Friday was a good last day until that is, I drunk too much and started feeling rubbish. Because I’d been coping so well with drinking in Italy, I stupidly thought I’d be OK but I’d hardly eaten anything on Friday (except that is, the yummiest chocolate and cream cake you’ve ever had in your whole life) and so I drunk quite a bit (forgetting my light-weightness) and got a bit upset. Although no one knew I was upset so that was a very good thing and as my sister wisely pointed out it could have been so much worse (so, so much worse as past experience shows) and then I felt asleep at the party for two hours until it was time to go home!

I was really cross with myself because I know I can react badly to alcohol and I'm hardly going to see my colleagues again and they’ve been my best friends over the last six months and I should have been spending time with them, not sleeping. They've coped with my mental-ness and crying-ness and splitting-up-with-Henry-ness and encouraged me to go to Australia and all I could do, as usual, is think of myself, get upset and go to sleep.

It would be pretty easy for me to get down at the moment (well not for normal people who’d be thinking what the hell am I complaining about as I’m going to Oz in a month) so I’m just trying to concentrate on the huge progress I’ve made in the last year. Just think about where I was one year ago or nine months ago? Did Oxfam save my life? Or was it Vanessa or Rob or my colleagues or my family or my lovely blog readers or my therapist? Or all of them?

Which actually makes me feel pretty humble that so many people should want to help me and what have I done to deserve all that time and support?

Also, it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve used up a lot of lives. How many lives? It feels like a lot of people have saved me: My geography teacher when I nearly didn't take my A Level History because I had a panic attack; Alice (my art therapist); my mum; my sister; Henry and that's just for starters. But it's also, I think, a pretty good way of depicting my life; lurching from one crisis to the next. That's what I feel it's like being me.

My big thing with my therapist is my underlying/underpinning everything belief I have that if I’m not amazing then I’m a failure. Right now I feel pretty amazing but right on cue my chest has gone all spiky and I cough up blood and I'm starting to get depressed again about my evil, evil scaring acne. (At 29 do you think that maybe spots might, just might have got bored with me? Could I have a break please, just for a bit?)

So it boils down to this: things have been pretty OK for a while and overall there's been good times and happy times and maybe expecting anymore than that is just too much? For me anyway. Maybe I should evaporate or disappear? Right now, if I could transform myself into something else, I would.