Intimate Partner Rape...Sorry, No Witty Title for this One

The trigger warning is pretty much in the title (this blog is a trigger warning, I'm sorry. I'm genuinely a positive person in real life! Promise!) ... but to clarify, I'm talking about abusive relationships and rape

Hmmm...This one has been a tough one to write... but here we go.

Intimate partner rape/sexual assault = rape/sexual assault that occurs between 2 people who currently have/have had a consensual sexual relationship.

As I've mentioned in many a previous post, coming to terms with my past abusive relationship has taken a really bloody long time. Although the relationship ended about a year ago, I still struggle to accept the realities of what occurred in the 9 months we were together. With his emotional abuse and my depleted mental and physical state, piecing together a cohesive narrative of the time we spent together is pretty difficult.

I have begun to accept the past and want to share my story with people out there in the hope I can help one other person confront their situation... (that, and H said if I ever left him, he would tell the GMC I was psychotic and make sure I never practised medicine... well fuck you, all my crazy is in the public domain now...)  

In our short relationship, he raped me on way more than one occasion. I am unable to put an exact number on this because all dates and events are blurred by depression (memory loss/blurring is a well accepted side effect of depression and anxiety... the fun times keep rolling here)

The first occasion is still pretty vivid though. It was three months into our shit storm reletionship. I had been having a really rough day. We had arranged to meet at 7pm in the Quad and I hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning (with no intention of eating until the next morning). I had ran 6 miles in before class because I woke up feeling fat, and spent 5 hours in lecture with 3 extra in the library. I had brought flashcards with me because I knew he would be late (20 minutes aways, at least)

We went back to his, and his roommate was out. I started talking about my day and asking about his. I needed to vent about lectures and pissy labs (all the medical school bull shit he hated). He pushed me onto the bed and pressed against me, forcing me down on the bed. To stop me talking, he kissed my forcefully, then pulled away, telling me to be quiet. Taking the time to remind me that he though the medics were self important arseholes and medic chatter bored him.

I was having a particularly dark day (hence the lack of food and excessive running), and felt very fat and repulsive. My skin crawled with the sheer sensation of existing. I couldn't bear to be touched, even by my friends that day (at near peak self loathing by this stage). I really don't know why I agreed to met up with him to be honest, but he was my boyfriend, so I had to see him...

I tried to pull myself from under him, but he was too strong and with his full weight on top of me, I couldn't move. I then started to struggle to breathe and my chest grew tight. My limbs went cold and heavy and I completely froze. I was having a panic attack (which is a physiological and mental attack on the system...)

I lay still while fear and panic left me stiff and motionless. He pulled down my underwear and raped me while I remained fully clothed. I hadn't been aware of him removing his trousers.

When he was finished and rolled off of me, noticed I must have been crying because my face was wet. I felt so confused and hurt. Why would he continue if he could see how upset I was? I remained very still and quiet as I slipped further back into my thoughts and tried to put as much distance between myself and reality(not the best idea, because they were pretty fucking dark throughout this period...but probably still better than confronting the real life shit happening)

He reached out to pull me closer but I turned and curled away from him, trying to make myself as small as possible. I started to shake and sob at this point. This made him really angry. He reminded me that no one else would put up with my bullshit, or tolerate me like this. Did I know how lucky I was to have him? Did I know how hard it was to love me when I was so unstable? If I loved him, then why was this a problem?

I did love him, and I wanted to be better, fitter, slimmer, prettier for him. I hated myself for ruining everything with my talking, and weirdness and generally repulsiveness.

I got myself "sorted" silently and left. I couldn't find words to describe how I felt or what had happened and I couldn't bear for him/anyone to see me like that. I left his halls and wandered around Soho until it was late enough to ensure my roommate had gone to bed and I wouldn't have to speak to anyone.

The first time is still the most vivid. Probably because I felt it was my fault up till a couple of weeks ago. The same kind of thing happened throughout the remaining 4 months of our relationship... (sex was completely off the cards for the last 2, I couldn't maintain eye contact let alone be touched by anyone. I am so proud of how far I have come in the last year, it scares me how ill I was... but I digress)

It never occurred to me to call what happened rape. He was my boyfriend and he loved me, so how could he do that to me? Of course intimate partner rape is a real thing, but I didn't think it would happen to me.

Similar things have happened to friends, and it makes me sad and disgusted that this is the society we live in. One of my friends, who was brave enough to come out with her story, was told that her boyfriend would never rape her. It wasn't until she told people that he had forced himself on her with a tampon still in that people accepted that this might be a thing that is not ok....    

I want to say things are getting easier now after a year, and to a point they are, but being intimate with someone is still a pretty big struggle. I have had sex since H and I broke up, but it tends to be when I am blind drunk and only one night stands. I am seeing someone at the moment, (a he!) and it has taken a while to even be mildly comfortable with being sober and intimate with someone... Trusting someone to not point out my flaws to me during/after sex, or leaving me because I am too much of a lost cause is not going to be easy, but hey, that's what therapy is for! Everyone deserves to be loved and cared for and I've popped a few links below for added support if any of this sounds too familiar to you.

Stay strong my lovelies x

http://www.pandys.org/articles/intimatepartnerrape.html

This one is really good at highlighing the complex difference and variation of cohersive sex in reletionships as well as using sex as a power move in abusive reletionships...
http://www.bandbacktogether.com/intimate-partner-rape-resources/

Menstruation Celebrations

What a lovely click-baity title... If you're squeamish, or in denial that periods are a thing that happen to 50% of the population, then this might not be the blog for you....

I GOT MY PERIOD FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS YEAR! Now, that is not news if you are a normal, healthy 20 year old women... like, you should be on number 6, but hear me out...

I've been dealing with anorexia nervosa (just getting to terms with calling it by it's name, and admitting that was what I had...) since I was 13. I had my first period when I was 12/13 and it as the awkward trauma that most girls have to deal with... "why is my uterus falling out?!" ect..

I was not coping well with puberty, or high school/life in general, and started to restrict my foods. I lost 30% of my body weight in 4 months and failed to establish a normal cycle (as in, I didn't have another period after that first one).  I can now see that my eating disorder behaviour is linked with my anxiety disorder, but at the time, it was about being in control. At 13, losing my period wasn't a major problem, and according to the pro ana websites I frequented, that meant I was doing something right...

What I was actually doing, was giving myself secondary amenorrhea. Amenorrhea is the lack of a normal menstrual cycle, and secondary refers to the loss of menstruation after the first menstrual cycle.

Amenorrhea can be caused by;

• low body weight 
• excessive exercise 
• high levels of stress 

Amenorrhea doesn't just make it more difficult to get pregnant, it can also cause pre-menopausal symptoms (night sweats, dizziness, all that fun stuff your Nan complains about) and eventually leads to osteopenia (loss of bone mass) due to chronically low oestrogen levels. 

After my first encounter with anorexia, I recovered to a point, but still restricted food and had a very intense work out regime of judo and running.  I was eating enough to maintain a normal body weight, so concerns about my health had subsided and I was generally left to my own devices for a couple of years. Even though my BMI was normal (if a bit low), I didn't recover my periods, which still didn't really bother me because I was 14-16 years old and had no intention of having kids anytime soon. I knew all my junk worked normally because I would get withdrawal bleeds when on the pill (not the same as a normal menstrual cycle... just the body reacting to the external hormones you are putting in). 

My first relapse came when I was 17 and in the run up to AS and A-Level exams. I was also dating fuck boys and was just generally a stressed mess. So no surprise when my periods still hadn't made an appearance. I was just about surviving, and was in no fit state to nourish another human inside me. At this point I was getting mildly concerned...did this mean I was infertile and could never have my own kids?! I knew I wanted to be a mum at some point, and would be really pissed if I had fucked that up for myself because of my eating disorder. 

That relapse was relatively mild, and I was generally ok-ish when it came to starting university at 18. Still no periods, but I was very stressed because university, and moving away from home. I started dating a guy, who suggested I lost a bit of weight.... (I loved me some fuck boys back in the day...). This, and the stress of uni and first year medicine, triggered a full blown relapse that brought me to my lowest weight/level of functioning. My heart rate was 50 and my blood pressure was almost undetectable, my nails were brittle, hair thin and skin looked sallow and ill. No chance of sustaining a pregnancy, so no periods. 

By August 2015, I had decided enough is enough and made the decision to get better. That meant eating 2000+ calories a day, exercising less, and just fucking looking after myself. There has been some wobbles, but in general, I would consider myself to be on the way to a full recovery. My weight has been stable for 5 months now and I've been at a healthy BMI for 9 months.

Once my BMI normalised, I though my periods would just return, but alas, the body is too clever for that... It took almost a year after getting my shit together for some spotting to occur last month, and last week saw the first "proper period" I've had in 7 years. I hope this is the start of a normal-ish menstrual cycle and that I can have my own kids at some point in the future... far off future though, I got another 4 years of medical school yet.. 

This is a weird stage in my recovery at the moment... my weight is normalised, I've gotten my boobs back, and I am a (potentially) fertile woman... I couldn't see myself getting better last year, but now there is so much hope and stuff to look forward to... (that is as soppy as I will get, but I'm glad I got another shot at this living lark)

If by some strange miracle, you get to the end of this super long post, and have been dealing with some similar things, I'll leave some links to resources I have found useful;

• Here are the DSM definitions of different eating disorders http://www.eatingdisorders.org.au/eating-disorders/what-is-an-eating-disorder/classifying-eating-disorders/dsm-5
• This site is great at explaining the longer term effects of amenorrhea, and why its a good idea to get it sorted sooner rather then later http://www.eatingdisorderhope.com/information/anorexia/anorexia-and-amenorrhea-what-are-the-consequences 
• I love this website, the stage of recovery really help to normalise the recovery process, especially when you feel very alone and scared about the shit that is happening to your body as you try to recover http://www.youreatopia.com/blog/2012/11/23/phases-of-recovery-from-a-restrictive-eating-disorder.html

The Semicolon Project

A semicolon represents a sentence the author could have ended, but chose not to. That author is you and the sentence is your life.

Let's welcome tattoo number 8 to the family....

This is a piece I have wanted for a long time, even before my suicide attempt last year. The semicolon project was started by Amy Bleuel to raise awareness of mental health problems such as depression, suicide, addiction, anxiety, and self harm. As someone who has struggled with anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and self harm myself and knows others who have too, it was important to be to validate these experiences and create a dialogue about these issues. 

Having the semicolon on the body, in a visible place, helps to start conversations about mental health problems and hopefully debunk some of the stigma surrounding these issues. I have recently tried to step up my game in mental health advocacy and begun to own my past experiences with mental health problems. I hope through opening conversations about mental health and sharing my story and experience, that I can help others. 

There is controversy over the "attention seeking" nature of these tattoos, but I think that is more reflective of the ignorance surrounding mental health issues in the wider public...

People are more than their diagnosis, and this is true for every chronic condition, however their experience of the world has been shaped in part by their condition and their story deserves to be validated as much as anyone elses. I'm still trying to better understand how to best support people through their mental health difficulties, but I hope having honest conversations can lift some of this stigma and BS.

New Directions

Argh... second year of medicine... what can I say about you? You've completely destroyed me and my social life and left me drained of any capacity to function as an adult.

Nah, it wasn't really that bad (but close). The workload this year gave me something to focus on, and not having time to party/go out, gave me the space I needed to sort myself out. That being said, if I haven't passed this year (results are out next week), I highly doubt I will resit the whole year...

Hopefully, next year, I will do a IBSc in The History and Philosophy of Science... sounds very impressive, I know.... It will however mean that my contact hours will go from 35-40 hours a week to about 7. I know that there will be a lot more reading and work to do outside of class, but I am looking forward to this freedom/free time/escape from the medical school lecture theatre.

I may be completely jumping the gun on this one, and I may have to resit/completely rethink my life trajectory/move to the Andes and become a goat farmer.... but I've started to think about my goals for the next 12 months.

I've been applying for jobs over the summer in London, with the hope of carrying on working next academic year.... I've started dating seriously, (not one person seriously, but dating with the intention of meeting someone serious as opposed to for funsies/out of boredom).

This year had also given me time to reflect on what has happened over the last couple of years and begin to accept/come to terms with the shit and good times. Looking forward, I want to start to move this blog on and write more. I've started keeping a regular journal and have been writing for the sake of writing again. I used to believe that I didn't have a creative bone in my body, but it seems writing may be my outlet....

I've been thinking about what I want this blog to be and what I want to share/write about. Mental health advocacy, body positivity, and feminism seem to be topics that play a big role in my life. (as well as food and animal rights, but it turns out, I'm not that passionate about food.... its just when you restrict it for so long, it becomes a much bigger part of your life that it actually is...)

I'll see where this goes, but it is what it is and hopefully I'll still be a queer medic on adventures.. (well I'm still bi/queer.... it's whether or not I'm a medic that bothers me)

Anxiety and Alcohol - No, that Cannot be a Slogan Tee

Hands up if anyone has ever been more worried about the rebound anxiety following a night out then the hangover the morning after?

That's me 85% of the time...

The last couple of months have been spent in lock down for revision, so I've not been too indulgent on the old booze front... I have however noticed a marked increase in my anxiety the day after a night of drinking.

 I have started to take the time to check in with myself more and I'm becoming more aware of my feelings and anxieties. I've also been in therapy and partaking in some more self care over the last couple of months, so maybe I'm able to draw these patterns because I am more in sync with me... who knows?

This increase can be anywhere from an increased heart rate to an higher incidence of panic attacks. I don't know if this change in my mental state is directly influenced by the alcohol from the night before because it doesn't appear to be dose dependent (shout out to the Bradford Hill Criteria).

A few cocktails with friends the other night (2.5 max) made me a total nervous wreck the next day. I had my first panic attack in 3 months and was incredibly on edge for the rest of the day. However 4 pints just left me with a groggy head and sleepy the next day...

Luckily, the effects seem to only last as long as a typical hangover (36 hours tops), so it's not like it is triggering a total relapse into agitated depression (thank fuck....).  It is still a bit of a kick in the teeth for people with anxiety. I can only speak from my experience, but alcohol is my main crutch for dealing with social situations and is used by the majority of my friends to unwind after a tough week.

I feel stuck between a rock and hard place. I want to drink because cocktails and wine are lush, I want to have a good time with friends, and it takes the edge off the social aspect of my generalised anxiety. I also know that if I do drink, I have to deal with the aftershock the next morning (most people get a hangover, which is a pain, but not as stigmatised as having a panic attack on the bus on uni...).

My depression is slightly less affected by drinking (at least in the immediate term,  in the longer term, cause and effect can get a bit blurry). I couldn't find any hard evidence in the medical literature, but anecdotally I feel this is a recognised connection.

If anyone reads this, it would be nice to get some of your experience regarding rebound anxiety.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Twigger Warning - In this post I will talk about my eating disorder, just a heads up there. 

Ah, lets take a step back from the trainwreck that is my love life, and I'm going to get real with you. I've fallen back into some restrictive patterns of eating in the last 3 weeks. I have be subsisting on around 1100-1300 calories a day and it fucking well sucks. I have had no energy, and I've not been able to run, or cycle, or do any of the activities I enjoy.

I have relapsed enough to recognize now when I am falling back onto old patterns, and I am beginning to see the things that tend to trigger my relapses.

We had a formative assessment, and I needed/wanted to do well in it (even though the rest of my year likes to play the, "I've done nothing card", no medical student means that - I did do well though, 1st decile). Since GCSE's, I have used restricting food to show how disciplined I am when it comes to my body and therefore my studies (ILLOGICAL, I know) .

I had also noticed some weight gain around my hips and stomach that made me uncomfortable. Any hint of weight gain or bloating send me into a spiralling cycle of guilt and shame about how I could let my body get like this.  A jacket I had bought last spring, when I was very ill, no longer did up and a skirt that had onced bagged around my waist was constricting and awkward to wear. I'm aware that when I bought these clothes, I was quite poorly, yet the fact I no longer can wear them feels like I have lost control of that thinness of myself. That thinness became an outward symbol of my self control and worth. (I felt cleaner when I was boney, willowy and beautiful - I was weak, and could barely finish my longer runs and wasn't sleeping, but hey, you could count my ribs!)

The lowest point for me last year was when I went Summer Ball dress shopping with my Mum. It should have been a happy day of mother-daughter bonding, but my Mum was just very concerned for me and I didn't understand why. It wasn't until I was trying on size 6 dresses in Topshop that hung off me that I may have started to see that I had a problem again.

I have made the conscience decision that I don't want to get to that point again, and I don't want to do that to my family and friends. I have put the ill fitting clothes away, and hopefully my mum can make some money selling them online. Removing them from my wardrobe is not admitting defeat, but it is understanding that those clothes were never meant to fit my body (well not the functioning version of it).

My aim is to get my uptake back to 1800 and reintroduce exercise into my schedule when I feel ready to. I miss the thrill of running and cycling up the final hill back to my flat, and no bloody relapse is going to stop me when I have worked so hard to get here now.

First Dates - Covent Garden Mr Bond?

My second, first date was with Beth (again, not her real name, but I will work through the complete cast of The L Word for codename inspiration),

I met Beth is real life! Like not over an app!  Now, calm down, all this interpersonal contact irl is not usually my forte, but three double vodka and diet cokes turns me into a right social butterfly. We met at UCL's LGBT Christmas party, Glitteris (yes, it was as amazing as it sounds, there was glitter everywhere, I was finding it on my person for days after).

I'm on the left, with my main babe K

Beth in a PhD student at SOAS, (which is a university very close to UCL in London for the people who live outside the London bubble). We were both rather tipsy, and I though she looked very cool.... like I'm punching here cool.

I've yet to perfect my girl pulling skills. I had them pretty down on lock with blokes, well when they are drunk, there is no challange! We got chatting, but I'm a little fuzzy on the details....We eventually exchanged Facebook info (oh the romance) and then I promptly went home to collapse into a pile of inebriation.

We arranged to meet for dinner and a movie (classic), the next Friday. There were the standard first date butterflies, but she was really straight forward in texting, no games which is always appreciated! She did have an odd fascination with my dissection sessions, and may have made some slightly creepy jokes about embalmed brains....and bringing one with me in my bag....(should have probably been a warning sign).

The first part of the evening was spent walking around Covent Garden and Soho in general. Conversation was good, standard first date small talk, but we just didn't click. It also turned out that she was a Tory, which isn't a deal breaker in itself, but her opinions on Conservative economic policies kinda made it imposable for us to have a serious relationship (I joke, the chemistry wasn't there way before that bombshell was dropped).

We did have a lovely meal at Jamie's Pizza Place in Covent Garden, and we both loved the new James Bond film ....

Dinner on a first date is a bit of a risky one for me, what with the eating disorder recovery lark and being veggie. As long as they aren't super fussy or restrictive and don't argue with me about my right to be veggie, then it can be okay-ish. Beth was fine about it all, so luckily that wasn't a problem! :)



Can we take a moment to appreciate the gorgeous Lea Seydoux... ok, all good (Funny side note - we went to the Leicester Square cinema to see the Bond film, the same day as the new Star Wars film came out! Nothing sets the scene for a romantic evening like 200 Ewoks)  

It was all in all a nice evening, but no real attraction or spark. It was just nice, you know? The feeling must have been pretty mutual and after we parted ways after the movies, neither of us texted, so we both ghosted each other out.

I did however, have a major revelation on this date... When you are dating a girl, and you need a break to gather your thoughts, you can't escape to the bathroom like you can with a dude. Is it the universal law that girls need to go to the bathroom at the same time or something?! It seems like a really obvious thing, but it was a total revelation to my baby lesbian brain....

First Dates - Christmas Market

Since coming out in December, I have been dipping my toes into the dating pool/Tinder game. I've dated guys before of course ... well, I got drunk in clubs,  and made out with them, but that counts, right?

Anyway, dating is weird. Most of my dates are first dates, which are probably the oddest of all. One of my best friends E, likes to remind me of a friend of her's, who knew someone that went on a Tinder date and had their organs stolen. None of my first dates have been that level of strange (yet). In fact, on the whole they have been okay, but never really wow enough to warrant a second.

I like to arrange first dates that are fun and a little bit special. That way, if it all goes tits up, at least I got to do something cool. For example, going to a market or museum, or seeing a movie I've been meaning to watch.  This dating lark is just a bit bizarre when you actually stop to think about it. You have about 2 hours to determine if this stranger is a person you want to spend extended periods of time with. Also, is this a person you fancy? How can you measure the chemistry required to spark a relationship in the first 2 hours of meeting someone? How many conversations about your hobbies/favorite music can you have before you just get bored of it yourself?! I'm now at the point where I want to start making shit up I'm so bored of my mundane life.

"Hey, so like, I enjoy going pond dipping in the Thames. Found lots of cool stuff. Like last week, I found a headless rocking horse. I like to rock it while listening to harmonica vinyls." Honestly though, if I have to explain my love for running one more time......

My first, first date with a girl was in December. It was before I had come out to my Mum, but I had already come out to my friends. For the purpose of this article, I shall call her Jenny (not her real name obviously, I'm not a dickhead).

We met on Tinder, naturally, and she went to Goldsmiths University. She studied sociology and was kinda cool in a wavy, edgy way. I am not that cool in anyway, I get excited about patient interviews and geology. We arranged to go to the Christmas Market at the Southbank Centre (very cute and festive, and busy.... I wanted to keep all my organs)

I showed up 30 minutes early, because I was anxious about being late, and about it being my first "gay" date I guess (and I just get anxious about pretty much anything). I thought the best way to calm those nerves was to show up obscenely early and just kinda panic on location. Jenny was 30 minutes late....

Yeah, that is a big turn off for me, I am early to most things (I even set my watch 5 minutes fast just to be careful, I  did preface this piece by admitting I am not cool). It was about 7.30 by the time we met at Waterloo Station.

We seemed to get on well with the small talk and I let her lead the way to the market because I had no idea where I was going, I was too far south/out of my comfort zone. We went through the basics; our courses, family, feminism, growing up. We eventually got to the market by The Globe, to find it had closed at 6. Winning! There was another market back by the London Eye, so we headed back in that direction. (anyone who knows London knows that it is about a 20 minute walk, so by this point we had been out in the fuck freezing for 40 minutes....). It may not have been the best start to the date, but walking and talking is a little bit easier than looking directly at someone over a table, and least there is no pressure for consistent eye contact

Jenny was really chatty and easy to get on with, and I think there was a bit of a spark (or at least some attraction), but I didn't want to push it. I was, and still am a baby lesbian and have no idea how to "do lesbianism". Being in my medic bubble doesn't help either, when people ask about my day, they probably don't expect me to recount a day spent in the anatomy lab holding a brain or spending  hours in the library.... bit of a mood killer. It can also be a bit tough relating to non scientific people. Not to perpetuate the isolated medic stereotype, but it can be hard when our university experiences are so different.

We got to the other market and each got a mug of hot cider. At this point, I had frozen my tits off and was in desperate need of warming up. (we paid a deposit on the mugs, so naturally pinched them). We huddled around the fires they had laid out in the center of the market and continued to small talk about student life and laugh about the struggles of adulting. I did laugh that night, she had a great sense of humour and a lovely smile/way about her.

It must have been a good night for dates at the market, because huddled with us around the fire were plenty of other couples. One lovely, if a bit drunk, couple were worried the fire was going to go out (it probably wasn't but they were too funny fussing over it). Jenny found an abandoned copy of the Evening Standard on the floor, and threw it on the fire. The drunk couple thought this was hilarious and started ranting about, "those damn Tories". Jenny and I couldn't agree more and happily burnt the fascist rag. (That is another thing, I can't date a Tory, it has generally served me well as a litmus test for relationships)

The evening ended with us walking further down to the London Eye and sitting together on a bench. I wanted to lean in for a kiss, but was too shy and not sure if that was how this worked. Coming out has been like hitting reset on puberty again for me. It's like I'm 14 again and have completely forgotten how attraction and dating and feels work.... I didn't hear from Jenny again, but I will remember our date together fondly (well can't really forget about it when you publish a blog post on it...). She will always be my first "gay" date and my first Tinder date, so if our paths ever cross again, I shall let her know (but dear God no, I would never refer her to this post.....).

Oh, So Am I Supposed to Adult Now? How to Fresher

I am going to assume you have Facebook, and that if you do, you have had it for more than a year. If my (wild) assumptions are correct, you have probably come across your, “Memories from this day, x years ago”. Insert embarrassing selfie or irrelevant status update about the X-Factor cira 2007.  It’s a hilarious way to see how far you have come and how some things stay the same. For example, I have a tendency to go full Miley Cyrus in photos and stick my tongue out in an attempt to make my face look less awkward.

Nope...still awkward (I'm the one on right, the blonde one, circa 2015) 

Something that I didn’t post on Facebook, but happened a year ago nevertheless, was my first full blown panic attack. Stuff like this doesn’t get posted on Facebook. God forbid anyone actually vocalised struggling to fit into university, or having an anxiety disorder, or just not really coping with life. Let us all just post pictures of diners out and holidays instead,  with our rose tinted, social media experience glasses on….

I’m going to get real here, so brace yourselves for the truth you already know!

Last year, I underwent the universal, but unspoken fresher realisation. It dawned on me,during my panic attack, while laying in the fetal position outside my room in halls, that I had no fucking idea what I was doing, why I was doing it, and if I was even going to survive the rest of the year.

I realized then that I was a tiny speck of space dust in the enormous universe. My perfectionism that got me through A Levels stood no chance against the torrent of work coming my way in medical school. I left my 6th Form with 2 A* and an A at A Level. I had completed the EPQ, and got an A* in that too. I had worked a part time job for 3 years, had a car, and could quote verbatim the first series of The Mighty Boosh. I thought I was pretty damn smart and adulty.

As it turns out though, everyone at medical school has 3 A*’s (or 4, or 5 - show offs). What’s more, they have also travelled the world, had a gap year working in an orphanage, and delivered a baby while blindfolded on a hot air balloon, juggling knives (that might be hyperbole, but you get the idea).

My message to the hyperstressed, pole up my arse fresher I was last year would be;

“You are just a little fish in a big pool, and you’re no longer the smartest in the class. At best, you’re just keeping your head above the water. But that doesn’t matter, because at the end of the day, you’re probably a decent human being if you pull your head from up your arse”.

There is no real preparation for university in 6th Form or college (I can’t speak for gap year students, I was a proper baby fresher). No matter how organised or prepared you think you are, there will be a point in first term when you are neck deep in lecture notes, hungover/still drunk, and wondering why you ever thought you could do this lark.

Nowhere else in polite society is it reasonable to get 6 hours sleep over 3 days, and to have spent 50 hours of those 66 “lucid” hours drunk. This becomes a coping mechanism for many, myself included last year.

DO NOT DESPAIR! It does get better, (or you give less of a shit, either/or). You come to the conclusion that comparing yourself to other people on your course is pointless, and that the pass mark is only 53%. You no longer crave the first decile, and are more than happy to just bloody pass.

As a wise 2nd year, and someone who has been through the cogs of dealing with an anxiety disorder and perfectionism, I compiled a list of things to help the ever nervous fresher to calm the fuck down (with the insight of my fabulous friends, naturally).

1. Medicine is hard! Cut yourself some slack! Other courses do not like medics, deal with it. Yes their work is difficult too, but they don’t truly understand, just like you can’t really understand their workload. Don’t let people guilt trip you into doing more or less work than you feel you need to (unless they are an older year medic and can fill you in on the stuff likely to come up in exams, than scribe that shit in stone).  
2. You don’t have to go out every night, just because you are an “adult” and can do anything you want, doesn’t mean you should. By all means, 3 nights a week is cool, and you might as well do it while you’re 18 year old self can, but again, push back against the peer pressure! (Self pressure is real too. Accept the guilt that comes with the internal questions of, “Should I be having fun? Am I having enough fun? Is this fun? What is the correct quantifiable scale for the level of fun I am supposed to be feeling? ect......)
3. Find your squad! Once you have found your squad, anoint them with gold, and tell them daily that they are fucking princesses. Let them know how much they mean to you, and that you always have their back (not only at 2am, when you are all drunk and everyone is just the loveliest person evvvvaaaa!) . Your squad may not be the first friends you make at university, but once you have created your perfect gang, they are probably going to be your crew for life. I could write a whole other piece on how my friends have kept me sane, so I will save elaboration for another time! 
   
4. Get some non-medic hobbies and friends. It helps to keep perspective. It also helps you to remember that discussing dissection over lunch is not normal, and that your medic friends and you look proper weird when you do it at dinner. Also, having something fun to do besides study makes study time more focused and the break refreshes you.

This kind of fluffy self care stuff can easily be dismissed. A bit like the dating advice your Mum gives you. You know, the, “I don’t like the look of them, they will break your heart”(In reference to the Year 13, with a Ford Feista and an ASBO who you think is the shit.). You know deep down she is right, but you only admit it once he has cheated on you and drunk all your vodka.

Fresher year is that guy, so keep yourself safe, and don’t let anyone near your vodka.

seriously though, drinks close, but friends closer 

Why Be Anyone Else But Me? My Coming Out Story

Trigger Warning (I don’t know if I have to do this, but just a heads up) - there is swearing, mention of my suicide attempt, and hints at an abusive relationship

Why would a liberal, educated, open minded girl, surrounded by really supportive friends have any trouble coming out in 2015? I honestly do not know, but I didn’t feel able to come out, even to myself until December last year, and the age of 20.

Saying that, I never really hide my queerness that well. I’ve had a pixie cut (and at times a fully shaved head), since I was 16. I also fulfil many of the lazy stereotypes given to “dykes”. So much so, when a volunteer training programme I was working with, ran an exercise busting homosexual stereotypes, everyone looked at me, than down at the pictures they drew of the “perfect dyke”. (I was dressed in a very particular way that day granted… but to illustrate the point, I was wearing combat boots, a tight black mini skirt, a ripped vest with a half naked Bettie  Page, and my shaved hair was dyed purple….). I do not think a person’s sexuality can be presumed by their dress sense, I just happen to fall so far on one side of  the style spectrum, that I almost look like a parody of myself sometimes.       

Anyway, I digress, because even at that time, when everyone else had presumed I was gay, I was still so firmly in the closet that I was fighting Mr. Tumnus for some turkish delight.

Growing up, I had crushes on girls, and some boys too. Because when you are young a puberty hasn’t totally pummeled any sense of self you thought you had, a crush kinda feels like you can’t spend enough of this other person, and that they are really cool and make your tummy do funny knotty twisting things. There is no sexual strange stuff involved, it is just innocent.

Throughout primary school, I played princesses with my girlfriends, and made up dance routines to Hannah Montana and High School Musical songs. I also played cops and robbers with the boys, learned how to wrestle, and play basketball.I read a lot, enough to be seen as a bit weird for reading so much, but I was an only child, so most people thought I would grow out of it.  Ambitions in primary school were low, mainly to get GCSE’s and get married before your tits started to sag, or failing that, to  become a teacher or health care assistant like the majority of girls from my primary school (some managed to blag a bloke and go to university - well one that I know and we are very good friends even now).

High school was a pretty big shit storm of angst, Impulse body spray, and a constant war with these bloody hormones that kept giving me more boobs than I wanted, and making me want to kiss my best friend at the time P (not her real name obviously, that wouldn’t be fair). P wasn’t the first girl I crushed on, but she was the first one where I became acutely aware of the fact that I liked her more than a friend. I pegged this whole phenomenon down to hormones, those bloody things. They made people do all sorts of weird thing, I had read Judy Blume books, I knew that stuff was basically witchcraft.  

Around about the same time, I starting going on avatar chat gamey things….you know the ones where you make a cartoon version of yourself and then are able to chat to people without having to leave your room or put on normal people clothes (perfect for a slightly overweight girl with glasses, braces and acne that felt like a smite from God at the time - I really enjoyed my teenage years, can you tell yet).

On these sites, I could be anyone that I wanted to be. That just so happened to be a curvy, queer emo chick who was really horny and just wanted to buy the most circa 2007 goth clothes for my avatar, and have strange lesbian online avatar sex. Please bear in mind, I was still convinced that I was not gay, just experimenting, I couldn’t be gay, could I?

My minor sexual revolution of 2007-2008 passed without me taking any real life action to getting a date with either gender, and I buckled down to my studies. I am from a little sea-side town in the south of England that’s population consists of the retired walking dead, and chavs.

I say this with the highest affection for my home town, but it’s main attractions include a Butlins, the bingo hall, and a nightclub on the pier that is so old, my mum was their 13th member. I was determined to leave my little town which Jeremy Clarkson so eloquently christened the, “skid mark of the South Coast”, and the only way I could see how to, was to go to university.

My high school was not all to friendly to anyone who was brave enough to come out whist still in the lower school (years 7-11). One boy in the year below me even transfered school due to the bullying he received following him coming out. I, however held firm in the knowledge that I was not a lesbian, I just didn’t have the time to commit to a relationship at the moment. And anyway, who wants to peak in high school. I was more concerned with passing my GCSE’s, than my AS levels. *sinks further back into Narnia, so far back, I can get a cup of tea off Mr and Mrs Beaver - no pun intended*

My family, on the other hand, were very concerned (bless them) by my lack of sexual interest in the opposite sex. By the time I was 17, all of my cousins were in long term relationships (lasting longer than 6 months, even my cousins who are younger than me...). My poor mother was embarrassed by her celibate studious daughter. No one really cares if you got 6 A’s at AS level if you can’t bring home a bloke to show off to the rest of your family.

Our family all live within 5 minutes of each other, so a small family gathering is at least 20 (including partners, kids, and dogs). Unfortunately, by the time you turn 17, it is unacceptable to bring a book to such family gatherings in lieu of a significant other, and you therefore have to interact with your loved ones.  

My Mum found the perfect solution to her odd daughter’s lack of lip locking. On my cousin A’s 18th birthday, my industrious mother bribed A’s boyfriends mate to kiss me (lucky me). To be fair, I was 17, almost 18, and like a good British teen, was sozzled off my face. The whole experience was an odd blur, which ended with him going for a smoke, me following and chatting nonsense about the tidal rivers in the local area (he had lost his car in one earlier that week, he was a real catch, bless him).

The whole thing was in front of my immediate family, and would have been more embarrassing if my other younger cousin hadn’t than vomited all over the carpet and was promptly taken home, ending the party.

Family now assured of my straightness, I went on to complete my last year on 6th form uninterrupted by such follies as boys (or girls). I had A Levels to pass and the minor inconvenience of getting into university to contend with.

That summer though,after exams, the pressure was back on. My Mum (bless her…) was deeply concerned that I was going to university a virgin (the horror!). I assured her that I was straight, I wanted the D, but I just didn’t have the time! I mean come on, I was taking 3 A Levels, working a part time job, volunteering at a hospital, and training for a half marathon! It was almost as though I was trying to distract myself from the massive crush I had on the hipster girl with the amazing eyebrows in year below.  

I did lose my virginity that summer, to a boy who was really not that nice. He was just there, and I used him as much as he used me to be fair. I knew that I would leave for university and would probably never see him again. We were both aware of the situation at the end of the day,  so it wasn’t too upsetting. My Mum could also rest easy knowing that I was just a bit of an oddball, but heterosexual (thank God), and she was still going to have grandchildren.

I did get into a good university (UCL), studying my dream course (Medicine). This was what I had worked so hard for since GCSE’s and I was off to London to have adventures, learn  lots, and possibly wear black turtleneck sweaters whilst discussing deep and important things (I never watched Hollyoaks or other youth centered TV shows, and thought university would be like when Rory went to Yale in Gilmore Girls).

My dreams were soon shattered with the realities of fresher week and after spending the night in hospital (not my proudest moment, and it made me swear off alcohol for a WHOLE 2 weeks). This time did however give me a chance to prove to myself, my new friends, and my Mum how bloody straight I was! I would make it a mission of mine to make out with as many blokes as possible in a night, often loosing count. I went from fumbled half relationship to the other until I settled with an American exchange student for 7 months.

This all sounds like a blast, but it was probably one of the crappiest parts of my short life (I am totally aware that I am only 20 now, and shit can get a lot worst in the future, but let’s just  call this the crappiest part of my life so far). I had developed anxiety like I had never known before, lost a stone and a bit in weight, and was sleeping about 3-4 hours a night. My boyfriend at the time wasn’t a bad guy, he just had a tendency to project his insecurities onto me, telling me I had to lose weight, or wear more makeup to look better (gross I know, but I was finally in a long term relationship, what my Mum had always wanted/was worried I would never find).      

During these first few months before I got myself a ‘proper boyfriend’, I was promiscuous (eww, there is nothing wrong with exploring your sexuality if it is consensual and safe, enough said), but the more sex I was having with these guys, they more empty I felt. Even just kissing them felt so vapid. I should have known then that  if the sex is really doing so little for you that you are revising for an anatomy spot test you have the next day, than you are barking up the wrong tree (I did however pass first year in the top 20% of my year, so all that disappointing sex must have been good for something!).

H (let’s call him H), had some mental health problems of his own to sort out, and when it came time for him to leave for America, he threatened to harm himself if I ever broke up with him. At this point I felt trapped and had my darkest/stupidest moment. I took 14 of the sleeping pills I used to get just get sleep on a normal night in the hope they would make it all end. They didn’t because they were over the counter herbals that you can get for £3 in Superdrug, I can laugh about it know because it is honestly one of the most pathetic cries for help ever, and looking back on it, I probably would just slap myself and tell me to “drink up fresher, you big tit”. I am also now aware of the irony of a medical student who can’t even OD properly.  

H did leave, and we did break up, he also didn’t hurt himself. Let’s just leave that story for another time.

I never left those  relationships with a clear conscience. All of them left me feeling like a complete arsehole. I didn’t really have any deep romantic feelings for the guys I was seeing. I liked them as friends, and cared about them, but that was pretty much it. Stringing them along because I was going through the motions of a what a relationship should be like felt too cruel, and left me with a lot of guilt.   

Through all of this, I still didn’t accept that I was gay! I was in a relationship with a beard for 7 months for fucks sake! (beard in this setting being a term used in the gay community to describe a person you are dating to hide your gayness)

It wasn't until 6 months later, whilst having a series of very sexy dreams about girls, and finally being so unhappy with myself, that I sat down and decided to sort this mess out.

At this time I was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. I was sleeping 9-10 hours a night (it doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was more than I have ever done in my life), and had lost motivation for my course, for looking after myself, and had generally become a fucking great bore.

I than thought fuck it. SImply as that, f-u-c-k i-t. I am gay, I fancy girls. I want to kiss and hold another lady body. I want to do NSFW things to this other lady body and I was fed up of having to keep all that inside. And you know what, since coming out, I have never felt fucking better.   

None of that really explains why I found it so difficult to accept the fact that I am a lesbian. I shows a lifetime of denial and suppression of my true feeling, but not really why I felt I had to behave in that way. One of the big reasons I stayed with the christmas presents, deep in the closet, was because I was afraid of disappointing my Mum. She was a single parent, with only one child. I was her one chance of having grandchildren (have have since explained that in a lesbian couple, there are two uteruses, and hence, I am doubling her chances). She had watched her 2 sisters raise children who were all “normal” and had settled with partners. Thier children all had proper jobs, and weren’t pissing it up in London as my grandparents put it.  

My Mum was never outright homophobic, but she expressed that she didn’t think same sex marriage should be a thing. Homophobic jokes were often passed around the dinner table at large family gatherings, which created an environment that was caustic to any kind of discussion about sexuality in a healthy way.

I, however, finally came to a breaking point where I couldn’t hold it in any more, for fear of properly losing my marbles. So, I pulled on my big girl pants and came out to anyone who would listen. I started with my beautiful, liberal friends at university, than I tested the water with a few other people on my course. Finally I got very drunk one evening and told my mum over the phone(like the great big coward that I am), that I was dating girls.

Having come out to my mum now, she is slowly adapting to the idea. I too, am still coming to terms with this new confidence I have in being myself. Not saying that I have changed my personality in any way. I, as a person, am so much more than my sexuality. I am; a vegetarian, a red wine drinker, a geology fanatic, a Mighty Boosh watching, blue haired (at the moment), book reading, running kook. The fact that I now want to drink from the hairy goblet…(one of the more PC jokes my family presented me with this Christmas) doesn’t change any of these things.

This is not some end game, I will learn new things about myself all the time, just like any other person does. Do I like dragon fruit? Will I ever overcome my fear of boats? Does green hair ever look good with red lipstick? There are so many things to learn about!

So I end this with a quote from the fabulous Judy Garland (because I love a good cliche),

“ Always be a first rate version of yourself and not a second rate version of someone else”