Here’s a thing

I know. I said that while we were in Saudi I wouldn’t write. So I’m not. Not about where we are geographically. But where we are in ourselves. I do that. You may have noticed. I think a few of you might have been surprised that I was quite so frank about the recent period with mum. How difficult I found that and how I was prepared to write about it. And I get that. But, for me, this has always been a way to tell the story of our travels while, at the same time, documenting everything else. 

I think it’s fair to say that we’re coming out of a difficult time. Italy and covid, a family issue which is too sensitive to discuss, the kids home from Seoul and our role with looking after Henry (and them), C’s own mental health over that time, then the uproar which was mum’s illness and Bex and Steven travelling to Saudi on their own, Henry becoming frighteningly unwell just before we were due to fly to Riyadh (which in the end was just an infection that he fought without recourse to a doctor, but at the time felt much worse), then here, where C has been unwell and restrictions, which we were aware of before we came, placed upon us.

But C is feeling better. We have got a grip of Uber. We have established a routine which works for all of us. And, as of yesterday, we have a really exciting plan in place for the next six months.   

Mental health is a broad term. Some people find it uncomfortable to use, and are uncomfortable discussing it. Most recognise that people can become v unwell if the brain fails to work sensibly. Mental illness can kill you. It can make you take your own life, something which is unfathomable to most of us. It can make you do and say things you wouldn’t ordinarily want to. It can make you inert. Or it can send you into a mad frenzy. And, a point a lot of us reject, it can affect any of us. And it can come out of the blue.

I suppose the most contentious issue is the delineation between depression and sadness. Between not being able to cope and not wanting to cope. That ‘in my day’ you just got on with it. And that today there’s too much emphasis on wellbeing … too many allowances given to people who should just stiffen up, and soldier on. Doubtless there is some truth in that. That, for some who feel mentally overawed, they might benefit from a gentle shake of the shoulders. A bit of a talking to about how fortunate they are and told not to be quite so introspective. I recognise that.  

But I also know for sure that it’s not that easy … that is, it’s neither easy to know who would benefit from a pep talk, nor it is easy to know who actually has mental health issues and is in need of clinical help because they are hiding it so well. As we know, it’s not like having a broken leg where you can see the bone sticking out through the skin. So if you can’t see it, surely the answer is to offer those suffering the benefit of the doubt? If they look ragged, let’s assume that they are and self help won’t work on its own. What else is there to do?

I’m not going to expose my own family (although I am going to talk about myself) other than to say that C is a brilliant ‘get through it’ merchant. She has always suffered from anxiety and confidence issues. And she has covered those really well, recently with the help of some readily available prescription medicine. But that doesn’t stop her from feeling desperate at times. The last couple of months was one of those times. When it happens she needs space and time (which was v difficult to administer this summer) and, and I’ve never known her not do this, she clambers out of the well and gets on with life. I really admire her tenacity – as I really sense how desperate she feels when she’s unwell. 

Me, then. Looking back, I think I’ve had two episodes. First was my last year working at the school. I was a deputy head responsible for staff and the cocurricular programme. I had a 75% timetable and, over a period of time, I had taken on a number of other responsibilities which I felt needed attending to. And I loved it. Then it became clear there was a senior member of staff who needed leadership coaching. I volunteered for the guardroom and, over a period of three months, worked v closely with that person. I wouldn’t say I was doing their job, but I was involved in much of the decision making. The problem was I knew that there was only one way to move forward. And it was a seismic solution. But I couldn’t make it happen. Not in a way that wouldn’t result in lots of unwelcome fallout. 

It got to the point where, for about a week, it was too much. I didn’t want to go into work. No … I couldn’t face going into work. It was too big an issue. I couldn’t rely on the support I needed. I was twitchy. Unsure of myself. Distracted. I was close to giving up. I was close to not getting out of bed. So, one day, I dragged myself into work and wrote a long email to my boss telling her that I had failed. That I couldn’t do it anymore. That, without a change, I was in real danger of going under. The email sat on my computer, waiting to be sent. It was a Saturday morning. I remember it vividly. I twitched. And then the person I was coaching breezed into the office, stuttered and then burst into tears. They offered me the solution I was seeking. The one that was best for everyone. The one I couldn’t articulate without causing other issues. But they could. 

The email was left unsent. The solution was accepted and a weight was lifted from me. (And, I strongly believe, the person I was coaching was in a much better place.)

That happened at the end of my formal career and I wished I had experienced it earlier. I would have known what it must be like for ten of thousands of people who drag themselves into work everyday facing what they feel are insurmountable problems. And how awful that feels. And how close they are to jacking it all in … not getting out of bed. How their brain is masking the issue, but only just. They are left disconnected and jittery. 

The second time was at mum’s, recently. I don’t need to rehearse what C and I were going through because I’ve documented it here before. I felt awful. I was v distracted … and exhausted. But, particularly, I didn’t want to visit mum in the home. I hated it. I knew it would be awful. I knew there would be unkind words. And I didn’t want to be exposed to that. On top of that I couldn’t see how it was going to get better. There was a longevity to the problem which gnawed at me. Some people might have been able to ignore it. To push it to the back of their minds. But I couldn’t. You might argue it was because it was my mum, and I only have one of those. I’m not sure, though. I think it was the responsibility of having to make the right decisions for mum, none of which looked like a winner. Especially, in this case, when it was only me. I missed my brother, Kevin, more than anything then (although I sense he would have been much more hard-lined with mum, or even dismissive of her, and left me with the same responsibility). But it would have been good to have a family member to share the burden with.

And I feel it now. Here in Saudi. I cannot phone her often because it’s complicated and expensive. That’s good. Because I don’t want to. Even though, when I do, she’s as happy as Larry. The week’s stint in the home, followed by the bliss of being back in her own place with professional carers, has peaked her contentedness. That’s what she tells me. And she’s apologised. It’s the same old mum I had before the whole debacle. 

But I don’t want to talk to her. I do call her … that’s my job. But I don’t look forward to it. I worry that there’ll be another argument. That she’ll be unhappy about something and, inevitably, it will be my fault. 

Ho hum.

Anyhow … so what? Two things. First, I can confirm that mental health is a precarious thing. The brain is a significant organ and manages to process a lot of anxiety and hurt and still lets you get on with life. But for many, possibly, everyone, the line between working and not working is there, somewhere. And I know how close I have come to my mind telling me that enough is enough. Sure, the two occasions have been at times of significant stress. And maybe I’m better at managing this than some others. But I know what it feels like to get close to the edge. So I recognise that many people can cross that line. And when they do, love, kindness and time is a great healer. But so is professional help. Look out for it with your loved ones. Believe them. Help them. 

Second, C and I are now in a pretty good place. We are a week away from flying home and, between now and then, we have a number of decent things in the Saudi diary. Importantly, when we get back there is less than a week before we get on a ferry and head down to Spain for the grand Ibiza wedding. We’ve given ourselves a week to get to Valencia and have booked a ferry (two adults and two bikes) to the island – and a hotel for three nights, followed by a ferry back. After that we’ve four and a bit weeks (mostly in Spain) before we catch a ferry back … and then pack up and move out of Bradley Stoke.

Yes, we’ve done it. A really great opportunity came to us just before we flew to Riyadh. It didn’t take us long to make a decision and we should be in our new place in early January. The more we discuss it, the more excited we are about it. It’s not yet for us to release the details but we will in time. Whatever … it’s a rare opportunity that ticks as many boxes as it might. Fabulous. And, of course, we’re off skiing in late January with Bex, Steven and Henry joining us for February half term. How cool is that?

That’s that, I think. I’ll put together a summary of our Riyadh stay at the end of next week. There’s a lot of stuff there, much of which you could write yourself. Some of which will be new to you. I look forward to writing it …

Stay safe everyone.