Wikipedia will tell you that the Welsh word Hiraeth has no direct translation, but that the University of Wales, Lampeter (that’s right, the best Uni in the world) attempts to define it as “a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, and the earnest desire for the Wales of the past”. I’m not sure that, as a non-Welsh girl, I’m allowed to claim to feel this, but I will claim it nonetheless. Maybe it’s the childhood holidays I spent in Wales, with English grandparents, but Welsh cousins. We’d stay up ‘late’ at night, playing Red Indians (we were non-PC back then) and creating Pagan rituals to the moon. This was, I’m sure, an invention of my beautiful cousin’s – she has always been so very creative, so very romantic… so very Welsh!
Maybe it was the years I spent living there through University. I had never felt so entirely comfortable with any group of people, so utterly accepted. There was something beautiful and very special about living in such a small space, being known by almost everyone you passed. Even now, I know it annoys the Husband and the other ‘spouses’ when we all get together and all we can talk about are the glory days of our student youth. I think it’s unusual how many of us are still in touch, but that might just be what happens when you’re thrown so viciously into such a tiny and incestuous group. I count many of these people as family, even if – when I meet them for drinks these days – I can’t actually remember what it is that they do for a living.
Or maybe it’s that there really is just something magical about Wales.

I spent the last week in Wales. First, staying with Mummy Wordman in her haunted house in Llangollen. I’m always disappointed when I don’t see ghosts. I’m a true believer (I subscribe to the Fortean Times for Gawd’s sake) and yet they don’t come visit me. I can only assume this is because they don’t, in fact, exist. Which didn’t stop me from being freaked out when, after a fairly sleepless night, I asked Wordman and Bee if there were ghosts in the house and they just looked at each other and said “Do you really want to know?”. I had to drink an awful lot of wine to get the courage up to go and sleep alone in a room that has two doors (Where does the other one go? I’m told it’s just a cupboard, but I’m not so sure).

Cherry Tree. Imagine being able to leave your house and walk mere metres before you find yourself on a mountain. Wake up in the morning and hear nothing but the birds and the breeze in the trees. Make tea by the Aga, collect the coal from the shed, sit by a roaring fire all day. This is a life I dream of. I nearly moved in permanently. There is a kind of poetry around mountains, it gets in your lungs.

[I want to write about the Little Man who makes me smile so. How we played NeeNaws in the cushions, how he learned to say my name and melted my heart, how he dragged me round the house with a hose putting out fires, how he giggled as I turned him upside down, how tickly his tummy is, how much I love him. But he makes me gushing and silly, so I won’t.]

After Llan, we travelled back to Ponty for Wordman’s birthday. It seems to have become a tradition; the same people watching the rugby on his birthday. Maybe it was a tradition before I knew him again and got invited. Last year, Cardiff were playing away, so I was totally unprepared for Cardiff on a Match Day. The sheer number of people was dizzying, even for a Londoner like me. Everywhere you looked there were people in their Rugby shirts, the pubs were rammed, you could get your face painted on the streets. Noise, excitement, laughter… and none of the worry that at some point someone will get stabbed. It was a Wales / Ireland game. The only time I’ve ever seen two opposing teams so happily drinking (and singing!) together.
We watched the match in the Rugby club next to the Stadium, so that we could hear the roars. I wore a borrowed Lions shirt, and tried not to speak too loudly in my English accent. Later, I was amazed to find myself being dragged away from talking to men in a club. “It wasn’t like that!” I protested, “we were talking about the problems that arise from teaching Religion in such a multicultural environment as London, or whether the early-nineties really were a fashion minefield – he wasn’t chatting me up!”. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that this is the way Welsh men chat you up. It is a big step up from “Oi! Wanna snog?!” – which is all I remember from my brief single years in London. (but easier to avoid, if you are – like I am – happily married!). Even I, though, recognised that being hoisted over the shoulders of a gentleman who then called for a taxi, was probably a pick-up. But, then, I deserved it for telling him how much I liked Gingers… And even he was smiling.

[Note to the Husband: None of them was as lovely as you, I promise]

People talk to you in Wales. They smile and greet you as you walk past them on country roads. The women in cafes call you ‘love’ or ‘bach’ (which always reminds me of the Best Friend – who so loved hearing it). People stop in the street to catch up, because they all know each other. Everywhere there is laughter and song and history.

They voted Yes. I think it was a good thing.

Spring. It’s definitely here today. And with it, comes a renewed desire to live. Maybe I’ve spent so long at rock bottom that I’m finally rested enough to start to pick myself up. Or maybe it’s the dawning realisation that no one else is doing anything remotely useful to aid my recovery (by that I mean professionally, not personally – I am surrounded by beautiful people) so it’s down to me to get back on my feet and pull the broken parts of my soul back together again.

Whatever, I feel good today. There is hope. I even caught myself singing out loud!

At the weekend, some beautiful flower fairy sent me some narcissi (or little daffodils) in the post. They had come all the way from the Scilly Isles, and the brilliant burst of yellow really made me smile.

There was no card, though I searched and searched, so I had no idea who they were from. Asking around, I came across many people, who all said “Oh! They’re not from me, but I wish they were!” – there’s a lesson in there for all of us.

After a while, the mystery was solved by my lovely cousin. They had been sent by my Auntie Sally, which was a much lovelier surprise than any of the people I might have suspected. It’s always nice to know that someone is thinking of you.

What is it about prozac that makes me want to cut all my hair off? The first time I was prescribed it, I did this:

I’ve had a fringe before. I was kinda bullied into it by an over-zealous hairdresser, who charged me a stupid amount and then made me cry. It worked, sometimes, but whenever it rained the edges would curl up and my head would resemble a mop – or a dog of some kind. So, really, I think I knew I couldn’t get a fringe again. Least of all because I promised the Husband not to let me do it again because they’re such a pain to grow out.

But, man, I really wanted one.

Luckily, one of my dearest friends is also genderly-misaligned (I think I made up that phrase, I’m still playing around with how to describe it that will most annoy, without being offensive – that’s the way with friends). This means that I can get girly advice whenever I need it without having to talk to girls, which I find almost impossible. So, Wordman (Wordperson?) talked me out of anything too short, too extreme or too difficult to change as soon as I’m back on my feet and maybe not so mental.

Above is the result. I’m a bit nervous about the sweeping side-parting, but hairdressers have been trying to get me to take a side parting for longer than I can remember, so I let her have a go. And she’s lovely, so I trust her.

In other news… Wordgirl (nah, that sounds too much like street slang) has maybe set up a way to leave comments on this site. Which may, or may not, be a good thing. We’ll see…

The final piece of Ramona’s royal robes arrived this morning from Stickerbods. I’ve always had a thing for daisies; I wanted my parents to call LittleSis Daisy, but they wouldn’t. We made daisies a bit of a theme at our wedding, though I thought a daisy chain head-dress might be overkill.

Now, I have the ultimate daisy bicycle. The decals were really easy to use, and look fairly long-lasting. Excellent quality, and what a great way to spend a morning.

Oooh. Isn’t she pretty?! If only I could leave the house…

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I think it’s important to mention from the outset what a staunch supporter of the NHS I am. I have been known to stop lessons – mid powerpoint – to wax lyrical about what a fantastic system it is. To make such grand speeches that it sounds as though I might be trying to whip the students into some sort of ecstatic patriotism about the beauty of free healthcare. I tell them it is the only thing that makes me proud to be British, and that sticks with them since they all read the Daily Mail and fly St George’s flags from their windows. I love the NHS. I love that we have created a workable system to care for those in need. I buy into it one hundred percent and worry for its future.
But.
I went to the doctor in March last year, nearly a year ago. They diagnosed me with depression and put me on the lowest dose of citalopram they could. They sent me away. I went back. They referred me to the hospital for CBT, where I spent two gruesome sessions with a group of people in far worse states than I was and learnt nothing. It didn’t help that the girls running it were several years younger than me and clearly nervous. I think I went into teacher mode, and very soon, they were looking to me for support and encouragement that they were doing a good job, and I was answering all their questions with the answers that I knew were right, because I have read more books on the subject than they can have had time for in their short lives. Don’t give me handouts photocopied from books I read when I was 19.
I went back to the doctors – a different one this time – before December and was given a higher dose. He said he was amazed I’d only been put on 10mg and it was no wonder it was doing no good. No one explained to me what the thought behind any of that was. On the higher dose, I experienced such horrid side effects that I even passed out on one occasion and banged my head pretty hard on the bathroom floor. When I went to them that day, to get them to check me over, no one asked about the medication and I wasn’t in a position to tell them. Surely, if you were checking out an otherwise healthy, young patient after they passed out with no good reason, you would check what medication they were on? Wouldn’t you?
My regular doctor, weeks later, put me down to 10mg again, and sent me away. We didn’t make any plan about when I should return. When I asked, she said “You can come back whenever you want to”. Which was very sweet, but utterly unhelpful.
The Occupational Health nurse I saw in early January asked if I’d ever had blood tests or been referred to a psychiatrist. “No”, I said, despite the fact that I have been seeing different doctors, on and off, for depression since I was 19. She said GPs were pretty useless, all in all, and suggested I go to see a psychiatrist on Harley Street if we could afford it. The Husband and I discussed it. It wasn’t about the money (not at first, though when we looked into it and found that we’d need 4 sessions at nearly £300 each, it wasn’t going to happen anyway), no, it was about the principle of the thing. I don’t go private. We have the Mighty NHS. The NHS that was starting to look a lot like it didn’t really know what it was doing…
The next time I saw the Occupation Health nurse, she was startled to find that I was no better than the last time she had seen me. It was probably made worse by the fact that there was some sort of school trip to the Civic Centre that day, and walking through a group of teenagers had given me the most extreme panic attack I’ve had in a while. She asked if I’d heard back from the counsellor she’d suggested the school pay for. No, I said, I’ve heard nothing from anyone that’s supposed to be helping me in over a month and I’m starting to feel like you’re all working in cahoots behind my back to keep me sick long enough to fire me because secretly everyone hates me. She said I wasn’t well enough to go back to work, and sent me away with no mention of when she would see me again.
It was over a week before the doctor’s had a free appointment time. And then I saw a Locum. I get that part of loving the NHS is accepting its flaws, but when you haven’t been to work for over two months and your medication isn’t doing anything and you start to think you could probably diagnose yourself better using google (Temporal Lobe Epilepsy? A thyroid problem? Bipolar Personality Disorder with hypermania?) you begin to have your doubts.
This doctor gave me a prescription for Prozac, which I know has worked in the past and sent me away telling me to come back in two weeks to be checked on (that wasn’t so hard, was it?).
Curiously, though, I noticed on the computer screen that my diagnosis has changed. Apparently, I am no longer suffering from Depression, no longer Anxiety or Stress. No, what I have is Low Mood. Brilliant. There’s not even anything really wrong with me except that I feel a bit down… which is obviously why I have had nearly a whole half term off work.
There are no quick fixes, the Locum tells me. Yep. Especially if no one else is helping.

“You know what luck is? Luck is believing you’re lucky, that’s all… To hold a front position in this rat-race, you’ve got to believe you are lucky” – Tennessee Williams

I’ve been very open about my illness and the state of my life at the moment. In part, that was an exercise in honesty, a writer’s attempt at not editing herself. In part it was something bigger; I want to take away the stigma attached to mental illness, by making it something it is okay to discuss. And maybe, although I didn’t realise or consciously know, in part it was a cry for help.
To that end, I have been inundated with messages of support and offerings of love. When they come from the people you love and expect to support you, it’s always a little too easy to take them for granted. I know that there are a few people in my life who are constant in their support for me, and who have never knowingly left my side, except – perhaps – to renew their strength before coming back. It is hard supporting someone in their darkest nights; I know, I have done it before. For those people, my nearest and closest, I am always thankful even if I don’t show it enough.
But this post is not about them. This post is about those people who have been in touch who I wouldn’t have expected. The people who I know on facebook but maybe haven’t seen for years. Those friends who were, perhaps, never particularly close, or ones that were very close, but with whom I’d lost any real contact. Those are the people I want to thank here.
Every message that has come into my inbox, even if maybe I couldn’t reply, has been a blessing. They often start “I don’t know what you’re going through, but…” and usually continue to describe the exact kind of pain I’m in, from people who have felt it too. Sometimes, people say “I never knew you felt this way”… that has often been a problem of mine. All of them, are full of such kindness – these people don’t need to write to me, they make a conscious decision to do so, simply to check I’m ok and give me their support. I am very blessed to have met people this beautiful on my journey in life, and I wanted to publicly thank them all.
Thank you.

At some point in the middle of the night, you start to wonder what would happen if you stay up until after dawn. The fact that everyone else is asleep; unless they work nights, or can’t sleep, or have young babies, becomes attractive. You think about the many, different people in the world who are awake at the same time as you. In New Zealand, they’re awake and having a lovely day. It isn’t winter there.
I used to love drinking until the sun came up. I did it many times with many people. I used to love the cold air coming through the open window as I smoked and we talked about why we should all be somewhere else. Sleeping, waking up in our own beds, getting up for lectures… I think I miss those times.
I know it isn’t healthy to stay up so late that it becomes the next day. I know this won’t be helping my recovery. But there’s something so freeing in knowing that you have the control over your life that means you don’t have to go to bed when anyone else tells you to.
I am documenting this because I promised, at the start of this blog, to never edit myself: to always tell the truth. I want to stay up to dawn so I can sleep all day tomorrow. I don’t know why that’s important. Maybe it’s sabotage, maybe it’s self-preservation, maybe it’s the wine.
I wish there were some easy answers.

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