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So I am sitting in my office talking to a junior member of my team about his work record, which recently has not set the world on fire. Nigel has a string of woes: he doesn’t like where he lives, he finds the commute to work very tiring, and he has a perpetual cold. I feel quite sorry for him: Nigel should not be living alone really, he ought to be back at home with his mum.

In the middle of the conversation my mobile phone, which I have carefully placed on the desk beside me, rings. I apologise to Nigel and take the call briefly: it is my daughter Julie calling from hospital. Can she phone me back? I ask, I am in a meeting at the moment. I know that I can trust her to phone me back, I know that she is in safe hands, that the nurses will look after her. For a brief moment, the image of my daughter as I left her last night, lying in the hospital bed, looking quite green, having just thrown up violently into a little cardboard bowl, intrudes into my office life. I return to Nigel and his man-size box of tissues. Just for a moment I have the feeling that this is not quite the right thing to do, or the right place to be.

This must be Julie’s seventh or eighth overdose this year, I have lost count. This time she has ended up on a drip, meaning an overnight stay and vomiting. Sometimes it is a cut requiring stitches: recently it has often been both cuts and overdoses. Every now and then, someone in accident and emergency lovingly counts up the number of times she has attended, and sends them to her care coordinator. I am always astonished by the number of trips that she manages to clock up in a year.

It is nearly routine. She took this overdose at school so early that I had not even left for work: I was able to pick her up from school and drop her off at the hospital on my way in. For the rest of the day, I carried on almost as normal. Just a discrete call to her care coordinator from my car, and then putting her out of my mind, until I had time to deal with it later. Nobody at work had any idea that it was not simply another ordinary day.

But you never do really put it out of your mind. It is always with you. Every time it happens – and this is once every three or four weeks – your body has the same reaction. Both Joe and I have commented on it: that feeling of physical exhaustion, as if you were walking around with 10 kg weights suddenly strapped to both of your legs. This is even when there are no extra journeys to make, no wounds to bandage, no waiting rooms to endure, no phone calls to make. It is just a natural reaction: your body’s way of registering the blow.

Between incidents, she functions just fine. She is doing well at school, she has friends, she can take the bus into town on her own, she is talking about leaving home to go to university. Even while I was planning to visit her in hospital, a neighbour came in to tell me how wonderful it was to see Julie back to her old self. I could not bear to break the mood and tell my neighbour that I was packing her overnight bag because she would be spending the night in hospital. After all, she would be back again next day, and back to school again too. Nobody need even know. If you don’t look too hard, it looks as if nothing at all is wrong.

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I can try all I like, but I can’t publish this lilac tree in full bloom! It is not the look of these flowers alone that is powerful, but the experience of standing underneath that lilac tree, on the tarmac road, drinking in its heavenly scent. And part of that experience is that it is so brief, barely a week or two before it will have gone again.

The problem of having such a complex multi-facetted life – working, parenting, loving – is that stress flows from one part of your life into another, without hindrance. If two or more areas come under stress at once, the whole system threatens to collapse. It only takes some prolonged extra pressure at work, and a child taking an overdose again, and suddenly there is a problem. Suddenly you’re not sleeping, not enjoying that book you were reading, forgetting to go out for a walk. Suddenly you find yourself worrying even about the parts of your life that are not in crisis: your elderly father, the sickly tree in the garden. Tired, you function less well, and other parts of your life are less successful: you shout at your husband, your bread doesn’t rise, and you forget the password to your bank account.

You have to beat that stress: that way depression lies. You have to find a lilac tree and stand underneath it, drinking in the scent of summer.

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