When I was ten I generally wanted Out, and thought I would one day be perfectly alright, and one day a wonderful person would come along who would find the 'happy' switch in my head and fix my whole life. [My mother was a die-hard pro-marriage Tory at this point, so I didn't really get a lot of exposure to any other future when I was a kid. She is now a die-less-hard anti-marriage Tory.] I also thought life would be so much more interesting when I didn't have to sit around pretending I liked television and dolls and not shouting at people who said "you're too young to understand science".

The only thing that's different to what I thought, is that now I know there is no such thing as a brain-mechanic who will magically fix me and make me alright, and that most of the people who allow me to spend time with them will also be broken. I know too now that the only person who can fix me is myself, and other people can only help and not make me more broken. I have found out that other people can help a great deal more than I thought I would ever let them.

Blimey. Do excuse me, I think I was slipped a few drops of talking serum in my tea this morning.