Author: Eilidh

Journalist, dreamer, author, psychology enthusiast and quasi-spectorial fantasist.

Running in the void

Drammenselva og Aass Bryggeri i måneskinn

Ever feel as if you’re going 200 miles per minute without moving an inch? Completely untethered, yet somehow confined by some invisible force that makes any type of forward movement impossible? You’re desperate to move, but void of course – any attempt at starting something new seems to fizzle out almost before you’ve even begun… Turns out there’s a word for that; Kenodromia1.

The Greek term [Kenodromia] is used in astrology, as a name for the period “when the moon is passing through a ‘void’ region in the zodiac” (as defined by Porphyry of Tyre in Introduction to the Apotelesmatika of Ptolemy), meaning, in a sense, that any activities, planning or manifestations executed within the specific time period that falls on this region will be futile. There’s more on the meaning of a ‘void of course moon’ on Jupiter’s Realm, if this is your cup of tea.

Now, regardless of your views on astrology, I think just about anybody would be able to relate to the feeling of utter hopelessness that labouring with futility beckons. And hopelessness is certainly something most of us would like to avoid feeling. Hope is what gets us through when everything has turned to shit and there’s no guarantee things will get better. What is the meaning of anything, if we don’t have hope for the future?

Last Friday saw the marking of World Mental Health Day, a day with an objective to raise awareness of mental health issues around the world. A tremendously important day for too many reasons to mention, made even more significant for me this year, as this was the day that Jess from The Next Chapter chose to share her review of my book. I love how The Next Chapter keep their content fresh and unique – they’re a go-to for anyone looking to find new authors, books with interesting hooks, or even the locations of the most magical little bookshops. You can check out what they had to say about my book on Instagram by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

For those of you who have read Journey to the Centre of the Mind…, you will know that the the story’s protagonist is faced with the choice between giving up completely or accepting and dealing with the detrimental effects of untreated mental illness. Needless to say, I am all about raising awareness and spreading the word. I am truly honoured that they posted about my book on such a special day. What’s more, it gave me hope. Hope that the story can keep finding readers who need it. The hope that others will find hope for themselves or their loved ones by reading the story. The hope that we will one day be able to remove any stigma or misconceptions. The hope that governments will start allocating the funding required for the medical treatment and ongoing research of mental health issues and illnesses. And that’s why I thought I’d look at the significance of hope today. After all, hope is the reason we’re all here.

The meaning of hope, according to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, is “to cherish a desire with anticipation”. Many renowned philosophers, such as Descartes, Hobbes, Leibniz and Spinoza, distinguish hope from wishful thinking in that hope can be likened to confidence – something that can function as a catalyst once you realise that something is you desire is attainable. The theoretical likelihood of failure can be equal to that of success, but being able to see what needs to be put in place gives you motivation enough to convince yourself that the positive outcome is achievable. Hope’s opposite is fear, which we all know can function as a sort of assurance of negativity. One breeds optimism while the latter breeds negativity (guess which one is easier to succumb to).

Brian Lawlor, Founding Director at GBHI at Trinity College Dublin, wrote in the post pandemic article What is Hope and Why Do We Need it? that hope is “a feeling and a mindset that you have to work at in order to achieve your goals, despite trying and extenuating circumstances”. It seems to me that hope is indeed something that we need, for both sustenance and growth – collectively and individually.

Unsurprisingly, it seems as if hope can beneficial to healing as well. In a 2019 article on Psychology Today, Polly Campbell writes that “research indicates that hope can help us manage stress and anxiety and cope with adversity”.

Hope isn’t just a feeling or ‘wishful thinking’. Rather, it is the ability to see beyond the horizon. It’s not about trying to be optimistic where we should be realistic, it is about knowing success is possible and taking an active role in achieving it by figuring out the steps. It is about keeping your calm and trusting the process, even on those days where it feels as if we’re completely stuck and nothing works the way that it should. It’s like realising you will have to abandon pole position in a race to refuel when your car is running on fumes if you want any real chance at making it through the last few laps at all – when there’s gas in the tank, there’s still hope.

Maybe this feeling of running in the void is the universe telling us we need to take a break. Who knows? All I know is that hope is powerful.

See you next Tuesday, no doubt for some more blatant self-promotion.

  1. Kenodromia is also the name of a band. You’ll find out what they sound like when you click on this sentence. ↩︎
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What if your perception of pain is all wrong?

Animation of person crying with inexplicable pain

There’s no bandage for a bleeding heart. No dressing for our emotional wounds. No over-the-counter remedies to dull the ache of losing a friend. Yet, this psychological, often dubbed emotional, pain can make us hurt like hell, in a very real and physical way.

(Personally, I don’t like calling it emotional pain – I feel like it takes away some of the validity of the experience, but maybe that’s just me. I really must stop being so emotional).

What’s more, psychological pain has no set expiration date. Physical pain, however, is often referred to as acute or chronic, meaning it comes with an indicator as to how long you will have to suffer and/or how often. (Although, I’d argue that psychological pain can also be both acute and chronic). Physical pain can be classified as either somatic or visceral, i.e. something that happens to the body visibly or internally but not the mind, and the person dealing with the pain will be able to explain or point to the location and extent of the pain with some degree of accuracy (providing they are conscious).

With a broken leg, you know the pain will stop at some point. If one of your toenails fall out after a long run, you know a new one will grow back in its place. Plus, there’s heaps of painkillers, bandages and other tools and remedies to help us keep the discomfort to a minimum while we heal. When the pain is coming from a place within that’s neither tissue nor bone, on the other hand, we’re meant to just suck it up and get over it. You can read more about the physiology of pain by clicking on this sentence.

My trusty Collins Thesaurus A-Z defines pain as “1 suffering, discomfort, hurt, irritation, tenderness, soreness 2 ache, stinging, aching, cramp, throb, throbbing, pang, twinge 3 sorrow, suffering, torture, distress, despair, misery, agony, sadness” (p. 200, 2008). I think we can agree that these terms can all be associated with psychological pain, some more than they can with physical pain – although, physical pain might lead to the third definition. In any case, pain is processed and interpreted by the brain, which then executes a response to protect us from whatever caused it. As far as I can tell. So one could assume that the pain suffered from a break-up could make someone hesitant to enter into a new relationship. But what is it that makes us hurt; the sensation itself, or the self-fulfilling prophecy of our expecting something to result in pain? Have we been conditioned to expect physical pain, when what we’re really feeling is a type of fear?

Imagine, if you will, that you are quite new to this world and gravity is still a mystery. The ground you know to be completely solid, your foundation, your only constant, is pulled out from under you and you are being pulled through the air by an invisible force with no feasible end in sight – wouldn’t you be fucking livid? Perhaps so terrified you soil yourself the first time this happens? Regardless of the accidental spillage of excrement, I am certain the experience might bring you to tears. And when you finally hit the ground safely, albeit with a bang, you don’t really care that you may have scratched your knee, but you’re so afraid this might happen again, that you can’t stop crying. And then, some unwitting adult in an attempt to make you feel better tells you “that didn’t hurt, get up”, as if the fear you are experiencing is invalidated as an incorrect response and that what you should be feeling is physical pain. Perhaps then, in your shell-shocked state, you feel as if you should be ashamed of your fear, that being afraid is silly.

We all know the adult in this scenario is only trying to make them stop crying by semi-gaslighting them into thinking that they are wrong to let the situation scare them and that everything is just fine and dandy, thinking the pain from the fall is what made them so inconsolable, but I’ve come to think that this is more than a little misguided. That, perhaps, our own conditioning has made us forget the real reason we feel like crying when we are faced with unfathomable or unexpected scenarios. If so, this could be detrimental to our development in a multitude of ways. You’d be inclined to suspect that it has shaped how our society views mental health issues, as well as the medical treatment of psychological symptoms and diseases.

Perhaps our first fall is when we start associating anxiety, fear and anguish with shame and begin to think that it is easier, or even more valid, to deal with physical pain, rather than ailments of our psyche? No wonder people self-medicate with booze, pills, sex or physical trauma in the shape of extreme sports or body art to escape the sort of pain that leads them to shame.

For someone who struggles with psychological pain, physical pain can be perceived as controllable. Being able to endure it can give you a false sense of control. No one can control the scenario your mind creates when you hear things go bump in the night when you’re trying to sleep. But it sure can make you feel like the smallest thing, no matter how big and strong you are.

That’s it for now. Just some food for thought.

See you next Tuesday for a fresh batch of verbal incontinence. I’ll try to use the word control a little less. Meanwhile, you can listen to the live version of the newest The Darkness album, Dreams on Toast, on their Bandcamp by clicking on the album title.

Perhaps you’ll listen to it whilst reading my book, which you can purchase by using the links on my Buy the Book page.

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Life, anxiety and a “sticky” brain

Before we get started on today’s topic, I just want to give a huge, heartfelt thanks to those of you who continue to find the time in your busy day to read my posts – it really means a lot! If this is your first time on here, you can read my previous posts on the main blog page.

Now, for the subject I had planned on writing about last week; unwanted intrusive thoughts. There seems to be a lot of confusion as to what they actually are and how they can manifest, and I have only recently been made aware of the fact that the term isn’t necessarily restricted to just thoughts and images. They are of course what we normally hear or read about, but that’s not the whole picture – it’s not just random thoughts and images. It can include unwanted sensations, memories and stories as well. Possibly more, I really do not know. But I’ve come across a few interesting perspectives and theories on this subject close to my heart that have made me feel a little more enlightened, that perhaps others can find some comfort in as well. BUT. There is, as always, a big dollop of my opinion in here as well, so take everything I say with a pinch of salt. Especially the part about coding. Anyway, that’s the disclaimer out of the way. On with the show.

It seems to me that referring to these uncontrollable impulses or processes as ‘thoughts’ is not only a gigantic misnomer, but hugely misleading, as the phenomenon can be better described as automatically generated impulses or processes that become unwanted when they feel intrusive in an unnerving way, causing distress and excessive rumination. If the brain was a computer, this process could be compared to a constant generation of possible and/or/not responses to any scenario or eventuality one might run into, where the ‘correct’ response – i.e. the action caused by the prompt – is picked based on true/false Boolean logic. Although I flunked out of computer science quicker than you can say 01001110101 20 years ago, this little part of simple coding somehow stuck with me. It works great for simple processes, but a more complex and unpredictable system just might crash once in a while, or let something inappropriate surface by accident.

What I can gather from most of the articles and research papers I’ve come across so far, is that the experts agree that we all have these concurrent processes going on all of the time – it’s completely natural. Which makes sense. Much like a computer that never switches off or reboots, our brain keeps processing and generating impulses that will keep us from switching off. And, much like when we are in the dream state of sleep, some pretty random stuff can manifest from one of the potential responses generated by some event that perhaps entered our subconscious via an advert, a TV show or something we saw out of the corner of our eye when we weren’t really paying attention, seemingly from out of nowhere. Since we did not interact with this event, in that it did not happen to us directly, our reaction (or response) is not necessarily in line with our conscious thoughts, wants or wishes. Needless to say, your mind suddenly doing something so outlandish to you it seems as if you no longer control your urges or behaviour, it can be a jarring experience.

Imagine, for instance, that you’re having a bad dream because you’ve watched A Nightmare on Elm Street, but instead of being chased by Freddy Krueger… you are the monster killer… only, you’re not asleep in your bed – you’re wide awake and thinking about stabbing the person next to you in the lift to death with a rusty blade. And this urge has made itself known despite your pacifist nature and philanthropic views, yet it feels so real, as if you’ve lost all control of yourself and that your sanity hangs on by a thread. Pretty terrifying, right?

Luckily, for most people, a sudden flash of an alternate reality such as this can be shrugged off as what it is; something bizarre, laughable, that would never, ever happen. But for those of us prone to internalising, overanalysing and rumination? When these unwanted intrusive responses land on our particularly sticky brains, it can become a real problem, sometimes leading to self-deprecating behaviour, negative self-talk and suicidal ideation. If you suffer from anxiety or a personality disorder, you might even convince yourself that this means that this is your ‘true personality’ shining through, and the more you think about it, the harder it seems to stick. I won’t go into specifics here, as to what some people can convince themselves to be capable of – it can be all too triggering.

And why focus on the negative, when there seems to be a universal concurrence among experts, that that is absolutely not the case? I mean, if something seems so foreign to you that you’re practically contorted by feelings of repulsion and anger, it is probably not your second nature. If you were to get a song you really hate stuck on a loop in your head, you wouldn’t think that to mean it was secretly your favourite song, would you?

Then, why can it be so difficult to dismiss these impulses when they occur? My guess would be that our anxiety feeds off of such things and it is far too easy to go into that unhealthy spiral of self-doubt and feelings of unworthiness.

Well, how the fuck can I rid myself of this affliction, then? you may ask.

This is where the experts tend to disagree. (Which is why I’ve chosen not to mention any of said experts by name, but I’ll include some links to articles on the subject below, if you want to read more about the different theories). Some say they will only go away if you ignore them, while others say that you simply must acknowledge them before you can let them go. Me? I am inclined to think that there is no cure-all. What works for your aunt Mildred might not work for you, and what works for you will probably not work for your best mate. We are all different, despite being similar in so many ways. But, what I am fairly certain might be a really good idea to do, if you are struggling from the distress brought on by experiencing unwanted intrusive urges, physical sensations, images, scenarios or thoughts, is to talk to a professional about it. You can start by finding a mental health help organisation that can point you in the right direction of someone that understands how debilitating living with something like this can be. Links to articles below.

Support groups in the UK

Mental health support phone service in Norway

Finding a good therapist in the US

That’s all for now. See you next Tuesday for another overshare. Or go buy my E-book – it’s on special offer this week.

Alex Dimitriu, M.D., an expert in sleep medicine and psychiatry, offers some tips on how to tackle – or even stop – unwanted intrusive thoughts in this article.

Read this article on Psychology Today on unwanted intrusive thoughts by Martin Seif Ph.D. ABPP and Sally Winston Psy.D.

Or this one, by the same authors, where they have a closer look at intrusive sensations and stories

How rumination harms your mental health

When Thoughts are Sticky; Pure OCD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, by Hannah R. Goodman

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Understanding repression

Snapshot of page 237 of the 2008 Collins Thesaurus A-Z

It is safe to say that the term repression has been rather dirtied since the emergence and popularisation of Freud’s psychoanalytical theories. When it comes to the human psyche and how we store memories, I quite like the third of Collins Thesaurus three definitions; to “subdue, abuse, wrong, persecute, quell, subjugate, maltreat” – opposites of ‘liberate’ (p. 237, 2008).

(Yes, I own a physical copy of the Collins Thesaurus because I am a big nerd. Also, I like the way it smells.)

I am writing this not to discuss or critique freudian views, but to have a closer look at what we know about these so-called repressed memories and, to some extent, the treatment of psychological symptoms that may be rooted in traumatic events, from which the brain decided to ‘quell’ the circumstances because it didn’t seem productive to dwell on them at the time of their occurrence.

Firstly, the repression of memories is largely understood as a defense mechanism. In my own words; the unconscious makes the conscious existence more tolerable by hiding something that may be too difficult to grasp, or even live with, when the event occurs. It is not a conscious decision to forget something – that would be ‘suppression’.

I found myself thinking a lot, when studying pedagogy and special education, that whenever my books or professors mentioned resilience in children, repression was part of the package. As in, resilience was synonymous with a natural ability to unconsciously ignore otherwise unbearable trauma by blocking out their occurrence. This may be true – I never managed to investigate outside of my notions – but I find that resilience is more of a fight or flight response in that it enables you to get through something. When the trauma turns into a prolonged event, however, there is no telling when or if you’ll come out of it.

I theorise that the above creates an accumulation of unwanted/repressed memories that in turn start to fester, ultimately manifesting as symptoms of depression, anxiety, paranoia, PTSD – a disease that makes every waking moment drip with existential fear – and no way of finding out where the symptoms stem from when the pressure is released and you finally have a second to sort your head out. Thus, you’ll find yourself in need of professional help. However, if you cannot explain to yourself what caused your view of the world, or your coping mechanisms, it is almost impossible to put into words and efficiently communicate that which is left of these events – mainly the ambiance, smells, the emotions you felt – to someone that can actually aid your becoming a functional adult.

I have struggled with this myself, in different scenarios, and I’ve also been very aware/fearful of the fact that the act of trying to bring forth a repressed memory can create an unreliable or ‘false’ memory due to the suggestive invocations facilitated during EMDR, or awaken something that one is not yet ready to deal with, at least not without accompanying memories to the event that may remain repressed after such a session. Psychology Today has an interesting article about the debate over repressed memories, where you can read more about how trying to force the re-emergence of a memory may not have the desired effect by clicking anywhere on this sentence. It’s an interesting read.

I found another article on the same site, where the headline simply read “There’s No Delete Button in the Human Psyche – Fortunately”, which is something that I found to be true this morning, when I was sent a document that highlighted something that I, from June 2002 and up until that moment, had absolutely no recollection of. What’s more, it dislodged a few other bits from the same time period. This is what possessed me to write about repression, rather than the topic I’d planned on writing about initially (just keep an eye on the blog next week – you’ll discover what that was then).

Our brain’s memory – our hard drive – can be a complex entity. I find that my own, very much like the Cloud or One Drive, oftentimes cannot be bothered telling me where it has stored something. It’s there, but elusive – it only shows up when I’m not paying attention – more often than not in the shape of a flashback that makes my whole day go topsy-turvy, spurred on by a familiar smell or scenario (or when I am trying to attach one of my most recently used files to an email, on my computer’s hard drive).

So, I think there’s certainly a link between repressed memories and childhood trauma. There is a good chance that we need to accept and acknowledge the fact that these memories remain inside of our brains as shadows, rather than perhaps trying to force them to come out, in order to heal our repressed adult selves. And I am sure there is no universal solution to how one should go about it either. But I reckon finding a professional hand to hold for the especially bumpy parts of the winding road that life can be is as good advice as any.

You can read more about repressed memory and false memory by clicking this sentence.

Learn more about Repressed trauma by clicking this one.

I also have a theory about the connection between repression and Alzheimer’s disease, but we will have to save that for another day.

As always, please go check out my book if you enjoyed my writing – you might like it.

I’ll leave you with a link to a YouTube video of one of the finest songs ever to be performed in a musical, by the great Elaine Paige.

See you next Tuesday!

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Lessons loss taught me

This past Sunday marked the 30th anniversary of the death of someone very dear to me. Thirty years gone, and my grief is so tremendous, still, that it manages to throw me off balance and send me straight into the void of darkness. Surely, that’s not healthy? It never used to bother me before – back when my entire existence consisted of me wallowing in my putrid pigsty of pain – but as that’s no longer an option, I’ve been tempted into a little research project to find out if my current suspicion can be backed by science.

My theory is this; being unable to grieve properly at the time has affected how I deal with feelings in general and thus stunted my emotional growth. I am sure that a lot can be learned from the experience of losing a loved one and dealing with the loss. As cheesy as it may sound, I am curious to find out if allowing myself to feel will help me heal. I think it just might be instrumental.

There are a million articles online about how important the grieving process is, but I think the way writer Jon Scalabrini articulates the detrimental effects of suppressing or not acknowledging certain feelings in his article on Peacefully.com illustrates my understanding perfectly and succinctly:

“By avoiding emotions, one creates future challenges; thus, “moving on” in the short term ultimately creates long-term difficulties.”

You can read the article in full by clicking anywhere on this sentence.

In my case, I was forced to move on too quickly due to matters outside of my control. This taught me – and my subconscious – that my feelings were not valid or important and therefore should not be acknowledged. My black and white thinking made sure this would be applied to all future scenarios where I’d be likely to feel strongly about something – or someone – in any way. I was unable to see how this could be circumstantial. So, to make things easier for myself and everyone else, I adapted. Or, likely overcorrected. I adopted a few terrible coping mechanisms once I entered young adulthood, which have continued to block my path to enlightenment.

I feel as if this is something that I need to un-learn, so I was delighted to find an episode from the American Psychological Association’s podcast series Speaking of Psychology, where interviewee Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Arizona, spoke about her studies on grief and grieving and how grieving can be a form of learning, among other things. The episode is called How grieving changes the brain and is available on the APA’s website, as well as on podcast streaming platforms.

I was not so delighted, however, to find that I likely suffer from prolonged grief disorder. Oh well, I’m sure there is CBT for that. Anyway.

O’Connor goes on to explain how the grieving process involves having to learn to live our lives without the person we’ve lost in it, that we need to find out who we are, now that the world around us has changed in such a profound way. It’s a rewiring of the brain – a learning process. Neuroplasticity. It’s a very interesting episode, as they go into the difference between grief and grieving, links to depression and different types of therapy that can help with the grieving process.

My main take from the episode, to benefit the validity of my theory, is that we must acknowledge the feelings we are experiencing for us to go through the process and come out on the other side of it stronger than we were when we went in. It is my understanding that avoidance is the opposite of helpful if we want to learn and ultimately move on. And accepting a loss as reality does not mean that we have to stop loving the person they were when they were still here, but that we cannot let that loss or its circumstances dictate how we live our lives from that point on. We need to accept the fact that it is okay to love again, whilst realising how a new love does not take away from the old one. Moving on does not mean that we have to forget, but perhaps – with time – we can learn how to look back at the fond memories that made us cherish them so, instead of clinging to the sadness and the trauma we experienced when they were taken from us.

Now, back to those “long-term difficulties” from the Scalabrini quote. My experience taught me that I was worthless. A deep emotional wound that has kept growing and festered over the years, by giving me the gift of trust issues, self-deprecating behaviour and self-sabotage, and only allowing myself to “feel” or emote when I’ve had enough alcohol to justify letting the tears stream freely down my face. I’d schedule my emotive cries, so not to become emotional in public. But by doing this with my painful emotions, my brain would of course apply this to any positive feelings as well, meaning that I wouldn’t allow myself to acknowledge any feelings of happiness either.

It’s a lot easier to convince yourself that you’re unlovable, than it is to remain hopeful that someone will one day actually think you’re something other than a huge piece of shite. Unless you start administering some much needed self-care post-haste.

I think, based on what I’ve learned today, that my theory holds up. What’s more – because of this – I now realise that it is not too late to start rewiring my brain so that I can make my way through the final stage of the process of my prolonged grief. Acknowledging the feelings, accepting the loss and starting to look at how my life would be different if I wasn’t so gung ho on treating everything based on something I interpreted incorrectly three decades ago are all parts of the healing process.

Never let anyone tell you how you should or should not feel – it can only lead to bad things, as we’ve learned from my previous post on the importance of having your emotions validated.

That’s it for today. Buy my book! See you next Tuesday.

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Let’s talk about it

I took the header photo in my darkest hour. Well, one of my ‘darkest’ hours, I suppose. My phone tells me it’s been four years, so I suppose I’ve kept it for a reason. Looking at it now, I can see how it encapsulates my mood at the time, yet I am disturbed by the photos taken a few moments later – it’s as if they have been captured by someone else, yet I can still feel the pull of the darkness that possessed me at the time, splitting my personality in two and allowing the repressed self to break through to attempt putting us both out of our collective misery.

It wasn’t my first attempt – and certainly not the last – but it was the first time I stopped what I was doing to call for help. Interestingly enough, it was the complete lack of empathy and careless comment from the person manning the suicide hotline that had me put the shard of glass away and clean myself up, rather than plunging it deeper into my arm. They managed to piss me off, and that made me realise I had to stay to fight another day, that perhaps I had a purpose after all. Tomorrow is World Suicide Prevention Day (WSPD), so I thought I could give you my two cents on that.

The following should be regarded only as opinion based on personal experience. Nothing more, nothing less.

Apparently, the International Association for Suicide Prevention wants to “change the narrative”. What they mean by that is a little unclear, as their website doesn’t provide much information about anything other than who they are, so I am going to leave them out of this for now – the above link links to the World Health Organization, who partnered with the IASP in establishing the WSPD back in the early noughties, and their definition of changing the narrative.

I still find everything to be a little too vague. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that they are vocal about the need for systemic change and that mental health must be prioritised – the WHY of it all is covered – but there’s nothing on there that indicates HOW. So, how are we going to help governments and their leaders find ways to change an all too categorical system? I am but a humble peasant and can only offer my opinion, but let’s start at removing the stigma, shall we? Perhaps by tackling how we talk about mental illness.

There is a lot of stigma around suicide, not to mention the fact that attempted suicide is still a punishable offence in many countries. I’m not going to go into aiding and abetting, because I don’t believe anyone who would contemplate suicide because they truly see themselves as a burden would involve others in something that would potentially harm them. Only a sociopath would do that. And, who in their right mind would want to alert someone to the fact that they’re thinking about doing something illegal? The legal definition can be interpreted in a few different ways, so who’s to decide whether the extent of the harm you inflicted on yourself should be classified as too severe or not? (If you survive an attempt but you’ve suffered near-fatal injuries, you might still be held accountable.) And how is punishment going to make them better? Isn’t failure punishment enough?

Personally, I believe suicide prevention starts at the very beginning of a person’s life, through the nurture of loving carers. But we’re not all lucky enough to have that, and sooner or later we are faced with the loss of someone that couldn’t bear to go on, and it is the reaction of our community that shapes our view that first time; the way we refer to something can shape public opinion of the subject.

If an act is classified as a medical term, or it’s described using a negatively laden associative term, it can become alienating or viewed as something that does not concern them and they therefore cannot comprehend. It also makes it difficult to talk about, wouldn’t you say? Oh, and, if you think I’m wrong, do let me know. It’s not going to make me kill myself or commit suicide.

Oh no, you can’t say that!

Well, I just did, and this is largely how we still refer to the act of suicide; killing and committing. More and more nations are trying to refrain from using the term ‘commit’ these days, thankfully, but there’s still a lot of stigma. The act itself is just not something that we would like to see as anything other than dirty – something shameful that should be punished. So, we need to change how we view it. Educate ourselves somehow. And where do we start?

By talking about it! Not necessarily by discussing the act itself, but by talking about how we really feel, what depression can look like from different perspectives, how it is human to feel things that are uncomfortable an that the overwhelm simply does not go away by your ignoring it. When we learn about the human body in school, the mind should be included. If you need to take a ‘mental health day’ from work, you shouldn’t have to explain it, in the same way you’re not required to explain exactly what type of symptoms you’ve got if you have to call in sick with a physical ailment… But it should feel just as natural letting your manager know that you are feeling overwhelmed/depressed/suicidal as it would telling them you’re out with the flu.

We are all responsible for removing the stigma.

What are we so afraid of? It’s not like in Candyman – the suicide fairy isn’t going to come through your bathroom mirror one day and get you if you dare speak its name too many times. (Although the film was based on a true story – but I can assure you it was the opposite of talking about it, or, rather, of being heard, that caused the first cursed death to spawn the legend.)

For the person contemplating ending their life, suicide can feel like auto-euthanasia – as if they are eliminating the pain and suffering of the ones around them by doing it, rather than their own. Like cutting malignant tissue from a diseased cervix, they are removing the bad bits before it spreads. In short, you feel as if you’re not doing it for yourself – you are doing it for the greater good, like a psychologically driven vigilante. It’s rarely just about not hacking it anymore, but beyond that – you’ve somehow become convinced that everyone else’s wellbeing is worth more than your own. It becomes difficult to acknowledge any detrimental effects your suicide could have, because you can’t see your own death as a loss to anyone but yourself.

Perhaps, if we had been able to talk openly about such a thing, we wouldn’t have to get to the point where it’s just us and the abyss, and the only way out is death or external interruptions. Perhaps, if we had been more vocal about what it feels like to have lost hope, the “warning signs of suicide” posted on NIMH’s website wouldn’t have been so one size fits all, and someone would have reached out when they noticed the change in you.

Firstly, all of these signs imply that the person feels as if they have someone to turn to – if that were the case, you might not be at the end of your rope. Pardon the pun. Secondly, they cite ‘withdrawal’ as a sign, yet they fail to list the opposite. I can only speak for myself, of course, but I would do the opposite – probably in an attempt to scare people off – go into full-on exhibitionism (which might, to be fair, be classified as risk-taking behaviour). Social media followers saw it as confidence, that the over-sharing meant I was thriving, whilst the fact remained, that I loathed my existence. I would have never dreamt of talking about “wanting to die” or “being a burden” – to me, that would have made me more of a burden. I can remember thinking I didn’t want to be remembered as one of those people.

But then, for some reason, I found a reason. Or, it found me (I certainly wasn’t looking for it at the time). A reason to go on. It didn’t make life any less hard, but it gave me something to fight for. With time, it’s made me realise that I am worth fighting for.

What my reason was may be irrelevant, but the reason to change the narrative on suicide is not, because the stigma around suicide is the one thing that still makes me feel shame and guilt, even though I’ve not really done anything to deserve that. So, the darkness will reappear from time to time. I don’t think it’s healthy for me to ignore it, but it’s also not healthy to let myself get swallowed up in it, so I fight it by asking the questions it doesn’t want me to ask, by not backing down when I feel I am treated poorly, by letting people close to me know that they matter to me and why and, lastly, by acknowledging my own emotions and talking to the people I thought I was protecting (or not trusting) previously. Turns out it helps. Me and them. And, luckily, I’ve got professionals I can talk to about the really messy, shitty stuff.

World Suicide Prevention Day tomorrow, folks. I bet you’re sick of reading about talking about talking about it. I sure am sick of writing about it, knowing that I can’t change much from where I stand just now. But I found something that made me pull my own head out of my arse last night, and thought you might enjoy it as well.

I don’t know whether the people involved with the podcast episode I am about to recommend would be particularly happy to be associated with this post, but I believe in the power of really great, genuine, stories, and this is something they both continue to provide me with. I am in awe of both of these women and hope that they won’t mind me sharing. There is something incredibly soothing about something that happens during this episode, that really helped me from spiralling – maybe it’s just what you need too. In addition to that, you’ll find the rest of the episode offers some brilliant anecdotes. Listening to it made me feel something about myself that wasn’t entirely negative, shall we say. Anyway. The incomparable Miriam Margolyes guested Bryony Gordon’s The Life of Bryony podcast yesterday, and I suggest you listen to the episode. Link below.

See you next Tuesday. I am off to see where I can find Miriam’s new book, The Little Book of Miriam, when it drops on the 11th of this month.

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When am I? Time blindness, on speed

I remember very well the first time I heard the lyric, “Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it“, because my 11 year old self could relate in a very real way. Cheers, Green Day.

I may not have known what a dookie was at 11, but I knew neurosis. (Excellent band, by the way, Neurosis.)

Now, for a multitude of reasons, I’m not a fan of Freudian psychoanalytic theory. Or, perhaps I am not a fan of how it seems to have become gospel to so many. Therefore, I am not going to delve much deeper into neurosis as a descriptive tool, so often used by followers of the aforementioned theory. In my humble opinion, old Sigmund was a bit of a wanker, with a massive Oedipus complex. In his inability to seek treatment for his own obsession with his mother, it appears that he decided to use his professional platform to ruin everyone else’s relationship with theirs. He might have been the founder of psychoanalysis, but some of his theories – because they would always circle back to the repressive element and make it into something dirty, rather than simply unhealthy – are pure bad philosophy, dressing up as medical science. I’m not saying we should underestimate the power of the Id, but take the man with a pinch of salt. Why does it always have to be about sex with this boy? Not everyone is repressed. Also, the world has changed quite a bit since his time. A good theory rarely has one finite solution.

Anyway…

So, if you haven’t guessed already, I’m a wee bit neurotic. Psychology Today defines neuroticism as “a tendency toward anxiety, depression, self-doubt, and other negative feelings“. That’s me, in a nutshell. Always have been, always will be. Or will I? Am I? Because it seems to me that, with the need to mask symptoms gone, I have somehow adopted a very laissez-faire attitude to some things in life. I am hurdling through my day, or even weeks, with a more or less lackadaisical attitude towards the constructs of time. Like, where the fuck did August disappear to?

I have a theory, but first some back story. I was taught from an early age that being late to something should be punishable by death. Or worse. And so I became obsessed with time. Not time itself, really, more with the actual telling of it, as it appeared to have some sort of magical effect of dictating people’s lives.

For instance, I was led to believe you absolutely must have dinner by 5pm, or you won’t be able to have an evening meal. Why? I do not know. Meaning, you’ve got to spend your whole day preparing for this monumental event, that’s essentially just a ritual during which we put nutrients into our bodies so that we’ll have ample energy to reach new levels of anxiety brought on by said meal. In my case, this had me checking my watch every 4 minutes, just to make sure I’d be prepared to leap up and get everything sorted in time for the big event. Hello stress, bloating, indigestion and tics galore, my involuntary muscle spasms causing me to drop my fork, flip my plate or poke myself in the face with the knife, ultimately turning every dinner into a catastrophic affair I still dread to this day.

I’m sure that you can see by the above example, that I might be the type of person that will classify everything that’s not at least 15 minutes early as late. I blame this now, in part, on time blindness. Because, after reading an illuminating article about this in Focus, I discovered that it’s not just about constantly being late to things due to poor time perception, it can also mean that you are always “way too early, to avoid being late“. That’s me, to a T. Or, at least it was.

Imagine my surprise when I just the other day discovered it was gone 3pm and I had missed a deadline (a deadline I’d set for myself and not the actual hard deadline set by the editor, thank fuck, but still). The last time I’d even checked the time was when I was brewing my morning cuppa, and I didn’t even manage to do that in any neurotic, orderly fashion, as I got lost in an internet search and forgot all about my formerly hot and now slightly tepid and increasingly bitter coffee at approximately 9.04 – six minutes after I should have poured it into my neon green penis mug. (My favourite mug, in case you were wondering.)

Normally, I’d have set a timer or started my stop watch, or both, whilst counting to 270 (for the perfect brew), AND simultaneously checking the time to see if I was off by a millisecond or two. But now? I had not a care in the world. And the lack of stress is starting to stress me the fuck out. What if I were leave the stove on and my flat burned down with me in it? Or I forgot to go to work, like, at all? Have I become one of those too relaxed people that everyone else has to accommodate? Does this mean that I have lost the one quality I’ve always prided myself on – the fact that I am always, ALWAYS on time? Will I start being late for things?!

I had a colleague once, who was always 30 minutes late to work, every single day without fail – even on the days we had morning meetings first thing, so we had to move them to suit her seemingly ignorant behaviour. The few times I asked her to please let us at least know whether or not she was going to be late, she simply replied “Chiiiiiiiiill“, in a way that suggested I was the problem. I always found that incredibly rude, and certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think of me in the same way. But now, it appears, I can’t help it. I’ve become too relaxed. Crossed over to the dark side, without even realising it.

That’s it for now. I’ll see you next Tuesday – if I can even remember when that will be, or who I am, that is.

Also, do something that’ll make you laugh. There’s so much shit in the world and I we are going to be able to deal with it in any decent way, we need to take a break once in a while. If you find something that can make your shoulders drop by even half an inch, let us know. If you like dark shit, you should read my book.

Me, I like Amy Poehler and her Good Hang podcast. Check out her Instagram in the previous link and click on the Spotify icon below to listen to a recent episode.

Ciao for now!

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Serendipitous moments and the acceptance of good things

Hitchcock Sequel front cover - artwork by Sean Stanley

I remember the first time I saw him play like it was yesterday. I remember how the old pub – and the people in it – came to life and became part of the soundscape, conjuring a tremendously powerful, yet somehow ethereal, ambiance and experience. It pulled me in like voodoo and it was as if we’d all been transported to an alternate reality, where day was night and night was day. What’s more, it was the first time in a long time I felt as if I belonged somewhere.

He was a wild thing, a crooner, poet, a machine – like Mad Max with a guitar, or Tom Waits, but with melody. Australian, of course. He was C.J. Lee.

Australian blues n’ roots, folks. You can check him out on YouTube.

I know what you’re thinking, so hold your horses. In the words of Layne Staley; It Ain’t Like That.

Anyway. We have arrived in Edinburgh, somewhere around 2014. I was desolate, heartbroken, at the end of my rope. I had nothing and no one and had left my old life behind for a love that had existed only in my mind. I had ventured out for a booze shop when something made me stop at the corner of my street and glance across the road. A pub had appeared from out of nowhere! And that’s when I saw a poster in the pub window, promising live music and… something about a wolf? Forgotten was my initial need to restock my liquor cabinet – I knew I needed to go to this session thing.

And, if you’ve ever been to one of the far too many open mic sessions that you can find littered across our beautiful city, where indifferent imitators having watched too many episodes of The Voice perform half-arsed versions of shitty conveyor belt pop songs that means nothing to them, this session is nothing like that. This session showcased proper blues musicians, performing with a palpable passion and an undying need to communicate their message. Some covers here and there, of course, but mostly original songs – all of them performed with heart and soul, and I am lucky enough to have been welcomed into and taken part in it.

To this day, I’m glad I went to that session. It was the first of many and it’s brought me a lot of joy over the years, through providing me with community, family and friendships, a sense of belonging. Still does.

The thing about those unplanned moments of good fortune is that they eliminate the need for any overthinking, so I entered this new world without having had the chance to ruin it for myself before I got there. I was able to be who I really was, instead of putting on one of my many hats to fit in.

The thing about serendipitous moments, though, is that it can be difficult to see them as anything other than a fluke, so when you don’t expose yourself to that world for a long wee while, you sort of forget it exists. You forget the you that exists within that universe. The only time you’re reminded of those good days is through social media, and even then it’s not really real. I mean, the Internet shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Have a look at what’s happening in the world around you, for fuck’s sake.

Anyway. When my phone rang Sunday morning, it was a reminder of how important it can be to nurture those interactions, so you don’t forget about them, those friendships that never feel forced of difficult. The ones that span years, oceans and lifetimes, through which we stay young, unfettered, hungry for life. Because the voice on the other end when I picked up belonged to none other than my old pal from Oz, just back from one of his gigs in his current home of Ontario, Canada.

Or, it could have been Tom Waits that had decided to hack his Messenger and give me a call, I never was able to tell those two apart.

All I know is that, as an added bonus, our brief conversation reminded me of that gem of an album he put out five years ago; Hitchcock Sequel. And, while you’re already on his Bandcamp page, you should check out Ad Nauseam Blues as well.

Nevertheless, that phone call brightened my day. The sound of that voice I’ve not heard “live” in years is more familiar to me than that of an electric car. My comrade and brother from an entirely different mother had decided to check in with me, and it got me thinking about friendships and the simple joys in life, and how I haven’t been great at realising they’re there for me as a source of good when I need to start climbing my way out of my ditch of depression, rather than digging myself down into it, ever deeper.

Perhaps that’s the case for you as well? If so, I think we should both start thinking about those good memories once in a while. When you’re thinking about someone, let them know. Maybe that’s your gut telling you to check up on your pal before they fall into chatbot psychosis, or worse?

Fuck gratitude journals and all that crap – let’s just look up from our pits of despair and smell the sweetness. It’s there, even when you’ve forgotten how it made you feel.

As a token of my appreciation for your making it to the bottom of my ramblings, there’s a link to C.J. Lee’s beautiful 2020 album Hitchcock Sequel in the Spotify link below, and you can click on these words right here to get to a place where you can learn more about this incredible musician. The set image for this post is the front cover of the album. The artwork is by Sean Stanley.

See you next Tuesday, for some fresh ramblings. I am off to investigate how much damage an impromptu trip to Canada would do to my account. Much love.

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Observations from the road and why you should leave your phone at home

Can you imagine a world where strangers interact with one another in a calm, polite and even interested manner? Taking their time to look up and notice the world around them? Actually acting as if they’re not using their handheld devices as some sort of protective shield against human emotion? A commute without your in-ears so far into your skull that the filters have melted into your eardrums?

Utopia, surely. Or is it?

Here’s how a trip to the Lake District restored some of my ever diminishing belief in humanity.

As my train pulled up to Windermere station on a Monday morning, I began to notice how none of the other travellers seemed to be on their phone. Seeing as I had a 2 to 3 hour walk through unknown territory ahead of me, I had of course spent my train journey anxiously looking at my phone every few seconds just to make sure it was still charging – what would I do if my battery died and I’d be unable to rely on the magic of GPS?

What I had done, however, was put my headphones away to preserve what little juice remained in the battery, and for the first time in a long time I discovered that the noise around me didn’t bother me at all. Because, apart from the calming chug-chugs from the train itself, there was none. (To be fair, this was the 6am service from Birmingham via Oxenholme, so it wasn’t as if the carriage was full, but still).

Myself being very me, I had discovered a gem of a place in Windermere beautifully named Cockshot Point, which I’d included in my route despite the 4 mile detour. As I disembarked the train I started up the mapping app, but left my headphones in my massive rucksack and started making my way through the town centre.

Strangely enough, the distance down to the lakeshore seemed not so far now that I wasn’t telling the time by the duration of the songs in my playlist, so I walked around for a bit before starting on the last leg of the trek, the 6 mile hike to Ambleside – still forgoing the familiar soundscape and trusty companionship my Heaviness playlist has provided me with since the dawn of music streaming.

Again, it seemed as if time stood still, despite the traffic constantly going past as I walked. The sound of wind in the trees, bleating of sheep and the lake in the distance seemed to amplify everything around me. The green of the grass, the brown of the endless tree trunks seemed more vivid than I could remember. And as I was walking along the same road for most of it, I didn’t have to keep checking the app either.

I was sweating like a pig in a volcano, but not even that seemed to bother me. Also, if it got to a stage where seeing my sweaty person would traumatise other hikers, I could just throw myself into the lake.

Another plus of leaving the music behind was the fact that I could hear the cars coming long before I’d have to find somewhere safe on the narrow pavement. But enough of all this walking business – I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. The point is, it got me thinking about something I’ve thought about a lot in recent years; that we could all benefit from leaving our devices behind once in a while.

When was the last time you spent a night out (or day, for that matter) actually enjoying yourself, rather than trying to find the perfect photo-op for your Instagram, for instance? The Internet can wait – and by keeping certain things private, they might even become cherished memories that are just yours.

Anyway, I hit Google to find something to support my theory; is reducing screen time beneficial to my overall wellbeing?

The sciencey bit

A study published by the National Institutes of Health found that smartphone screen time reduction can be beneficial to your mental health. Click on the link for the full article. Not surprising, but interesting nonetheless.

Then, on Unplugged.rest, I discovered that a study finds that only 72 hours away from your phone is enough to “rewire your brain against phone addiction”.

I’ve also been reading about how ChatGPT – and AI in general – can be detrimental to mental health. In fact, it’s dubbed chatbot psychosis. Here’s an article from The Telegraph on the topic that we should all read.

The observation

I think that the above indicates that we should take a step back from relying too much on technology in our everyday lives. And I wish, now, that I’d asked to photograph the people in the situation I am about to use to illustrate my point. Alas, I didn’t have my phone to hand.

After 24 hours in lovely Ambleside, a pal and I set off on a 45 minute bus journey that would take us to our train to Edinburgh. Once we’d stopped uncontrollably perspiring due to the heat and lack of air conditioning, I noticed something so surreal that I had to grab my pal by the arm and go, ‘are you seeing what I’m seeing?’

Not a single person had their phone out, or any visible earphones or headphones, even though they seemed to all be solo travellers. Most of them we’re gazing out the window at the passing landscape, whereas others sat there, seemingly content. Even a young kid, about 15, sat there with no phone, and when an elderly gentleman with a dog got on, he even moved to give him his seat AND asked if he could say hi to the dog. And then… they had a full-on conversation. Strangers. This type of behaviour has been unheard of on any public transport I’ve been on in the past decade! And that’s when I noticed how content they all looked, some even happy. Relaxed, even though the bus was running about two minutes late.

And that’s when I decided, there’s hope.

I don’t think fitness apps, calorie counters, games apps – all that shite – is doing us any favours. It certainly adds to the stress and anxiety in my own life, so I assume I am not alone in this. Some of these apps are designed to give you some sense of accountability, of course, but it’s just too much with the obsessive logging and the constant need to add one more thing to the list or log another activity – and what happens if you don’t make it to 300 kilometres of running this month?? ‘Heeeeeeeere’s DEPRESSION‘, as Johnny’s less homicidal brother would say.

So, do yourself a favour. Put your phone away and go for a fucking walk. Read a fucking book. Go see your fucking friend without posting about it on social media.

But, before you go, listen to this podcast episode about Hans the Hedgehod on Three Bean Salad (link below).

See ya next Tuesday.

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Piemageddon

It is August. A week-long mini interrail is coming to an end, and I have journeyed to the Lake District in an attempt to cleanse my soul.

Having caught up with old friends, and made quite a few new and unwanted acquaintances along the way, I am now eagerly awaiting my pal’s arrival in the mysterious village of Ambleside, Cumbria, so that we can go on a culinary adventure we’ve dubbed Piemageddon. (Word has it, Ambleside is home to the UK’s premier pies).

What brought this on, you ask? Do I have an insatiable hunger for pie? Absolutely not. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a single piece of pie in my life. But after seeing a rather graphic Instagram reel (bordering on vulgarity) of gravy being poured over shiny pastry and buttery mash, I was suddenly convinced that pie was something I needed in my life. I forwarded the reel to a friend and a plan was forged.

So, that’s how I find myself on the shore of lake Windermere, dripping with sweat from the 2-hour long walk from Cockshott Point, contemplating a fully-clothed swim (spoiler alert; swim, she did), before heading towards our accommodations.

I’m sure the soon to be wheatgasm will fuck up my low fodmap diet immensely, but I am certain a bit of bloating will beat the deranged occupant of the room directly above me in the Birmingham Comfort Inn throwing furniture around and shouting constantly from 10pm until my departure at 5 this am.

Anyway… What’s the pie hype, you ask? Well, the pie that inspired the journey came from The Great North Pie Company, and its shop is situated just far enough from the high street to not be inundated with the many, many tourists crowding the streets on this rather lovely day. The perfect location. (And it may or may not be the only eatery in town where you’re not in any danger of getting a serving of dog hair along with your meal.)

I’m not, and will never be, a ‘foodie’, so I will not even try to describe the meal as anything other than what it is; nutrition. But I will say this – the pastry alone had me uttering the word ‘tasty’ without even a hint of irony, possibly for the first time in my life. I do not normally enjoy food, never mind the process of eating, so this should be taken as a big sign of my approval.

I can wholeheartedly recommend a visit to Ambleside for the pie alone (there are a few other cafes that do excellent pies, both sweet and savoury, in the village), if you ever find yourself within hiking distance. The views are grand as well.

Bonus? A little peace and quiet away from the day to day is very good for my mental health – didn’t get my headphones out once for a full 30 hours. Only downside was the fighter jets that broke the wall of sound over the picturesque lake a total of six times within those hours.

Anyway. Whether you consider yourself a pie connoisseur or not, you might enjoy a wee getaway with a side of Cumbrian cuisine – just remember to get there early, before they run out of pies!

If you enjoy pies, you may also enjoy a good podcast. Find in the link below, a rather good episode of one of my favourites, Three Bean Salad.

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