When I was fourteen, a friend told me often in detailed whispers during geography lessons about her future wedding.
Somewhere Close to Happy
She knew what sort of dress she’d have, who the groom would be (Peter Andre), and most importantly, what favours she’d have on the wedding breakfast tables. Another friend would shake her head. She’d travel instead, she told us, and she’d talk so certainly about it, it was as if she was already twenty-one and had booked the plane ticket. But me; I listened but rarely joined in. Because the only thing I had ever felt certain about, and something I thought sounded silly in comparison, was that I wanted to write a book one day. I also knew I wanted to be happy (because I was aware, even at fourteen, that I wasn’t).
It was around this time, while my classmates were experiencing first crushes and kisses, that I had my first panic attack. I remember where I was (walking to school, past a block of flats which I ducked into the alley of to hide as it happened) and very quickly, the first attack turned into the second, to the third, until panic attacks were a part of my everyday life. I went from being a good student, to being unable to step out of my front door; from collecting ‘stars’ in English classes, to collecting truancy notices. Eventually, it was agreed I’d be home-schooled, with the help of two tutors for the last year or two of my education, and I left without a single GCSE. Friends travelled, fell in love, and I slowly, over the years, recovered, always knowing somewhere deep down – the way my friends knew love and adventure was theirs – that I would write that book, one day. That I would be happy, one day.
I got better. I worked, and met who would become my dearest friends. I fell in love, had my first child. Then another two. Twins. I was happy. Finally. Certainly.
But something happens when you have children and a family. Your time isn’t your own anymore, and your identity is so easily lost, if it isn’t held firmly to you. A health visitor told me during the chaos of new babies, to find something for ‘me’ every day, even if it was for twenty minutes. And although my life was busier than it had ever been, I made that ‘something for me’ writing. I would write my book. Finally. Certainly.
Eighteen months later, I had a finished book. Somewhere Close to Happy. A story about mental health. About love and adventure; about it never being too late to let go and find out who you really are. And when it came to write a dedication, I knew exactly who it should be for. My teenage self. For knowing, with certainty, that this was meant for us, one day. This book. This happiness.