Wednesday 6 November 2024

Teardrops and Waterfalls: Holding Space for a Friend

Every teardrop is a waterfall.

― Coldplay

It’s almost a commonplace that it helps to talk things over with someone. From Time to Talk Day to ITV’s current Take Your Mate on Date campaign we’re encouraged to reach out when we need support and to be there for friends who need us. Fran and I are passionate advocates for mutually supportive friendships. We know first-hand the value of sharing openly and honestly with people we trust.

As important as the message is it overlooks one fact. It’s not always easy to be there for someone who’s going through difficult times, especially if it’s someone we know well and care about. It can be hard to listen without interrupting or offering suggestions and fixes. We may also find we’ve taken some of the other person’s stress, anxiety, or worry onto ourselves. These responses are understandable but in general they’re counter-productive. They get in the way of providing genuine help and support.

Fran and I were discussing this a few weeks ago. Fran mentioned that she worries she puts people off by oversharing, and this affects her response when other people want to talk to her about their issues. It’s true that oversharing can be problematic, as can being vulnerable with people unable or unwilling to accept the gift of trust it represents. On the other hand, the benefits of holding space for someone are often overlooked. For me, it’s invariably a positive experience. I almost always learn something about myself in the process.

I invited Fran to think of it as a valuable social service, rather than something to be wary of. “Being an empathy buddy or space holder,” I told her, inventing those terms on the fly, “isn’t about taking the other person’s problems onto yourself. What they’re sharing doesn’t have to fall on you or stick to you afterwards.” I thought for a moment about the term holding space. We use it a lot, but I’d never really considered what it means. “The idea,” I continued, “is to hold a space open for everything that’s being shared to flow into.”

I offered an analogy. “Imagine you’re standing beside a waterfall. If it’s a small waterfall with a small pool, you can stand close by. If it’s a big waterfall it will have a bigger pool and more spray and splashing. You would stand further back so you can appreciate it without getting wet.”

Depending what and how much is being shared, you can hold a smaller or larger space between you and the other person. Everything they are sharing flows into that space, like the pool below the waterfall. You both get to acknowledge it, observe it, then allow it to flow away. It was a small insight but we both recognised its importance. Before we finished our conversation I knew I’d blog about it, to develop the idea and share it in the hope others might find it helpful too.

Whatever their size, waterfalls demonstrate the transformational potential of movement. Waterfalls aren’t static features of the landscape. They are the result and embodiment of changes they’ve played a role in shaping and continue to shape. Likewise, our thoughts and emotions are part of the process, the flow, of what we’re living with and through. Sharing them is the equivalent of taking a friend by the hand to visit a secret waterfall we’ve found hidden away in the landscape of our life.

And if we’re changed in the process, this is no cause for regret or fear. In the words of poet and author Munia Khan, “Do not feel sad for your tears, as rocks never regret the waterfalls.”

 

Photo by Jared Erondu at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 30 October 2024

How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary

Our friends — how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

As we shared in a recent blog post, Fran and I have been looking into end of life planning. I’m particularly interested in legacy work, which focuses on what we wish to leave behind. It can include physical items, but also writing, photographs, videos, and more. In the words of end of life doula Leona Oceania of Die Well Death Education, “legacy work is perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can provide to your friends, family, and loved ones.”

Fran and I were talking recently about her mother who is in her nineties. She commented that she knew her mom “maybe 10 percent.” This caught my attention. “Legacy work,” I ventured, “is so the people we leave behind will know more than 10 percent.” Fran asked how much I knew her. I thought a moment before answering. “It depends what kind of knowing you mean. If you mean all the events of your life, the things you’ve done and everything that’s happened to you, not so much. You’ve told me lots but I don’t remember the details. If you mean knowing how you think and feel, what’s important to you, how you react to what’s going on, I think I know you pretty well.”

I’ve thought a lot about that conversation and its relevance to legacy. What and how much do we want others to know of us, in the here-and-now and once we’re no longer around? What and how much do we want to know of those we love? I’ve never attached much importance to the historic details of life, my own included. I made many good friends at university, deep connections born of mutual respect and regard, and an ongoing commitment to one another. I’d say I had a decent idea what my friends were going through at the time — who they were, in other words. But I knew almost nothing of what they’d done, where they’d lived, or what had happened in their lives before we met. If they told me, it scarcely registered. If they didn’t, it never occurred to me to ask.

It’s not only friends from long ago. I know facts about Fran’s life before we met, including events, experiences, and situations that impacted her profoundly. I’d nevertheless struggle to say when they happened or even in what order they occurred. It’s a mutual situation. When I asked how much she knows me, Fran said she knows a lot about who I am as a person, but much less about the things I’ve done or have happened to me. For good and bad, our experiences shape who we are. They’re part of the you I want to know, the me I want you to know. But precisely when they happened, the timeline of your life or mine? That can be interesting to explore, but it’s not who we are now. For similar reasons, I’ve never been motivated to trace my family tree. My ancestors’ lives have no relevance to mine.

Such thoughts inform my end of life planning and legacy work. There’s a great deal to get my head around, decide, and put in place, but I’ve decided to start by writing my obituary. As a first step, I’m collecting the bare details of my life into a timeline. Birth, family, education, employment history, interests, achievements, activities. It will serve as a useful reference. It occurs to me that an obituary is no more or less than our final resume. Here I am (was) in two pages. A few hundred words. Everything you need to know. The best bits. The selling points. Give me a job. Employ me. Mourn me.

In many places I’m struggling to recall just what happened when and in what order. The timeline outlines the path that led me here, but it’s not me. It’s rich in facts, but light on the essence, value, or quality of those facts. Who cares about such details, anyway? Think of someone dear to you who has passed, or someone whose future death you can scarcely countenance. What do you wish you knew about them? What would help shape your memories of them, and your future without them? What schools they attended? Where they travelled or resided? Their employment history? Pay grade? Maybe such details are important to you. If so, that’s fine. But maybe you’d rather know what moved your loved one. What brought them to tears and to anger. The music they sang and danced to. The books, poetry, movies, loves unrequited and lost, photographs, treasured memories and dreams, interests, and passions that drenched their life with meaning. Who they were, rather than what they did. I think that’s what most of us want and would want to leave. It’s what I want to leave.

But how much do I want to share? Which bits are most important to me, speak most eloquently of who I am and have been and still yearn to be? What do I want to hide, for fear or dread or shame? And why does it matter at all when I won’t be around? These are questions I’m asking myself for the first time. I’ve not figured it all out yet. Hopefully, I have plenty of time to do so. But in making a start I’ve come to understand the responsibility such work entails.

I can leave YouTube links and playlists but no one will ever feel what I feel when listening to the music that’s threaded my life with meaning. My words will be an important part of my legacy but no one will ever feel what I feel reading my poetry, my short stories, our book, my blog posts. I can write of my people, past and present, but no one will ever ache the way I ache, love as I love and have loved. There’s sadness in realising that, but if it were otherwise, if we could capture the totality of a life for those left behind, it would cheapen the significance of death and the experience of losing those we love.

I’d like people to know more than 10 percent of Marty but there has to be room for what can only be mourned. What’s lost is as important as what’s preserved. I’m recognising that legacy work is a creative process. I get to be selective, to shine a light on this and that, leaving other parts in the shadows. I see it as curating my life as one might curate an art exhibition or anthology. Not everything will make the final cut. I’d settle for 40 percent. (Ah, but which 40 percent?)

 

If you’re interested in legacy work or would like more information about end of life planning, check out the Die Well Death Education website. (“You’re going to die. Why not die well?”)

 

Photo by Marina Shatskih at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 23 October 2024

Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed

But what counted was how you behaved while death let you live, and how you met death when life released you.

— Edith Pearlman

It’s hard to imagine anything more personal than our relationship to death, yet few of us give it more than a passing thought. I’ve mourned those I’ve lost, but until recently I’d scarcely considered what death itself means to me, how I wish to approach mine, or what legacy I’d like to leave.

I was eighteen years old when my father died. Everything was handled by my mother and other family members. I remember his cremation service, the coffin retreating behind the velour curtain, but my contribution was limited to choosing a few words to go on the order of service. (“How sad the song.”) My mother died in 2018 at the age of ninety-eight. I played no part in the funeral arrangements, the sale of her house, or the execution of her will despite being a named executor and beneficiary. I was content, relieved even, to leave it to others. It means, though, that I’ve reached my sixties with little experience of what it means to die, or how to handle the practical side of a loved one’s death.

I’m in decent health, physically and mentally. I don’t feel my end is approaching any time soon but it’s increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that my years, months, and days are not unnumbered. Fran is the same age as me. She has an advance directive (living will) and has given thought to what final arrangements she’d want for herself. The closest I’ve come to end of life planning is helping her navigate the legal side of trusts, wills, and powers of attorney on behalf of her parents, both of whom are still alive. It’s been fascinating, eye-opening — and overwhelming. I don’t have a will, an advance directive, or anything approaching an end of life plan. I’ve no idea what I want to happen to “all my stuff” once I’m no longer around to deal with it. I know I should make arrangements but there’s always seemed too much to think about, plan, and decide.

Death Education

All this changed a month or so ago during a call with Fran. She’d attended a Die Well event run by Leona Oceania of Die Well Death Education (DWDE). Fran was incredibly impressed by Leona’s knowledge and approach to the subject. As is clear from her bio, Leona is a passionate advocate for end of life education. She’s a certified home funeral guide, a death educator, an end of life doula, a hospice volunteer, and a member of the National End-of-Life Doula Alliance (NEDA).

As Fran and I talked, I realised how important a topic it is, not just generally but to me personally. I told Fran I wanted to explore it in a blog post, or even a series of posts. I’d thought of doing this in the past, but I’d always felt too overwhelmed to know where to start. I suddenly saw a way forward. If I felt overwhelmed and unsure, surely others did too. It was the perfect place to begin this journey. I didn’t have to figure it all out first. That realisation led me to write this piece you’re reading. Consider it an introduction or jumping off point. If you’ve thought about end of life planning but didn’t know where to start, this is for you.

There’s a great deal of information on the DWDE website, which I highly recommend checking out. Some topics and suggestions were familiar to me, others completely new. The content is intended for an American audience but the principles apply no matter where you live (and die). I need to work through it all, but one subject in particular caught my interest, legacy work.

Legacy Work

On the DWDE website, Leona describes legacy work as “perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can provide to your friends, family, and loved ones. To share your stories, advice, knowledge, thoughts, and feelings is something only you can provide, and it is an immeasurable gift.”

Whether or not we plan for it in advance, two things are certain. We will die, and we will be mourned by those who knew and loved us. Few of us give thought to directing and informing the conversation about us once we’ve passed. That’s what legacy work is about. It’s about helping our friends and loved ones ground their grief in something more tangible — more us — than their feelings and memories.

I’m reminded of artist Lizzie Rowe, whose stunning painting Dysphoria hangs in the Laing Art Gallery here in Newcastle. Researching for a blog post commemorating a visit earlier this year, I found a video by two of the late artist’s friends in which they discussed her life and work. It seems to me that visual artists have a head start in the legacy game. They leave behind tangible works which, one way or another, capture and evoke their life, interests, and nature. The same is arguably true of writers, in which case this blog and our books will form part of my legacy. My inner life is captured in personal diaries spanning more than five decades. What happens to them after my death is a different matter, and something I’ve yet to reach any decision about.

Mentioning our blog reminds me of another important aspect of legacy work. Digital legacy (or digital assets) is a broad term which encompasses everything a person owns and uses in the digital realm. It includes digital photos and videos, e-mail accounts, social media accounts and posts, blogs, websites, web hosting and domain names, and the technology and services required to maintain and access them. For someone like me who lives so much online, this is a big deal. It’s something I really do need to give thought to.

End of Life Planning and Mental Health

End of life planning is an important and healthy thing to do, but it’s not without potential issues. Talking with family and loved ones about what we want to happen when we die can be difficult for those we’ll leave behind. It’s a social taboo which deserves to be challenged — this is part of the reason Fran and I are so keen to address it publically — but it’s naive to pretend the taboo doesn’t exist or that everyone will be happy to enter the conversation with us.

It’s not simply that we’re unused to talking about end of life. In certain circumstances, it’s taken as a warning signal. Making preparations for death such as putting our affairs in order or gifting things to others is a red flag for suicidal thinking. It’s a valid concern and needs to be taken seriously, but that doesn’t mean someone living with mental health issues should be discouraged or prevented from end of life plannning. Every life is worthy of legacy. Nor is it something only to be set aside until old age, whatever that means. Death can find us at any age. I recently attended a one hundredth birthday. I’m unlikely to reach that milestone but can reasonably anticipate another two decades. Then again, I lost a dear friend to illness at the age of fourty-three. Another at fourty-seven. It’s never too soon to think about these things.

Legacy and mental health came to light in a recent conversation with my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson. She mentioned a passage from High Tide Low Tide which discusses how stigma can be protective in certain circumstances.

The stigma surrounding mental illness is unhelpful and dangerous to the extent it makes people less likely to seek help, or speak to someone about what they are going through. Yet paradoxically, it can be protective to some degree. As Fran sees it, the taint of suicide would follow her even in death. She would be remembered not for her successes — her career, her books, her caring relationships, or the courage she has displayed through decades of illness — but as a failure. Whether or not she survived, she would always be “Fran Houston, that woman who tried to kill herself.” As much as she despises it, the shame of suicide helps to keep her away from the edge.

Aimee told me she’s found this insight personally helpful. It’s a reminder of how potent the wisdom we leave behind can be. Our book will be part of our legacy, and it’s something Fran and I want to preserve and protect.

First Steps and Next Steps

I’ve scarcely taken the first steps on this journey but I want to share a few of those steps, partly to hold myself accountable to following through on them.

My Wishes
One of the first things I did was to create an account at My Wishes. This is a free online service which guides you through creating and maintaining a number of key end of life documents including a will, funeral wishes, advance care plan, digital asset list, and bucket list. As I’ve previously discussed, bucket lists aren’t really my thing, but I can see they could be useful for others who are taking stock of their lives and what they still want to achieve.

Obituaries
Fran and I have discussed writing our own obituaries. This feels like a good place to start and might help inform other choices and decisions. There are a number of online resources to guide you through the process including exercises and templates.

Death Cafes
Fran recently attended a Death Cafe session led by Leona and intends to do so regularly. I hadn’t heard of death cafes but it’s a global movement with sessions held all over the world. According to the Death Cafe website, “at a Death Cafe people drink tea, eat cake and discuss death. Our aim is to increase awareness of death to help people make the most of their (finite) lives.” In Leona’s words:

A Death Cafe is a group-guided open conversation about death. (With cake!) There is no agenda, objectives, or themes. A facilitator is present to keep the conversation going (rarely necessary), answer questions, and correct misinformation. It is a discussion group rather than grief support or counseling.

Over 19,000 sessions have been held in ninety-two countries since they began in 2011. Fran found the session interesting and informative. So far I’ve not found any in person Death Cafes in my local area but virtual sessions exist so I may well give those a try.

Education
Aimee told me of a distance learning course she took a few years ago on end of life care including hospice care. I’d like to explore this and other courses to expand my knowledge and awareness.

Keeping the Conversation Going
I’ve started opening conversations about end of life planning with friends and family and will continue to do so.

Letting Go of the Balloon

I don’t usually discuss the titles or images I choose for my blog posts but this one warrants a mention. I didn’t want anything religious, trite, or obvious for such an important article. When I saw Roland Deason’s photograph at Unsplash I knew my search was over. Holding the string of my balloon is how Fran once described my role in her life and that of other trusted friends. The image and title express how it will feel at end of life — whichever of us lets go first.

They also remind me of a gathering I attended some years ago for a beloved friend who died way too young (whatever that means). We shared precious memories, planted a tree, and blew bubbles into the air. It was a simple and beautiful act of collective tribute and remembrance.

 

Wednesday 16 October 2024

How Would You Be Feeling? Exploring Social Anxiety and Adventure

This post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. It happened a few days before she set off on a weekend trip with folk from MOAC (Maine Outdoor Adventure Club). Fran had attended several of their events in the past but this was to be her first trip away with the group. She was feeling a little anxious. I reminded her it's natural to have some anxiety when you're about to do something different. How the anxiety is a strategy your mind and body employ to protect you, perhaps as a result of past dissapointments. If you worry about something in advance and what you are worried about happens, you're prepared. You get to say, "See — I knew it." If what you were worried about doesn't happen, you get to feel relieved and pleasantly surprised. It's not a particularly healthy way of approaching things and it burns a lot of emotional energy, but it's understandable and far more common than we imagine. I reassured her that it was okay to feel what she was feeling, but she didn't have to dwell there. She could acknowledge it and then let it go. It was the kind of conversation we have all the time. Not only about Fran's situation, thoughts, and feelings. Mine too. I think we both felt on familiar ground. Then, Fran asked something that turned things on their head for me.

"How would you be feeling if it was you going away for the weekend with forty people, most of whom you don't know?"

On one level, the question was straightforward. How would I feel if I was a few days away from a long weekend in the woods with a group of people I scarcely knew? The fact that I can't imagine doing something like that says a lot. I can challenge myself to do things I've never done before, like a zipwire from the Tyne Bridge for charity (twice), a live radio interview, being a podcast guest, or reading from our book in front of an audience. Those were scary, but manageable. Social events of any kind are different. I'm much more comfortable one-on-one or in very small groups. I'd be well-prepared for the weekend on a practical level. I'd have everything laid out ready to go, the route mapped, and timings confirmed. Inside, I'd be a wreck, seriously looking for ways to back out. As Fran put it, I'd be shaking like a leaf. (I was literally shaking the first time we met in person after two years as transatlantic best friends, at the QEII Cruise Terminal in Southampton back in 2013.)

But there's more to Fran's question than that. By asking me to consider how I'd feel, she invited me to appreciate the reality of her situation. It helped me connect with her more deeply than just responding to her uncertainties and fears. It connected me with how it's been for me in the past when I'd felt scared or daunted by what I was about to do. Situations and scenarios I can imagine myself handling, and those which would unnerve me to the point where I would freeze up inside.

The question also reminded me of the differences and similarities between us. Fran's social anxiety is real but she'll find ways to work with it in the name of adventure. She's told me in the past she's better at getting along with "new people" than folk she's known a long time. I think she's a little unfair to herself regarding established friendships, but she's certainly better around people she doesn't know than I am. It's part of the reason she loves traveling so much. As I write this, she's away on her MOAC weekend. I'm confident she'll return with a few new friends and some great stories. I'd come back having spent most of the time by myself at the edge of things, observing what was going on, more or less content but failing to engage meaningfully with anyone. Neither approach is necessarily right or wrong, but despite similar anxieties we handle social situations very differently.

There's one more dimension to what Fran did. By asking me how I would be feeling, she reversed our roles. She gave herself the opportunity to have someone share their anxieties and uncertainties with her. Regarding her trip my feelings were hypothetical, but she nevertheless got to see things from someone else's perspective. It might seem a small thing, but for me that was the most significant aspect of our exchange. We've come up with various tools and approaches over the years. They help us explore how we're feeling and navigate through uncertain times to firmer ground. This was a new one. It's valuable in itself, and a great reminder that there's always something new to learn from and with each other. The photo I chose for this post is particularly appropriate because I bought Fran a mug just like the one depicted for her weekend away. The simple message — The Adventure Begins — reminds me that there's adventure to be found in our lives whatever we choose to do with our time, be that hiking the woods of Maine with people we don't know or sitting in a coffee shop in Kingston Park writing about it.

 

The Maine Outdoor Adventure Club (MOAC) is an all-volunteer member organization in the state of Maine, USA. Outdoor activities range from peaceful and relaxing to challenging and full of excitement. For details, check their website.

Photo by Freddy Kearney at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 9 October 2024

Do More of What You're Good at and Keep Good People Close: What I've Learned about Prioritising Mental Health in the Workplace

Organised by the World Federation for Mental Health, World Mental Health Day is celebrated each year on October 10. The theme for 2024 is “It is time to prioritize mental health in the workplace.” Rather than writing generically about the topic, I’d like to share some experiences from my working life over the past four decades.

A few weeks ago on social media I came across a New Yorker cartoon by Kendra Allenby. The cartoon shows a boss talking to an employee about a promotion. “At this point in your career,” he says, “your only possible promotion is to management, where you will stop doing the work you love and use a skill set you don’t have and we don’t teach.”

It hit hard and I shared it on, with the status “Been feeling this one a lot lately.” A friend and colleague replied that he’d felt the same, and had to take a leap “into the great unknown.” That’s a really positive response to career stagnation and I wish him well. It’s not one I’m motivated to take, however. At the age of sixty-three, I don’t have many years left in my current employ. As I told my friend, “I’m just waiting my time out now, to be honest.”

It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way. I’ve rarely felt I was in the right place or role, and the only way to progress involved moving further away from using my skills and knowledge effectively. I’ll return to my present situation, but I want to start by sharing what was going on for me back in 1985 when I was seriously considering giving up on the work I was doing at the time. I was as frustrated and despondent as I can remember being at any point in my life, before or since. Not all the reasons were work related, but most were.

I was twenty-four years old, roughly halfway through a three-year post-graduate research post in London. I enjoyed living in London but it didn’t take long to realise I wasn’t cut out for a career in research. I wasn’t the only one to notice. A colleague I respected enormously informed me she didn’t think I was a proper scientist and should be doing something more creative instead. Another colleague who became my unofficial mentor and a dear friend, told me I was a better engineer than a scientist. I couldn’t disagree. I found it hard to engage with the work, and lost any belief I’d held concerning its value beyond securing the department a research grant and the publication of a few scientific papers.

What frustrated and upset me most, however, was the interminable bickering, game-playing, and pettiness that had taken hold. I often found myself stressed, irritable, judgmental, and prone to verbal outbursts. Looking back, I can see how toxic it was. One colleague put in a formal complaint about how the department was being run. My mentor friend was treated so poorly it threatened her career. Others confided in me that working there was seriously affecting their mental health.

Things came to a head for me in the autumn of 1985. Several colleagues I knew, liked, and felt able to confide in were leaving for new roles elsewhere. With a year still to complete, I would be left almost alone and unsupported to face the office politics and factionism. I knew I couldn’t remain if things didn’t improve, and was seriously considering resigning. I raised my concerns with the head of department and was told: “If you don’t like it, we don’t want you.” Needless to say, this didn’t help much.

The next day, I played truant and spent the afternoon walking on the beach with a long-time friend. The day itself will be the subject of another blog post, but somewhere on the shore and in the words I shared with my friend something changed for me. I wrote to her afterwards.

Eloping with you gave me the opportunity to find some calm, and to remember that there are more important things than whether or not I’m 100% happy in work. Like people.

A few days later as I was packing to move from my bedsit to the flat vacated by two friends who were “abandoning” me for a new life elsewhere, I had the revelation that kept me in London for the remainder of my contract. The following is from my diary.

In the midst of it all I was struck with the following almost instantaneous sequence of thoughts:

idon’twanttohavetodoallthisagainifileave : idon’twanttoleave

I stood, utterly convinced of my conclusion yet also utterly unsure of why, or what it meant. I have not irretrievably decided to stick it out in the Department, but I think I will.

I’d lost or was about to lose most of the people who’d made life in the department bearable, but I had other friends in and around London. Resigning might mean having to relocate and I didn’t want to lose them too. As I wrote to my beach walking friend, “If I stay, it will not be just because of you [...] but I think if I did leave, I would be turning my back on a lot.”

It wasn’t enough to simply decide to stay. I had to figure out how to do that in a different way, one that protected me from the chaos. Taking a leaf out of my mentor’s book, I focused on the work and withdrew as far as possible from engaging on a personal level with the people around me. I wrote in my diary, “Part of my pact with myself is that if I stay, I do not become entangled in the lives of the others in the department.”

I started going in early and at weekends, when there were fewer people around. I planned my work diligently, often weeks ahead, and consulted with my mentor to keep me on track. The change didn’t go unnoticed. Asked several times what had caused such a transformation in my attitude, I replied it was easier to survive in the department if I removed myself as much as possible from the politics and people, even though that might lead to me being considered antisocial. It wasn’t plain sailing and not everything went to plan. Nevertheless, at the end of the year, I could look back with some satisfaction, recognising the support and care shown to me by my friend and mentor.

I am not and never will be in her eyes a scientist, but I have won her respect, friendship, and confidence. I am perhaps more grateful to her than anyone else for this past year. She was not instrumental in my decision to stay, but without her it would have been easy to renege on that commitment.

That final year was hard. I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do, I wasn’t good at it, and I had little in the way of support. I was unhappy, but one way or another I held things together and completed my programme of work. I’d spent many months on my thesis but ultimately — and against the advice of my mentor — decided not to complete it. I don’t regret staying, but I’m not sure it was the best decision I ever made. I lost an opportunity to change direction and address the real problem, the mismatch between my skills, aptitude, and interests, and my working environment.

I left London at the end of 1986 and moved north to Newcastle upon Tyne to take up another research post. The nature of the research was quite different, but I was no more suited to it than before. I was frustrated and unfulfilled, but didn’t know what to do about it. I completed my contract, then found myself out of work. It took several more years, a retraining course in business computing, and a spell working for a screen print firm, to land the IT job I’ve had ever since. There have been many ups and downs. More than once, I despaired and felt close to throwing it all in and leaving. For one reason or another — not least the care and support extended to me by my colleagues and managers — I’m still here. Last year I completed thirty years of service, which I explored in Getting a Living, Forgetting to Live. It was hard to feel much sense of achievement

[T]he experience left me feeling demotivated. Demoralised. More than anything else, I felt sad. Thirty years working for essentially the same employer — and in essentially the same role — doesn’t feel much of an achievement to me. It feels like what happens when you never pushed yourself to find something better.

Another year on, and not much has changed. I’m sixty-three. I don’t have an exit plan but retirement won’t be too far off. I’ve no ambition to go further up the ladder. To do so I’d have to pretend to be someone and something I’m not and have no interest in becoming. It would mean more money — a not insignificant consideration — but it wouldn’t make me happier. I can’t claim to be poorly paid and there are more important things than job roles and grades. That’s what my time in London taught me. I’m fortunate to work in a great team where I feel able to contribute. There’s no hint of the politics and petty squabbles I knew all those years ago in London. I may be “waiting my time out” but it’s not a bad situation in which to spend my final years of employment.

Fran said something to me recently which struck me as important. I was talking about some of the side projects I’ve been working on lately, developing scripts and utilities to streamline tasks the team performs on a daily basis. She said it was good that I’ve been able to carve out a role for myself. I’d not thought of it like that, but she’s right. Programming isn’t really part of my role. I’m not a developer. I work in application support. The team’s responsibility is keeping live service running and managing incidents, problems, and changes to make sure it stays that way. Nevertheless, my boss welcomes my ideas and encourages me to find ways to make our team’s tasks easier and more straightforward to perform. I’m learning new things in the process, mostly self-taught as and when I need it. It’s creative. It’s fun. It’s good for my job satisfaction, mental health, and wellbeing.

The title of this blog post — Do More of What You’re Good at and Keep Good People Close — captures what I’ve learned about navigating the workplace safely and enjoyably. Figure out what’s important to you. What you’re good at. Do more of that. Do more of what brings satisfaction to your working day. Don’t keep frustrations to yourself. Ask for help when you need it. I would never have made it through my final year in London without my mentor friend. Over the past thirty years I’ve been blessed to have a number of managers, colleagues, and friends who’ve encouraged and supported me. I’m bound to miss some names (sorry) but Judith, Loveday, Lois, Debbie, Tony, and Lisa, I’m thinking of you.

It’s also important to figure out what you’ll tolerate, because things will rarely be exactly to your liking. Where are your red lines in terms of pressure, workload, or behaviour? What are you not prepared to accept? Are you able to recognise when you’re becoming stressed, anxious, or overwhelmed? Do you know what to do about it? Can you discuss things with your boss, colleagues, or union representative? If your workplace has Mental Health First Aiders as mine does, consider reaching out to them. Seek your doctor’s advice if things are affecting your mental or physical health.

I’ll close with a piece of advice I was offered, a few years into my present employment. I’d been offered a promotion to team lead twice but had declined each time. I didn’t feel I was up to the additional responsibilities and pressure. A more senior colleague told me he’d felt the same when he was offered the opportunity. He told himself that those above him clearly thought he could fill the role, so he took the money and gave it his best shot. His words gave me the confidence to say yes when promotion was offered one final time. I never felt confident in the team leader role, but I was perhaps not the worst manager my team ever had. If I helped to make their working days more bearable, even rewarding, and encouraged them to find themselves in their role, I’m content. They certainly helped me. That’s what it’s about for me. Oh, and don’t tell co-workers to fuck off, as I once did in London. (Sorry, Mary!) That’s not good.

 

Photo by Carl Heyerdahl at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 2 October 2024

At the Going Down of the Sun: Attending Twilight in the Park With My Best Friend

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

— Laurence Binyon. “For the Fallen.”

Fran and I have shared a great many adventures, trips, and experiences in our thirteen years as friends. Few have been as moving as accompanying her to the recent Twilight in the Park event in Fran’s home city of Portland, Maine. Organised by the Hospice of Southern Maine, Twilight in the Park is a community event to remember and celebrate loved ones who have died, and their families, friends, and caregivers. This year’s event was held on Saturday September 29 in Deering Oaks Park. Fran was keen to attend, and took me with her virtually by video call. The following details are from the hospice website.

Imagine thousands of luminarias glowing warmly at dusk, each light representing someone who has brought love and light into our lives. At Twilight, thousands of luminarias are lit, each one bearing the name of a loved one being remembered, or a special person being honored. Many find this evening to be a profound and transformative experience in the process of healing. Twilight is open to everyone, regardless of whether you’ve had a loved one in our care.

The event was very well attended. People were standing, sitting, or walking slowly around the empty splash pool which was lined with lanterns. We bumped into a lady Fran knew who was there with her friend. Fran introduced me as her best friend from England, and I got to say hello. I’m always surprised at how effortlessly people accept my virtual presence when I’m out with Fran. We found a vantage point on the bridge overlooking the pool. The event began with the song Somewhere Over the Rainbow, followed by a welcome by Mark Jones, Board Chair of the Hospice of Southern Maine. There were further songs, including The Beatles’ Let it Be, and words of remembrance and tribute by HSM Chaplain Larry Greer. The words weren’t always perfectly audible to me over our video call but I recognised Laurence Binyon’s “For the Fallen.”

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Fran found the rendition of Taps by Sgt Bryan Noyes especially moving. The twenty-four note melody was used as call for lights out during the American Civil War. Today it’s best known as the nation’s official Song of Remembrance and is played to remember those who have given their lives in the service of the United States.There was also a reading of the poem “Four Candles.” This was new to me but I found it very evocative.

The first candle represents our grief. The pain of losing you is intense. It reminds us of the depth of our love for you.

The second candle represents our courage. The courage to confront our sorrow, to comfort each other, to change our lives.

The third candle we light in your memory. For the times we laughed, the times we cried, the times we were angry with each other, the funny things you did, the caring and joy you gave us.

The fourth candle we light for our love. We light this candle that your light will always shine. We think of you each day and share your memory with our family and friends.

We cherish the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved for you. We thank you for the gift your living brought to each of us. We love you. We remember you.

— Anon

As the event played out below us, my thoughts were with people I’ve known over the years who are no longer here. My dear friend PJ. My beautiful friend Julieta from Mexico, a talented artist and devoted mother. The lady on whose Facebook page Fran and I first met. The sister of a mutual friend, whose life was being celebrated elsewhere by her family and friends that same day.

I thought too about the end of life and legacy work Fran and I have been doing recently. The blog posts I’ve written (to be published later this month) about end of life planning in general, and how I want to be remembered by those I’ll leave behind when the time comes. It came to me that remembrance needn’t be limited to a single event shortly after someone dies. Lives can be commemorated and celebrated time after time, in different ways and by different people, individually or together. That’s helpful because it alleviates the pressure on those responsible for arranging things once we’ve departed. It‘s not necessary to get everything right and complete in one go.

It was dark by the time the chaplain gave his closing remarks. I walked Fran back to her apartment, each of us lost in our individual thoughts, memories, and feelings. I’m grateful to Fran for taking me with her, and to the Hospice of Southern Maine for putting on the event. If you’d like more details of their work, check out their website.

 

Video call screenshot by Martin Baker.

 

Wednesday 25 September 2024

IMHO: A Guide for Opinionated Bloggers

I have lost the freedom of not having an opinion.

— Umberto Eco

“I absolutely looooove how opinionated this is!!!” — that’s how my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson responded to one of my recent blog posts. Her reaction caught me off guard. I hadn’t thought the piece was any more expressive of my opinions than others I’ve written in the past few years. What interested me was the fact she seemed at least as excited by me airing my opinions as by the opinions themselves. She’s one of my closest friends and most ardent supporters, but I can’t remember her responding quite as energetically before. What was different this time? I was keen to explore it further.

Three additional comments Aimee made helped point me in the right direction. She said I do share my opinions, “but perhaps not as often as maybe me or a lot of other people do.” This is a valid point. Aimee has her own incredibly successful mental health blog I’m NOT Disordered. In the articles she posts she’s very open and honest about her experiences, thoughts, and opinions. I don’t think I’m any less honest, but I’m arguably more selective about what I disclose. This raises some interesting questions. How much of our opinion is it useful, wise, or even safe to declare publicly? What is the best way of doing so?

We’re expected to hold opinions on a wide range of topics, especially in the political and moral arenas. Politically left, right, or centrist. Atheist, theist, deist, or agnostic. For or against abortion, access to healthcare, gender rights, sexuality, immigration, criminality and punishment. The list goes on and woe betide you if you don’t know where you stand. I have strong opinions on many of these topics, but in general I’m wary of displaying them publically. There are a number of reasons for this. In many cases, my opinions aren’t well-formed or easy for me to express or defend. My opinion about opinions is that they are essentially arbitrary. If they were based on fact or logic, as we like to imagine ours are, there wouldn’t be so many different opinions on any given topic. It would be clear to at least an overwhelming majority.

In philosophical terms, I’m what is termed a moral relativist. I don’t believe in moral absolutes. For me, morality is important — vital even to the well functioning of society — but it’s a human thing rather than something offered or imposed on us from outside. This is only my opinion, of course, but it’s one which informs my perspective on all other opinions, mine and other people’s. I’m also an absurdist, in so far as I understand the philosophy of Albert Camus. It may be part of the human condition to seek meaning and purpose but I believe the universe has nothing to offer in reply. It is. We are. Dealing with that awareness without falling into despair or resorting to artificial surrogates for meaning — what Camus calls philosophical suicide — is the challenge. I don’t believe in free will, although it appears necessary to act as though it exists. The future isn’t predetermined or knowable, either in practice or principle. Leaving aside quantum randomness, everything that happens or has happened is the only thing that could happen or have happened under those precise circumstances. It’s why I have so much difficulty with the concept of regret. “If I could go back I would choose differently” makes no sense to me at all.

Aside from the difficulty I’d have in expressing and defending my opinions, there’s the question of relevance. Fran and I established this blog to explore mental health and supportive friendships. I treat those topics broadly, not least because they affect and inform our lives in many ways. We discuss friendships and relationships in general, and different ways of supporting ourselves and others. I’ve shared aspects of my own mental and physical health, as well as my take on blogging itself and other topics which interest me such as story writing, shorthand, and music.

In sharing as we do, Fran and I offer our personal experiences, ideas, and opinions in the hope others may find them of interest and value. They work for us, but we don’t expect them to be relevant or useful to everyone. Our thoughts and ideas are informed by our respective world views, but we rarely discuss our opinions in the political or moral arena unless they directly affect the topic in hand. There are exceptions. I’ve declared my atheist stance previously, for example, and explored Absurdism in some detail. I’ve likewise shared my positions on gender identity and toxic masculinity.

Aside from which opinions I might be prepared to share, there’s the question of how best to express them. At first glance, the word opinionated suggests an overly pushy attitude, but it’s clear Aimee didn’t mean it that way. “Sometimes,” she said, “being opinionated can be really distasteful, disrespectful, and hard to hear or read. But you have done it sooo soooo soooo well!” The piece in question discussed the kind of friendship I find most meaningful and satisfying. (Spoiler alert: I need to feel a degree of continuity in the connection. As I put it, “I’m not interested in sporadic news updates of what’s happened to you since we last met. I want to know who you are, not who you were. I want to share with you who I am, not who I was.”) I was honest enough that former and current friends might reasonably identify themselves in what I wrote. Aimee reassured me that I’d done this gracefully, conveying the gratitude and respect I hold for all my friends. It’s nevertheless a reminder to express my opinions with humility, recognising they represent my partial and present thoughts about the matter in hand.

People are sometimes criticised for changing their opinions, as though doing so reflects poorly on the strength of their convictions. I disagree. Many of mine have changed significantly over the years. In this, I’m with William Blake, who declared “The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind.” Having no interest in breeding reptiles of any kind, I’ve sought to develop my understanding by watching debates and conversations between people on either side of various issues. I’m especially interested in arguments for and against the existence of god, absolute or relative morality, and free will. Speakers I’ve come to admire for the clarity of their opinions and ability to discuss them include Alex O’Connor, Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Roger Penrose, and the late Christopher Hitchens. I find myself in broad agreement with most of them, but I also enjoy listening to Canadian psychologist Jordan Peterson and the American Christian apologist William Lane Craig. I have little in common with either of them, but their conviction and ability to discuss their respective opinions is both fascinating and a challenge to my own.

It’s relevant to mention the discomfiture I’ve felt on occasion when I’ve realised people I respect and broadly agree with hold opinions I instinctively and wholeheartedly reject. I’ve had the same reaction to discovering public figures or creatives whose work I’ve admired entertain views that are repugnant to me. It’s a reminder that our opinions and beliefs are not always mutually consistent, and that genuine connection involves accepting each another for the totality of who we are, not just those bits we find pleasant or in agreement with our own.

There’s one more thing Aimee said that I found interesting. Having stated that I’d been more expressive of my opinions than usual, she said “It’s refreshing and honourable to hear you do that. Sort of stepping out of your comfort zone or at least out of the norm for you.” This resonated for me because only a few days earlier I’d encountered the following meme on social media:

Comfort is a drug. Once you get used to it, it becomes addicting. Give a weak person consistent stimulation, good food, cheap entertainment and they’ll throw their ambitions right out the window. The comfort zone is where dreams go and die.

The quotation was anonymous but I’ve seen it attributed to British actor Henry Cavill. I have sympathy for the idea that “the magic happens outside your comfort zone” — likewise Susan Jeffers’ imperative to “feel the fear and do it anyway.” It’s wise to take stock of the stories we tell ourselves from time to time to see if they still serve us or are holding us back. In my case, stepping outside my comfort zone has led to two zipwire slides to raise money for charity, volunteering with mental health awareness campaign Time to Change, performing public readings from our book, and appearing on podcasts and local radio. It’s in this positive spirit that I take Aimee’s assertion that in sharing my opinions on friendship I was stepping outside my comfort zone. I have little time, however, for Cavill’s assertion that comfort is intrinsically negative and addictive. Neither can I agree with his labeling people as weak for preferring consistency over challenge. Far from being the place “where dreams go and die,” the comfort zone — however we might define it — is the place to which we return from our adventures. It’s a refuge from the storms, a place to reflect on where we are and what we want before daring to venture once more beyond the door. It’s home.

Sharing one’s opinions publically isn’t without risk. There are real perils in raising one’s head above the proverbial parapet and declaring “this is what I believe” — especially if those beliefs are controversial or run against societal expectations. I’ve chosen on occasion to withhold my opinion where a vehemently negative reaction could be reasonably anticipated. I will continue to do so. That said, I believe I have a moral responsibility to speak and act where not doing so could be construed as acquiescence or support for views I hold abhorrent or harmful. No longer can I indulge the privilege of withholding opinions on matters because I’m not personally affected by them. In the words of Umberto Eco, “I have lost the freedom of not having an opinion.” This is not an easy situation in which to find myself, but — in my humble opinion — it’s not meant to be.

Over to You

In this post I’ve explored my relationship to opinions, my own and other people’s. I’ve considered reasons for keeping them to myself as well as circumstances in which I feel a moral imperative to speak out. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m sure I’ll want to revisit these topics in the future. I’m interested to hear your opinions concerning this blog post, my opinions as I’ve described them, and the subject of opinions itself. Please consider sharing your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Steve Johnson at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 18 September 2024

I'm Not That Person Anymore

So many people from your past know a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

— Unknown

You know how people say they can meet up with someone they’ve not seen in years and it’s as though no time has passed at all? I’ve never been good at that. It’s lauded as the sign of a healthy friendship, but it doesn’t work that way for me. I’m too aware of how much my life, my interests, my understanding, and my very self change over time. There’s a social media meme that expresses this perfectly.

You’ve changed.

I hope so!

If we’ve not been in touch through those changes — mine and yours — then we no longer know each other. The person you think of when you think of me no longer exists. We might reconnect, but unless it’s to re-establish an ongoing, more-or-less frequent connection, there’s little point. I’m not interested in sporadic news updates of what’s happened to you since we last met. I want to know who you are, not who you were. I want to share with you who I am, not who I was. It’s the difference between sharing life’s journey and sending each other occasional postcards from distant lands.

I’ll qualify that a little, because it might sound as though I need to be in constant touch with someone for the friendship to be worthwhile. Frequency is part of it but it’s the sense of being present in each other’s lives that matters most. Each friendship has its natural rhythm. When circumstances permit, Fran and I connect several times a day. I’m in near daily touch with several other close friends. One long-time friend and I exchange letters every week or so. Circumstances might necessitate a temporary pause or change in how often we’re in touch, but in each case the friendship returns to its natural beat afterwards. There are a few exceptions. One friend and I work brilliantly despite going weeks or even months without hearing from each other. I’m not sure how it works so well, but it does! (Hi, Louise!)

I saw a social media meme the other day that read MAKE A HABIT OF REACHING OUT TO PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE THEY CROSSED YOUR MIND. I get the idea, but I don’t necessarily agree. A few months ago I thought of someone I was friends with in the eighties when I lived in London. We kept in touch after I moved north, but it must be thirty years since I last heard from them. On a whim, I found them on social media. They looked happy in their present life. For a moment I considered reaching out to reconnect, but realised how little point there was in doing so. If they accepted my friend request we’d exchange catch-up messages, bullet pointing the intervening decades. Where we’d lived. Where we’d worked. Partners. Family. Mutual friends. Highlights. Lowlights, maybe. Health. Illnesses. But they’re not the person I knew all those years ago in London. I’m not the person they knew.

You may be thinking, but they might have been delighted to hear from you. You’ve both changed, but you could begin a new friendship from where you are now. That’s true, of course. But our past connection is no guarantee we’d get along now. Maybe there’s a reason our friendship lapsed. Maybe they’d rather not be taken back to those days by an out-of-the-blue request from someone whose name they associate only with the past. Reaching out to people because they crossed your mind might be good advice if it’s someone you’ve not heard from in a few weeks, but it can be intrusive — even toxic — in other contexts. I can think of several people I’m pretty sure wouldn’t want to hear from me, despite them often crossing my mind. They’ve moved on. I’ve moved on.

Disengagement happens in many ways for many different reasons. It can happen suddenly, or so gradually it’s hard to detect until some threshold of awareness is crossed. I’m reminded of a poem I wrote many years ago. It describes the creeping changes that confounded the deepest and most significant relationship of my life up to that point.

Without a word we set our backs to oneanother, walked the slopes alone,
our fields and hills pastoral: darker vales disdained, pretending
not to see the forests moving.
Till one night unseen some secrets in the guise of
willows crept into the stream we called our bed,
took root, and in the morning we awoke to find between us
woods impregnable.

— “What happened to the Lovetrees?”

Frequency of contact isn’t everything. A social media post I saw the other day declared that “Real friends keep sending you memes even if you don’t react to them.” There’s a certain truth to those words. Regular low-level contact can keep a friendship going through difficult times when we might be unable to engage more meaningfully. Memes, good morning texts, and such remind us that the other person’s there, that we’re thought of. They’re insufficient to sustain a meaningful connection on their own, however, especially if the frequency no longer aligns with the rhythm of the friendship itself. In that case, what began as a gentle ritual becomes a habit you’re loathe to break for fear there’s little else left. There might also be a reason the other person isn’t reacting. Maybe they’re tired of being bombarded by essentially empty messages. Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they need a break. For these reasons amongst others, I’m wary of formulaic contact. It’s content that matters.

It’s worth pointing out that gaps don’t have to mean a friendship is in danger or at an end. I’ve written about this previously in Supportive Disengagement: How to Be There for Your Friend When They Need Space.

Supportive disengagement is for situations when your friendship is taking a break rather than broken, when disengagement is less than total, and — crucially — where the lines of communication remain open.

I don’t write a friendship off just because there’s been a break or a pause. I’ve picked up again with friends, sometimes more than once, after break-ups lasting anything from a few weeks to many months. Where this has been successful, it’s because we were both committed to reestablishing an ongoing presence in each other’s lives. If there’s been a significant gap, I find it helps to approach reconnection like starting again from scratch, rather than assuming things will pick up again from where you left off.

I’m aware that not everyone views friendship the way I do. I’d venture to say I’m in a minority, based on conversations I’ve had on the subject. Most people seem able to pick up with friends after months, even years, of little or no contact. I envy them a little. I’m sure I’ve missed out by feeling a friendship has ended for me, where others would have kept things going, albeit on a less frequent basis. It helps to explain why I have few very long-term friendships. Of those I consider present in my life today, the longest friendship is some fifteen or sixteen years old. It amazes me that people my age still have friends from school or college! It’s not a case of others being right and me wrong, or vice versa. The point is that people have different ideas about what’s important to them in a friendship, what constitutes a pause or break-up, and how and when to reconnect. On a deeper level, we have different perspectives on who we are, how we change over time, and the significance of those changes to the connections we make with other people who are also changing. Acknowledging these differences can lead to a greater understanding and empathy for others, and indeed ourselves.

I’m grateful to all my friends, present and past, for inviting me into your lives and for being present in mine. Whether we were friends for a short time or many years, what we shared enriched my life. I hope it enriched yours. I’ll close with an exchange I had with someone years ago.

Do I add value to your life?

If you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be in it.

The response caught me off-guard at the time, but I understand now. It helped me become the person and the friend I am now. (Thank you.)

 

Photo by Vladyslav Tobolenko at Unsplash.

 

Tuesday 10 September 2024

Beyond the Hotline: New Approaches to Suicide Prevention

If I mention suicide prevention, it’s a fair bet that the first thing you think of is some sort of telephone hotline. The first call to an official suicide helpline was made in November 1953 to the Samaritans. The first US Samaritans branch was established in Boston in 1974. Helplines run by charities and other bodies around the world are a vital part of the safety net for people in crisis or thinking of suicide, as well as offering support to friends and family members.

As vital as they are, hotlines are not enough. World Suicide Prevention Day reminds us of the need to raise awareness about suicide and suicidal thinking. It also challenges us to think how we can do more, individually and collectively, to help people stay safe. In this blog post, we’ll explore a range of approaches to suicide prevention. We’ll see how modern technology, community initiatives, and wider policy changes all play a role in developing more holistic strategies for saving lives. Technological approaches in particular are not without potential issues and we’ll look at those too.

The Role of Technology

Modern technology impacts almost every aspect of our lives, and health and mental health are no exceptions. Information, help, and support are now widely available, often with just a few taps on our phones. It’s important to acknowledge the risks of relying too much on online resources and services, but they can offer significant benefits if used wisely.

Mobile Apps for Mental Health Support

“There’s an app for that” was launched as an advertising slogan by Apple in 2010. It’s been widely parodied, but there’s a truth behind the joke. It would be wrong to imagine any and all aspects of human live can be coded to run our mobile devices, but apps can make information, help, and support available to people living with a wide range of mental health conditions. Text and chat lines offer alternatives to traditional telephone hotlines. These are more accessible for anyone living with speech or hearing difficulties, and allow people to reach out in ways they may be more familiar with, or which feel less intimidating. Text-based services also mean it’s possible to access support without the risk of conversations being overheard.

Despite their convenience, services such as these have some potential drawbacks. The relative anonymity they offer can be a barrier to providing more personalised care and offer appropriately targeted support and guidance. There’s also a risk that we may come to rely too much on such tools, rather than seeking support from professional mental health services.

There’s a growing range of apps which offer a broader support to people at risk of suicide or self-harm. Funded by teenage mental health charity stem4, the Calm Harm app aims to help people manage urges to self-harm by offering coping strategies developed from Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT). Apps such as Better Help act as a front door to licenced therapists who offer online counselling sessions. These technologies are part of a growing trend focused on preventative care to manage mental health symptoms, rather than relying solely on crisis management. Potential issues include the quality and regulation of apps and the coping strategies and support they offer.

The Role of Artificial Intelligence

Artificial intelligence (A.I.) and machine learning are likely to play an increasing role in suicide prevention. Social media providers and search engines are already developing tools to identify people who may be struggling or at risk, based on their online activity. As valuable as such approaches may be, they raise legitimate questions about privacy and the potential for malicious or discriminatory misuse of the information gathered. Setting aside the uncertain distinction between monitoring and surveillance, there are risks of bias and misinterpretation by the A.I. engines themselves. These could lead to people being incorrectly referred to crisis services, or someone at genuine risk being missed. The latter might appear more serious, but the former is no less important. Someone who has been incorrectly subjected to a mental health intervention might avoid accessing information or support in the future, in case the same thing happens again. Not everyone experiencing thoughts of suicide or self-harm, or seeking information about such topics online, is at immediate risk or in need of intervention.

Similar technologies underpin chatbots such as Woebot and Wysa, in which people can engage in chat conversations about how they’re feeling. These apps us A.I. to provide respond in real-time depending on what the person has shared about their situation. These tools are no substitute for talking to a real person — a friend, family member, or professional — but they can offer an outside perspective, especially if the person feels unable to discuss what they’re going through with family or friends. In addition to the risks and limitations already mentioned, these services can only be considered a partial solution. No matter the sophistication of the machine learning involved, a chatbot is unlikely to be capable of responding appropriately in highly complex or emotional situations. This limitation applies to humans too, of course. No matter how much we care and want to support our friends and loved ones, we may not always pick up on the clues or respond in the most helpful or appropriate way. Human professionals are not infallible either.

It Takes a Community

Technology has an important role to play, but human connection will always be at the heart of effective strategies to keep people safe.

Peer Support

Whether online or in person, peer support networks offer space for people to share their experiences and support one another. Groups are often led by professionals or trained volunteers, and counter the isolation many people feel concerning their situation, experiences, thoughts, and feelings. Community initiatives often offer social activities such as local walks or other events, building a sense of belonging in addition to providing emotional support, advice, and guidance.

The Role of Education

There’s an increasing acknowledgment that mental health education needs to start early. Integrating mental health awareness into our schools, colleges, and universities helps combat the stigma and discrimination that still surround mental ill health. It also helps equip young people with the information and tools they need to recognise when they, or their friends and loved ones, may be struggling and need additional help and support. A generation of people brought up aware of and educated about mental health is the best strategy for suicide prevention in the long-term.

Courses such as the internationally recognised Mental Health First Aid (MHFA) certification, Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST), and many other mental health and suicide prevention courses are now widely available. These are often provided free or with costs subsidised by employers or other organisations. It’s never been easier to learn more about how to recognise the signs that someone might be struggling, and offer meaningful help and support.

Policy Changes

As important as these approaches are, they do not and cannot operate in a vacuum. Policy changes and advocacy are needed to create and maintain a culture in which mental health is prioritised, with appropriate resources available and accessible to everyone who needs them.

National and Global Initiatives

National governments and international organisations such as the World Health Organisation (WHO) are increasingly focusing on mental health. In many countries, recent policy changes have aimed at improving mental health services by expanding access to care, increasing research funding, and incorporating mental health into their broader public health policies. It remains to be see how effective these changes will be, but it’s encouraging to see initiatives such as the WHO’s Mental Health Action Plan and the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals highlight how crucial mental health is to humanity’s overall health and well-being.

Advocacy and Awareness Campaigns

Awareness events such as Time to Talk Day (February), Mental Health Awareness Month (May), World Suicide Prevention Day (September 10), and World Mental Health Day (October 10) play an important role in changing how we think and talk about mental health and suicide. Social media campaigns like #StopSuicide and #ItsOkayToTalk help reduce stigma and encourage open conversations about what have for too long been taboo subjects. These campaigns often go viral, reaching millions of people and spreading messages of hope and support. Grassroots movements are driving change at the local level. Organizations like To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) and Project Semicolon have built strong and committed communities around the message that suicide is preventable and help is available.

Drawing it all Together

Preventing suicide needs a broad approach that goes beyond the provision of traditional mental health hotlines. While these will always remain a vital resource for people in crisis or needing immediate support, building a robust and effective safety net for everyone at risk requires us to think and act creatively and on a wider scale. On this World Suicide Prevention Day, let’s recognise the importance of both innovation and caution in developing effective strategies. By supporting comprehensive suicide prevention efforts that include both traditional and modern methods, we can work towards a world where everyone has access to the support they need when they need it most.

Further Reading

You can find details of World Suicide Prevention Day at the International Association for Suicide Prevention. Our resources page includes links to crisis lines, support organisations, training resources, and books. UK mental health charity Mind offers a range of help and information if you need support or are concerned for someone else.

Photo by Jenna Anderson at Unsplash.

Wednesday 4 September 2024

In a World of My Own: The Gentle Art of Losing Myself

In what the misusers are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic.

— J. R. R. Tolkien, “On Fairy Stories”

Most of my blog posts are inspired by conversations but this time it was an e-mail. My friend Karl got in touch to let me know he’d achieved his black belt distinction in martial arts. One sentence in his e-mail really caught my attention.

Going to the gym is my “quiet place” where, despite the blasting music, I can shut out the noise of external life and just focus on one thing.

You’ll hear more from Karl because I invited him to expand on what his martial arts sessions mean to him. For now, though, I want to explore that one line. I’ve never been inside a gym and can’t imagine doing so. Nevertheless, what Karl said resonated strongly with me. The focus. The sense of being in a world of one’s own. In my case, it’s not gyms and martial arts, though. It’s coffee shops and writing.

I’m there almost every Saturday. (Here, in fact, because that’s where I’m writing this piece right now.) After breakfast I order a second coffee to see me through the coming hours. I catch up on my diary, then set that aside and assemble my writing station. Android tablet and phone on their respective stands. Bluetooth keyboard and headset. I hotspot my tablet to my phone, open the document I’m currently working on, and begin writing. It’s not uncommon for four or five hours to go by. That’s not four hours writing without a break, but for most of it I’m head down, lost in what I’m doing. In the past I’ve said that the main reason I write is because I’m scared to stop. Karl’s e-mail helped me realise, however, that there’s more to it than that. I value the process of writing, the getting lost in the moment. My Saturday session at the coffee shop is the highlight of my week. I take days off work and spend them there, in this world of my own.

Now that I think about it, writing has always offered me this opportunity, no matter what I was working on at the time. Poetry, articles, short stories, the books I co-wrote with Fran, and now my blog posts. It happens less with my diary. That may be because that’s focused on the here and now of my life, rather than being a creative escape from it. It hasn’t only been writing, though. I remember my six-month university placement in Norwich, losing myself each weekend in the novels I picked up at the market. In Bradford and London, hours dissolving as I worked on painting portraits of my friends. When I first moved to Newcastle, my house-mate and landlady calling goodbye in the morning as I settled down at the dining table to work on my clay models. She’d return in the evening to find me still sitting there as though no more than an hour or so had passed. In more recent years, I remember losing myself working with Photoshop and web design.

The phenomenon is hard to describe from the outside, because by definition it’s characterised by being divorced from present reality. For me, the key features are an intense focus on what I’m doing, and an environment such that I’m not disturbed or jolted out of it. Although I’m focused on what I’m doing, I’m not consciously thinking about the next step. I’m more or less on auto pilot, following my creative instinct wherever it leads. I find background noise a boon rather than a hindrance. I’ve always found low level sound relaxing, especially conversation at a volume just below my ability to follow what’s being said. The background hum of the coffee shop helps me enter the almost meditative space I need. I’ve tried ambient noise apps but there’s no substitute for the real thing.

I was interested to note that Karl’s experience in the gym takes place in a noisy environment (“despite the blasting music I can shut out the noise of external life”). That probably wouldn’t work for me, although at times I’ve achieved success listening to certain music tracks on my headphones, loudly on repeat. I mentioned that I’d asked Karl to expand on his experiences. He gave me permission to use any parts I found relevant but I want to share it in full.

As a friend put it the other day, my Sensei is my other MH [mental health] doctor. Going to the gym is my “quiet place” where, despite the blasting music, I can shut out the noise of external life and just focus on one thing.

Outside of the gym, I’m a father of two, a husband, a specialist in my role at work, but most of all a 45 year old man who suffers with anxiety, depression, anger and low self worth. Inside the gym, I don’t need to be any of those things. I’m accepted for who I am — I’m eternally grateful to the owners of my small Martial Arts gym, who have fostered such a community amongst their members — but I don’t have to “be” anything. If I want to be quiet, and only speak to the person I’m training with, that’s fine. If I want to interact with the rest of the class, that’s fine too.

All of the stresses of the day, whether they are financial, work or familial, stay off the mats. My own personal rule is that my phone is on do-not-disturb for the hour I am in class. My smartwatch remains on my wrist, but when it is tracking a workout, it blocks notifications. For that one hour, to quote Metallica, “Nothing else matters.”

It’s not even about getting rid of aggression, although there is that too, when needed. It’s the scalpel-like focus required to throw a leg-kick which lands in just the right place to impact the lateralus muscle, but to do it without the force to disable the person you are working with. It’s the challenge of doing something better this time than you did last time.

I recently completed my 1st Dan Black belt examination, and sparring was part of the assessment. For those who don’t know, that means donning protective gear, extra padded gloves, and fighting one on one with a focus on technique and limited power. One of the instructors, who I also view as a friend, was helping out as a sparring partner and he countered almost every move I tried to make. Every punch or kick was blocked, evaded or answered with one of his own. I spoke to him afterwards, and he told me he was deliberately trying to provoke me, to get me to lose my cool, to get me to be out of control. He couldn’t, because I couldn’t — my training is my escape. I find my Zen in violence.

— Karl Douglass

I’m grateful to Karl, not only for contributing to this blog post, but for opening my eyes to a world I know little to nothing about.

As I check the time, I see that a couple of hours have passed since I began working on this post. For this all-too-brief period I’ve experienced what I call the gentle art of losing myself. I wonder whether it’s myself I lose at such times, or my attachment to everything other than myself. Karl writes of setting aside the roles of father, husband, and IT specialist, as well as labels relating to his health and wellbeing. I share some of those, and have many of my own. All are left behind when I enter my creative space, as Karl’s are when he enters the gym. I am, perhaps, more truly me, myself, and I when I’m in my little world than at any other time.

Several of my short stories — written years ago and unpublished beyond a small circle of friends — relate to people losing themselves in parallel worlds. In “Poser,” the portal to this alternative realm is a rogue computer program. The interplay between physical and virtual reality is explored further in “The Palantir of Josef Betz” and “Homeopathy has a word for IT.” In these tales, the alternative realms are perilous, to say the least. They’re a long way from the kind of inner world I’m describing here. There’s a link, however, in the quotation I opened with. In various ways, my short stories are all related to the fictional world of Middle-earth created by J. R. R. Tolkien. His 1947 essay “On Fairy Stories” was written as a defense of the genre and a repudiation of the derogatory charge of escapism levelled against it. It’s something I might explore further on another occasion.

Another hour has slipped by in the coffee shop, in my little world. It’s time to emerge, to re-engage in the real world. Whatever that is.

 

Photo by Hannah Wei at Unsplash.