Contrary to the beliefs of T S Eliot, April is not the cruelest month. In November, the darkness of my bedroom made me yearn for Spring; I needed warm breezes, flowers, rebirth, change. I was diagnosed with Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder that month. PMDD, like the days in November, consists mostly of darkness. Two weeks of mood swings, abdominal pain, anxiety attacks, extreme paranoia, and brain fog. Then, a glimpse of sunlight as the cycle slows, and I grab at the brief moments of peace that are granted to me before the night slips in again. When the doctor confirmed that my weeks of scouring the internet for a solution to my problem were not futile, everything made sense. It felt like Spring. It sounded like music. 

Like in July, at Latitude Festival, where I found peace in a voice on the main stage following a seemingly random emotional breakdown during a 14-hour shift at the merchandise table. Waxahatchtee was a name I was familiar with; Katie Crutchfield’s name had appeared on Americana music blogs that praised her album Tiger’s Blood, but I hadn’t heard anything yet. The simplistic two-part harmonies of “365” struck an emotional chord with me that hadn’t been hit by a new artist in a while. Crutchfield sings about letting go of things that do not serve you and I swayed along, my tears drying as I thought of all the ways to quit my job. 

Like in October, at UEA Medical Centre, where I waited anxiously on a patient bed to have the coil fitted, humming to distract myself. A few months prior, I had cried watching Kacey Musgraves perform her newest album, Deeper Well, live. Musgraves’ music has been present through almost every milestone of my teenage years, and Deeper Well’s roots in folk music and lyrical themes of freedom similarly resonated as a newly independent person. She soothed me as I reminded myself that this operation, despite the pain, was “Nothing to be Scared of.” 

Like in January, at home in Birmingham, where I privately celebrated a month on anti-depressants during dinner with my family, my boyfriend nodding politely as my dad praised the record spinning in the living room. Laura Marling’s Patterns in Repeat is, in a word, vulnerable, the song “Your Girl” expressing all the words I wanted to say to the people around that table. I felt our shared anxiety about my mental health dissipate as we laughed together, with Marling’s soft voice and simple guitar melodies enveloping it all warmly. 

Now, as we approach the Spring, I have found that the moments of peace that quickly slipped away in November are now firmly in my grasp. The relatability of Waxahatchtee, the fearlessness of Kacey Musgraves, and the vulnerability of Laura Marling has created a musical bandage for me, and although I will never be miraculously healed from PMDD, I am ready to face the cruellest months this year. I found a deeper well. 

Photo Credit: Edie Davies