them, regardless of the grades. Maybe chemistry was a wildcard, and I knew it was risky – but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. In general, I loved my sixth form experience, and the piece of paper I received on Thursday doesn’t tell you any of those other things.

Four letters at the age of 18 aren’t the end of the world. It’s time to start new adventures, and there’s already several opportunities coming my way. I did my best, and that will always be enough. And I know, that everything will be okay.

Why I (sort of) miss my walking stick | disability

In May 2017, I started using a walking stick – on the day of my GCSE biology exam to be exact, and I was so nervous about what people would say. It’s not exactly seen as normal for a 16 year old to be using a cane, is it? But I had very little choice; I couldn’t hold myself up and the amount of pain I was in wasn’t worth it compared to the slight embarrassment I felt when I first started using it.

Using a walking stick as a teenager is really difficult, and I can’t sugarcoat that. Elderly people glare at you because they think you’re faking; people make comments as you walk past. A lad imitated my legs collapsing as he walked past me once, and I’ve never felt so self-conscious. My condition that was once invisible became public property to discuss and question and laugh at. A boy from a younger year once shouted after me asking if I’d just come back from a war, which was not only humiliating, but extremely offensive to veterans.

It got easier with time. I became more comfortable with going out; it took longer for me to feel okay when I was just with my friends instead of my mum, purely from a protection perspective (although my friends are amazing, and so supportive). I got to a point where I just rolled my eyes when someone made comments, and I empowered myself through having photos taken with it.

This was taken in Swansea by my best friend Caitlin because I walked past this wall every day walking to work experience and I happened to match it.

I stopped using it in January 2019, when I had my pain rehabilitation programme and strengthened my legs. And obviously, I was, and generally am, really happy about that – people don’t look at me, they don’t comment. But that causes other issues for me, and I sometimes miss it – not in that I want to use it, but the fact it has made my disability invisible again.

If people knock me, it hurts for at least four days, and this happens a lot because I can’t walk very fast. I don’t feel like I can ask for a seat on trains like I used to, so I’ve stood up most times than not since January on shorter journeys and the tube in London. It feels like I’m constantly dismissed and seen as able-bodied, but I’m still working on building up my strength so my legs still collapse under me and I can’t walk very far in one go.

This isn’t meant to be a sob story. This is more about the differences between being invisibly disabled and having a visible invisible disability (which is different to a visible disability, which is more about visible symptoms, I believe). I know I am privileged to be able to walk around without people making such comments, I’m more likely to be given a job, and I am less likely to find that places are inaccessible to me. There is definite privilege in the stage I am now at with my disability, and it’s quite undeniable.

But I can’t deny that I sometimes miss the ease that it could sometimes bring in people accepting that there is actually something wrong with me, even if that was often grudging. Now, I feel like I have to prove myself far more, and it’s difficult in a different way.

Whether your disabilities are visible or not, there will always be a fight. Disabled people still aren’t equal in so many areas, and often aren’t even included in lists of marginalised people. So it’s interesting for me to look at the different versions of the fight that I’ve experienced, and will continue to experience.

On leaving school, change and recovery | mental health

Change has never sat well with me. I dislike uncertainty, I hate my life being in other people’s hands; even if it’s in my own, I hate the choices and the need to put trust in myself, something I’ve never quite had.

I always knew I was going to be somewhat emotional about leaving my school, with so many of my teachers having been such a solid support system, some for three or four years – but I wasn’t ready for how much reflection it would cause on how much has changed in the last few years for me. I didn’t realise how much it would truly, honestly hurt – a cause for celebration, but also of confusion and sadness; beginning a new period of having to be truly honest with myself.

It’s caused flashbacks of my time in the unit, and at my first secondary school where my mental health deteriorated so significantly; a whirlwind of shouting and alarms, being left alone in medical rooms at my worst and being told I was faking it. It’s hard to cope with when such negative memories pop up almost insidiously at random. I remember parts of those times in such a vivid way that it’s made me stop a little bit dead in my tracks, at the strangest of times.

Simultaneously, I look at more recent times. I remember my GCSE results day surrounded by some of my favourite people; the after-school sessions where I would finally grasp a concept. I can look over the memories from this year, of the support when I came back from my pain programme, the meetings with the two teachers who I worked on my EPQ with – me being slightly (very) forceful with my debates and them playing devil’s advocate, slightly teasingly so. I am not the girl who cowered away with one small poke anymore.

It’s interesting to see what change does my state of mind even if I’m at the strongest I’ve been in the longest time. I wonder if it is out of sadness, or vulnerability, or a weird bittersweet nostalgia. Maybe it is more about how much support the school I have just left gave me in comparison, and less about the nastier set of memories which are popping up. Maybe it is the people I have left behind, or I will leave behind in September. Whichever way, it hurts.

I’m letting myself take some time, I’m allowing myself to feel this way, even if it might not be quite right. I’m letting myself bask slightly in pride, something I have never, ever let myself do.

I’ve gone from the girl who started having panic attacks and had them at one point twice daily, to the one who had to spend time in an inpatient unit, to now having only had one panic attack in 6 months and having been out of therapy for 2 years in August. There were weeks at a time where I told my sixth form team I was going to drop out every single day, but now I’ve finished. I did it. Regardless of the piece of paper I pick up in a month, I did it.

I’ve told myself this is an overdramatic reaction, because in the grand scheme of my life this is nothing. But regardless of if it doesn’t matter to me when I hit 70, at the moment it’s been a huge percentage of my life – especially when I have had so much happen to me in the last 5 years. I saw someone I haven’t seen since I was 13 a few days ago, and when they said “well, fill me in then!”, I realised just how much has happened, how long these few years have felt.

And in that, it makes me laugh because apart from my family, barely anyone who was in my life back when I started to have be that girl I said before – the girl who had her first panic attack in her form room and thought that’d be the end of it – is still in it now. I doubt those people would even recognise me. I think I’m glad of that.

So maybe I am being melodramatic. I’m sure I am, and I’m sure at some point I’ll be annoyed at myself for writing such a over the top blog post that’s less factual or cynical than I was aiming for this newer blog. But for now, I’m letting myself have this one. I think fifteen year old Charli deserves it.