First Munchie / Last Rolo: Little (Chocolate) Things Mean a Lot

There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.

— Linda Grayson

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with my friend Sophie who offered me the first chocolate from the tube she’d just bought herself.

“Would you like a Munchie?”

“It’s not quite your last Rolo but thank you!”

For anyone too young to recognise the reference, I was thinking of a long-running and much-loved TV advertising campaign from the eighties with the tagline “Do you love anyone enough to give them your last Rolo?” The original animated adverts were followed by live action ads demonstrating the unfortunate consequences of keeping Rolos to yourself. My favourites feature this couple on a train and the elephant’s revenge. I told Sophie how I once bought a tube of Rolos with the sole purpose of sending the last one to a dear friend. I made a little gift box for it and everything. It was a fun exchange and I walked away grateful for the memories as well as the Munchie. It occurred to me afterwards that chocolate has played a small but important role in many of my friendships.

Another series of classic TV advertisements featured a James Bond–style figure who risked all manner of dangers to surreptitiously deliver a box of Cadburys Milk Tray chocolates, with the tagline “And all because the lady loves Milk Tray.” I once took a box of Milk Tray to a friend, and managed to do so without scaling castle walls, hanging from cable cars, or navigating shark-infested waters.

Cadbury’s Freddo bars are a favourite of one of my best friends, Aimee. According to one article (The History of Cadbury’s Freddo Price: From 10p to 35p) “[the price of] this seemingly simple chocolate bar has become a symbol of inflation for many.” That may be true, but the cost doesn’t put me off. She’s worth it!

I remember sending a bag of Hershey’s Hugs to a friend abroad. (Hugs feature Hershey’s milk chocolate “hugged” by a white cream coating.) It was an impromptu impulse but I’m glad I acted on it because the gift meant a lot to my friend. I’ll note that American chocolate is often perceived as inferior by people here in the UK, but I feel that’s grossly unfair. I haven’t tried Hershey Hugs, but I’m partial to their iconic Kisses.

One of my dearest friends is partial to Green & Black’s organic chocolate. I enjoy putting together a selection of their variously flavoured bars for her at Christmas. Another friend loves Cadburys Dairy Milk and I used to bring a small bar for her most times we met. It became a small but valued part of our get-togethers. It’s by such gestures and routines that friendships are cemented and reinforced.

That brings to mind a friend from university days. One Christmas she sent me a box of little gifts. I don’t remember the gifts, but I do remember that she packed the box out with dozens of mini packets of Rowntree’s Jelly Tots. I was eating them for months afterwards!

High on my list of friendship confectionery is the small square of chocolate Fran saved me from her transatlantic voyage on board RMS Queen Mary 2 in 2013. The chocolate was eaten a long time ago but I keep the Cunard branded wrapper in the Traveler’s Notebook that serves as my memory journal. That little wrapper means the world to me. It serves as a keepsake of our first meeting in person in Southampton, and a token of our fourteen year mutually supportive friendship. On another occasion, Fran gifted me a box of four hand-made chocolates from Chocolats Passion French chocolaterie in Portland, Maine. They were almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

I’ve used chocolate as the example here, but not everyone likes or can tolerate it. In the course of writing this post I’ve learned that one of my newer friends doesn’t eat chocolate. (It’s okay, Jo. If you can forgive my total lack of interest in football, I can forgive you not eating chocolate!) The confectionery itself isn’t the point. What matters is knowing a few of your friend’s likes and dislikes, the things they reach for when they want to treat themselves or deserve a little lift. Knowing, and remembering. It might be a voucher for their favorite coffee shop or store, a bath bomb or scented candle, a pack of colouring pens, or a notebook. Whatever it is, having someone pay attention to your preferences means a lot. As one friend said to me, “I will never forget this.”

If anyone’s interested, I’m easily pleased. Lindt’s Lindor truffles are probably at the top of my list but any chocolate is appreciated, the darker the better. Walnut Whips and Toblerone are great (my Dad’s favourites). Milky Bar. (Who else remembers the Milky Bar Kid TV adverts?) Chocolate covered coffee beans evoke fond memories of Caffè Nero who used to sell them in little red cardboard boxes. No Ferrero Rocher, please.

The Last Rolo

I bought Sophie a tube of Rolos to thank her for inspiring this blog post. She very kindly saved the last one for me.

“My last Rolo for my friend Marty”

Another chocolate-related friendship memory is born!

Over to You

Do you have a favourite chocolate or candy? Do you know your friend’s preferred treat? What TV adverts evoke warm memories for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Main photo by Brett Jordan at Unsplash.

 

Use Your Words: Exploring the Power of Narrative for World Suicide Prevention Day

TW: Mention of suicide and suicidal thinking.

Be brave enough to start a conversation that matters.

— Margaret Wheatley (Turning to One Another)

Established in 2003 by the International Association for Suicide Prevention, World Suicide Prevention Day (WSPD) is observed each year on September 10. The theme identified for 2024–2026 is “Changing the Narrative on Suicide”.

Changing the narrative on suicide is about transforming how we perceive this complex issue. It’s about shifting from a culture of silence and lack of understanding to one of openness, empathy, and support. Changing the narrative on suicide aims to inspire individuals, communities, organizations, and governments to engage in open and honest discussions about suicide and suicidal behaviour. By initiating these vital conversations, we can break down barriers, raise awareness, and create better cultures of understanding and support.

Last year in Beyond the Hotline I discussed a range of approaches to suicide prevention. I explored how modern technology, community initiatives, and policy change are vital if we are to develop more holistic strategies for saving lives. This year, I want to focus on the power of language to change the narrative on suicide. Our words are important. We can employ them in various ways to influence how suicidality is perceived and talked about. We can make a difference.

What’s Wrong With the Current Narrative?

The call to change the narrative on suicide implies the existing narrative is unhealthy. What is that narrative and why does it need to be changed? In their post for WSPD 2024, the UK suicide prevention charity Papyrus identified a number of key elements in the prevailing narrative on suicide. Misleading myths and stigmas make it harder for people to reach out for help. These include labelling people who have ended their life as “selfish” or “taking the easy way out.” Other myths include the idea that suicide can’t be prevented, or that asking someone if they’re thinking about suicide will put the idea in their head. As Papyrus put it, “These myths are not true and need to be dispelled to end the stigma.” They also highlighted the fact that suicide awareness and prevention are not obligatory in the [UK] school curriculum. In their words, “It is vital our young people know how to support themselves, keep themselves safe and look after one another.”

Inconsistent reporting and representation of suicide and suicidality also needs to be challenged. Treated sensitively, TV dramas, movies, news, and other media offer valuable opportunities to educate and inform. Explicit or sensationalised treatment, however, can reinforce unhealthy stereotypes. There’s some evidence it can even lead to an increase in suicide rates. According to one recent research study, “The association between suicide reporting in the media and [rates of] suicide appears to be particularly strong following coverage of a celebrity suicide, especially when the suicide method used by the celebrity is reported.” These concerns were highlighted in a 2023 article in Missouri Medicine which focused on how suicide is discussed on social media. The article concludes, ”As far as the authors are aware, there are no formally vetted guidelines created for social media. Guidelines can help ground conversations and lead professionals and creators to discuss suicide safely and more easily.”

Online and offline, inappropriate language reinforces the stigma that already surrounds suicide. The clearest example is the continued use of the term “committed suicide.” This implies suicide is a crime, despite it being decriminalised in the UK in 1961. The lack of a healthy shared vocabulary is highlighted by Papyrus. “Many people are not aware of how to talk safely about suicide. Words have the power to heal, but they also have the power to harm. It is important we speak about suicide sensitively to avoid adding to the stigma and shame that surrounds it, as this can lead those who are having suicidal thoughts to not reach out for the help they need.”

What Would a Healthy Narrative on Suicide Look Like?

A healthy narrative on suicide would be characterised as confident, open, honest, informed, non-judgemental, supportive, and engaged. It would respect the thoughts, feelings, and needs of those in such pain and distress that suicide seems like a viable option. Crucially, it would be underpinned by practical, accessible, and appropriately funded medical, psychiatric, and other support services. This may seem a long way off, but we all have a role to play in moving towards that goal. We can begin by asking ourselves how we think and feel about suicide. This is our personal narrative. We all have one, whether we’ve thought about it before or not. Consider asking yourself the following questions.

What comes to mind when someone mentions suicide?

What are you feeling right now, reading this blog post?

Are you open to talking about suicide? If it’s a difficult topic for you, why is that?

If you learned that someone you know lives with suicidal thoughts, how would you respond? Would it affect your relationship with them?

What do you think when you discover a famous artist or celebrity has taken their life? Does it change how you feel about them and their artistic legacy?

This exercise isn’t about self-criticism or judgement. It’s about being honest about your thoughts, feelings, and perspective on a topic that affects more people than you may realise. As I wrote in a post for WSPD 2023, if you imagine no one you know lives with suicidal thinking, you’re almost certainly wrong.

One in five people in the UK have suicidal thoughts and one in twenty will attempt suicide. Statistics such as these can be hard to grasp, but there will be people in your life — your friends, family, neighbours, and colleagues — with direct experience of suicidal thinking. You might not know who or how many, and it’s not a comfortable realisation, but it’s the simple truth. Many of my friends have had, or still have, thoughts of suicide. Some have made attempts to end their life. Others have not. I know this because it’s not a taboo subject for us and comes up in conversation whenever it needs to.

Exploring our personal narrative on suicide is a good start, but what comes next?

How Can I Contribute to a Healthy Narrative on Suicide?

The first thing we can do is pay attention to the language we use. UK charity Samaritans publish media guidelines for reporting suicide. Equivalent media guidelines are published by Papyrus. Although written for journalists and other professionals, they’re relevant to all of us. The authors of the previously mentioned Missouri Medicine article proposed eight “key strategies to encourage people to responsibly report and discuss suicide on social media.” In brief, these are as follows.

1. Include a content notice or trigger warning
2. Limit details
3. Take care with use of images
4. Take care with the use of language
5. Don’t sensationalise
6. Don’t assume you know why someone died by suicide
7. Monitor and curate comments that other people post
8. Provide messages of hope

I recommend reading the original article for more details. These guidelines are relevant to all of us who post and comment on social media, or any other public platform. Beyond paying more attention to how we talk about suicide, what else can we do?

Consider contributing to the narrative on suicide by sharing your story. This might include your experience of suicidal feelings, your thoughts on suicidality more generally, your experience supporting someone through suicidal thinking or attempts to take their life, or as a suicide survivor. Personal testament can be transformational, whether it’s shared publically or in private conversation and discussion with those we know. This is true generally, not solely with regard to suicide and suicidality. In the words of American inspirational speaker and author Iyanla Vanzant, “It’s important that we share our experiences with other people. Your story will heal you and your story will heal somebody else. When you tell your story, you free yourself and give other people permission to acknowledge their own story.”

This is something I’ve found to be true in my journey as a supportive friend to people whose challenges including mental illness, past trauma and abuse, self-harm, and suicidal thinking. I’ve learned so much from them and from the shared experiences of others. Through our books and this blog I offer my experiences in return in the hope they may inform and help others. As I’ve expressed it elsewhere:

SPEAK YOUR TRUTH. WHISPER IT. SCREAM IT. LIVE IT. YOU NEVER KNOW WHO MIGHT NEED TO HEAR WHAT ONLY YOU CAN SAY. THIS STUFF MATTERS. YOU MATTER.

Perhaps you have little personal experience, or don’t feel confident talking about it. You still have a role to play. Use whatever platforms you have to demonstrate that suicide is not a taboo subject. Follow mental health and suicide prevention accounts. Share other people’s words and posts that treat suicide and suicidality in healthy and positive ways. Challenge and report stigmatising, ignorant, or intolerant behaviour, online and offline.

Consider wearing badges or clothing with positive messages concerning mental health or suicide awareness. A number of organisation offer such merchandise, including Boys Get Sad Too, Live2lives, and To Wear Love On Her Arms. As I’ve written previously, wearing t-shirts is not enough on its own. It nevertheless demonstrates to those around you that you’re a safe person to approach or talk to about subjects which so often are considered taboo.

It’s important to acknowledge that not everyone feels able to share their experiences or engage openly in discussing such personal and sensitive topics. Respecting this is part of a healthy narrative too.

Talk About It If It Keeps You Here

I’ll close with a short but incredibly powerful video by Lauren Nicole Jankowski which was shared on Instagram by NSG (Never Stop Growing).

I met someone at a bar last night and he said the most profound thing I have ever heard. It hit me right in the chest. The conversation was about mental health and grief and how they go hand in hand. And I said I just feel like all my friends are annoyed with me because it’s all I talk about lately. I feel like I talk about my loss too much. And do you know what he said? He set his drink down and he looked at me and he said. “Talk about it if it keeps you here.”

I literally had goosebumps. I didn’t even know what to say back. How true and important is that statement? There’s no such thing as talking about mental health too much, talking about your struggles too much, talking about your loss and grief too much, if that is what’s keeping you here. If that is what is helping you heal. If that is what is getting you through the damn day. Talk about it. Talk about it so you stay.

Lauren captures perfectly the power of words, of talking about our pain, of sharing our story. And of holding space for others to do so, whether it’s someone we know well or someone we meet once in a bar. Make your words and spaces kind. You might give someone the hope to go on for one more day. You might just save a life.

 

Photo by Andreas Fickl on Unsplash.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (August 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

1. The Box on the Shelf: A Strategy for Handling Difficult Issues and Situations
2. Shhhhhhh! A Friend’s Guide to Secrets
3. Twelve Songs That Remind Me What Caring Is All About
4. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
5. I’m on My Way: Thoughts Inspired by Ed Sheeran’s “Castle on the Hill”
6. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man
7. Supportive Disengagement: How to Be There for Your Friend When They Need Space
8. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
9. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
10. You Feel like Someone I Knew a Long Time Ago — Why Are Friendship Breakups So Hard?

Our most visited pages were:

1. Contact Us
2. Our books
3. About Us
4. News and Appearances
5. Resources
6. Testimonials

 

Photo of St Thomas’ Newcastle by Martin Baker.

 

It's in the Post: A Tribute to the Perilous Act of Posting a Letter

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.

— Phyllis Theroux

This blog post was inspired by a recent video call with Fran while I was taking one of my lunchtime walks. As we passed the pub I noticed the postbox by the road was shrouded in black plastic. A printed notice declared it out of use. A little research suggests it’s part of Royal Mail’s “postboxes of the future” programme to upgrade the traditional red postboxes to support barcode scanning and handle small packages. Others in the region are being upgraded, including the box outside The Hungry Caterpillar post office in Dipton, Stanley. According to one report, “the news has been met with scepticism and sadness by villagers.”

I know how they feel. There’s a post office counter in the general store beside the pub and a postbox at our local supermarket, but I’ve used this one hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Seeing it taped up like that was a shock. It felt and still feels disrespectful. An insult to something that’s played a small but important part in my life for more than three decades.

I’ve written previously about my life-long love of letter writing but I want to focus here on the physical act of posting a letter. It’s often overlooked, but for me it’s always been one of the most meaningful parts of the process. I described it to Fran as “the ambience of mailboxes.” (We’ve been best friends since 2011 and I routinely shift into using American terms and pronunciation when we’re together.)

I’ve think I’ve always felt it. That unique combination of excitement, anticipation, fear, and commitment as I walk to the postbox, take the envelope from my bag or pocket, look at it one last time, and push it through the slot. I hold it between my fingers for a moment then let it fall inside. American writer and environmentalist Terry Tempest Williams has called it “the release of the letter to the mailbox.” It’s a watershed moment. A perilous act. The point of no return.

Who hasn’t felt that frisson as we step away from the postbox? Our words, our feelings, confessions, doubts, hopes, and dreams are sealed in there. It’s like taking a loved one to the rail station and leaving them on the platform to await their train. We’ve done our part. All we can do now is trust that our words will be delivered to their intended destination. And more, that they will be received and understood as we hope they will be.

How many times have I felt that? Too many to remember them all but a few come to me now. (One of the less obvious rewards of blogging is that I get to revisit past thoughts and experiences that might otherwise languish unrecalled.) The first was so long ago I’m unsure if it actually happened. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Did I write and post a love note to the girl I’d fancied since junior school? Or did the terrifying realisation I could do get the better of me? I still remember her name. I can’t quite recall her address but I know where it was. (Ironically, just across the road from the post office.) In any case, there was no reply. There never would have been.

Summer break from university brought ample opportunity to send letters of love and affection to the important people in my life. There were postboxes close to my childhood home but I’d take long evening walks to prolong the experience of sending my letters on their way. I’d then torture myself over the wisdom or otherwise of doing so. Did I say too much? Not enough? I’ve erred in both directions in my time. The agony of waiting for a reply is captured in one of my poems from those days.

So few words would despatch misapprehension,
End this love’s charade,
Or blow despair upon the wings of a kinder truth.

But tide and time have marked another day
And still no word
—not one—
Consoles me.

— from “Faithfully (unanswered)”

A few years later I spent six months on university placement at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. I have fond memories of writing to one of my very closest friends each week. I’d start at the weekend, gathering my thoughts and words together before copying them neatly into a letter or card. When the time felt right I’d walk to the postbox in the centre of town, savouring the moment and anticipating how my words might be received. I checked my mailbox in the nurses home each day for a reply.

I write fewer letters these days than I used to, but there are a great many memories associated with that classic red postbox by the pub. The letters and cards I sent every day to one friend through what turned out to be the final two years of her life. The letters I still send each week to my friend in Cornwall. The “Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?” card I sent a friend several years ago, months into our second breakup. Approaching the postbox, I felt the familiar mix of trepidation and inevitability. Was I right to suggest reconnection? Were my words appropriate? I might have changed my mind but knew I wouldn’t. I let the envelope slip from my fingers and stepped away. For right or wrong, I was committed. I knew there might be no response. (There was.)

It’s precious moments like this — memories like this — that are imperilled by the black plastic shrouding and the threat of a “postbox of the future.” The current box has been out of service in the past, most recently during the covid pandemic, but this feels different. Hopefully, the experience won’t be permanently tainted.

In the course of writing this piece I came across a wonderful blog called The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society, and this post in particular which discusses the origins of the hashtag #PostboxSaturday. It also includes a selection of postbox-related links and photos of postboxes from all over the UK. Do check it out and follow the The Handwritten Letter Appreciation Society on Twitter/X, Facebook, and Instagram. The Society’s mission is “To inspire people to write handwritten letters to each other.” It’s a worthy aim.

I thought I’d close with a few quotations extolling the virtues of letter writing.

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox — are all acts of tenderness.

— Terry Tempest Williams

When you see a handwritten envelope addressed to you in your packet of mail when you get your mail out of the mailbox — when you see a personal letter waiting for you — it’s exciting. It touches you. You say “Oh, somebody really thought of me and didn’t just slap a mailing label across an envelope. Somebody wrote something to me.”

— Martha Williamson

I’ve always felt there is something sacred in a piece of paper that travels the earth from hand to hand, head to head, heart to heart.

— Robert Michael Pyle

Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.

— Lord Byron

I wrote you a love letter, and I sent it snail mail. Love is forever, and that’s about how long it’ll take to get to you.

— Jarod Kintz

That last one brings a wry smile, given the present state of the postal service. Posting a letter these days really is an act of faith!

Over to You

Are you someone who enjoys writing and receiving letters? Do you have a favourite postbox? Have you ever posted a letter and regretted it? Or doubted yourself only to be very glad you sent it? We’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Kutan Ural at Unsplash.

 

Are My Blog Posts Relevant to You? An Open Letter to My Readers

Dear friends.

This letter is written to the readers of this blog, especially those of you with lived experience other than my own. Chronic mental or physical health conditions. Disability. Trauma. Abuse. Rape. Self-harm. Suicidality. Debilitating fatigue, pain, or insomnia. These are things I’ve never known and cannot pretend to speak to or understand. Such awareness as I have is second-hand, shared by those willing to open their lives and selves to me. Friends. Family. Colleagues. Strangers. I will always be grateful for the trust implied by such deep sharing.

We write best about what we know personally. With respect to this blog, that’s my experience as a supportive friend to Fran and others. Fran and I wrote our book High Tide Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder on exactly that premise. It’s a perspective that’s valuable and arguably under-represented. Last year I was invited to write about being there for a friend who has survived rape and abuse. It turned out to be one of the strongest pieces I’ve written in recent years. Another article I’m proud of was inspired by a friend asking if I was okay hearing the details of her past experiences.

This blog was founded in 2013 as a space for me and Fran to share our thoughts and experience about mental health and supportive friendships. Over the years I’ve widened the scope to include content based more on my life, interests, and experiences. That’s valid when I’m discussing men’s mental health, gender identity, health checks for potentially serious conditions such as prostate cancer, or the challenges of end of life planning. But I do wonder if I’m indulging my own interests too much, diluting our core message in the process.

I’m thinking of pieces that explore my doubts and struggles, many of which seem mundane or even trivial compared to the challenges many of my friends — many of you — live with. This was brought home to me recently. I was chatting with Aimee Wilson, one of my closest friends and a fellow blogger. Her award-winning blog I’m NOT Disordered draws extensively on Aimee’s lived experience. I mentioned my idea for a blog post about the day I’d just spent at the coast and how my hopes of eating chips by the sea had been thwarted by circumstance. That same day Aimee had shared a social media post to mark eighteen years since she reported her experience of abuse and rape. “This content,” she wrote, “provides thoughts and advice for loved ones of survivors, survivors themselves, and professionals, as well as a QR code [for information about training programmes], all the reasons I’ve made it, and contact info for help and support.” She closed with the hope that people might find it useful.

I could not have been more proud of my friend, but my plan to write about my day at the coast felt suddenly trivial and silly. Sharing my experience of low-grade anxiety and depression is one thing. I struggle far less with my mental health than others but anxiety and low mood are part of my reality. Likewise my experience of alexithymia. I’ve also written extensively about the process and challenges of blogging. All this seems valid for me to explore and of potential relevance to other people who may find themselves in similar situations. But my disappointment because I didn’t get any chips on a day out? Aimee reassured me the idea was imaginative and creative but I was less than convinced. I completed the post nonetheless, so you can make up your own mind about it. (It’s not all about chips. There are some model yachts too.)

Perhaps I’m worrying unnecessarily. Not every piece needs to be cutting-edge, serious, deep, or societally significant. Maybe it’s okay to let the world know such things occupy my thoughts at times and engage my imagination. In recent months, we’ve shared posts about making a difference in the world; a short story of mine from 2001; a post about being aware of our friends’ needs; two open letters to Fran, one written for World Bipolar Day; a short poem about ducks; the post I mentioned earlier about checking if people are okay talking about difficult topics; a look at what makes us feel powerful; and the impact of daylight saving time on long-distance friendships.

Looking through this list of topics, I’m somewhat reassured, but what do you think? Are articles such as these of interest and relevance to you? What would you like to see more — or less — of? Are there any specific topics you’d like me to write about or focus on? I’m aware that we’ve not had any guest posts in a while, so that’s definitely something for Fran and I to consider. As always, we’d love to hear your thoughts and suggestions, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

Thank you.

Marty

 

Photo by S L at Unsplash.

 

Please Do Not Feed the Geese: A Five Question Guide to Giving and Taking Advice

I am, at heart, a tiresome nag complacently positive that there is no human problem which could not be solved if people would simply do as I advise.
— Gore Vidal

People don’t always need advice. Sometimes all they really need is a hand to hold, an ear to listen, and a heart to understand them.
— Unknown

A friend will give you good advice — and stand by you when you ignore it.
— Pamela Dugdale

This post was inspired by a conversation with my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson. Aimee described an article she was writing on the topic of advice, and it got me thinking. I’ve discussed giving and taking advice previously, in such posts as A Few Thoughts on Taking My Own Advice and How to Give Mental Health Help and Advice to People You Don’t Know. It’s a broad topic, though, and there are many aspects I’ve not covered before. In this post I’ll explore a few more, focusing on the following five questions.

• What does giving advice mean to you?
• How good (or bad) are you at taking advice?
• When is it appropriate to offer advice and when is it best not to?
• What is the best (or worst) advice you’ve ever received?
• Was there a time when your advice was really helpful to someone else?

I’ll answer each of these questions for myself, then share the thoughts of others who were generous enough to respond to my request for contributions.

What Does Giving Advice Mean to You?

I’ve always been wary of giving or asking for advice. Another person’s experience and wisdom can help us decide what to do, but no matter who you are or who you ask, advice is no more and no less than someone else’s opinion. Your doctor, psychiatrist, therapist, lawyer, and financial advisor may be — and hopefully are — experts in their respective fields. Their opinions are to be respected, but no one knows for certain what’s best for someone else. You are the expert at being you, so treat other people’s advice accordingly. Mine included. If you ask for my thoughts about what’s going on for you, I’ll be happy to share them. Just take them for what they are. The ideas and opinions of someone who cares and wants to help, but makes no claim to know what’s best for you.

How Good (Or Bad) Are You at Taking Advice?

If you ask Fran she’ll tell you I’m dreadful at taking advice! We were discussing this recently and she exclaimed, with no little frustration, “You never listen!” I countered that I do listen, I just rarely do what she suggests! Joking aside, my resistance to other people’s advice is rooted in the fact I rarely ask for any, so any advice I’m offered is usually unsolicited. Asking someone’s advice invites them into your situation. That in itself changes things, as I’ve learned from experience. There are exceptions, but I prefer to keep my deliberations to myself and figure things out on my own.

I’m far more likely to follow someone’s example than take their advice. Decluttering is a case in point. Fran’s apartment is a clutter-free haven, tidy whilst still feeling warm and lived-in. It’s something I can only aspire to. A few months ago I cleared the equivalent of several rubbish bins (trash cans) of old clothes that had been lying around for years. It barely touched the surface of what needs to be thrown out, but it did feel good. Financial management is another example. I held a significant amount of money for years in a bank account where it earned negligible interest. Fran’s determination to rationalise her finances gave me the incentive I needed to research my options. The money now resides in a new account earning a respectible level of interest while I consider if there’s a better place for it.

When Is It Appropriate to Offer Advice and When Is It Best Not To?

I believe it’s appropriate to offer advice if you’ve been asked explicitly. It’s inappropriate to impose your opinions on someone who doesn’t want them, especially if you know nothing about them or their present situation. I feel far more comfortable offering suggestions to Fran or other close friends than to someone I barely know. This is partly because I can tailor my suggestions and presentation based on what I know of them, their situation, and our friendship. Above all, it’s important that the person feels able to decline, amend, or challenge my advice, rather than blindly following what I tell them.

This raises the question of responsibility. If someone follows your advice and things turn out poorly for them, who is responsible — you or them? It’s not a trivial question. It’s why professionals are careful about the advice they offer and insure themselves against claims for redress if things go badly.

What Is the Best (Or Worst) Advice You’ve Ever Received?

I’ve made decisions over the years that have turned out other than I’d hoped or desired at the time, but I can’t blame any of them on following poor advice. In fact, I can’t remember ever being given bad advice. (Maybe Fran is right and I don’t listen to any advice, good or bad!)

I mentioned this to Aimee. “I don’t think I’ve had bad advice either,” she replied. “But I wonder if that’s because if someone were to suggest something and you know it wouldn’t work well then you don’t listen or do it. Perhaps it shows a good understanding and sense of direction to establish if the advice is just not right without trialling it.” This makes sense to me. I don’t feel obliged to follow a suggested course of action just because someone told me I should. If it feels wrong, I’ll set it aside.

I can think of two pieces of good advice that have stuck with me. The first is something Fran shared with me early in our friendship. It’s the analogy of holding — and dropping — a hot coal. It comes originally from Eckhart Tolle’s book The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment.

How do you drop a piece of hot coal that you are holding in your hand? How do you drop some heavy and useless baggage that you are carrying? By recognizing that you don’t want to suffer the pain or carry the burden anymore and then letting go of it.

I’ve been known to physically mimic the action of opening my hand to drop something that’s been causing me pain as I walk to work, or on my way to the supermarket. It might sound silly but it works.

The second piece of good advice was offered to me by another dear friend, Louise. As I described in The Gentle Art of Letting Go someone I knew was struggling and I felt utterly unable to offer meaningful support. Louise reminded me that not all the team is on the field at all times. “Keep in mind that your friend is going through her stuff,” she said. “You’re still on her team, just not playing right now.” Her words helped me navigate a difficult and confusing phase in that particular friendship, and informed my concept of supportive disengagement.

Was There a Time When Your Advice Was Really Helpful to Someone Else?

In the Foreword to our book High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder mental health advocate and author Rachel Kelly couched our book’s relevance in terms of the advice it offers.

As someone who has suffered from debilitating depression, and now writes about mental health, there is one question I am nearly always asked by those who come to my talks and workshops. What is my advice for those who are caring for someone with a mental illness? What is the best way to be a true and supportive friend? I’ve often thought if only there was a book I could recommend. Martin Baker and Fran Houston have now written just such a book.

Given Rachel’s background and experience as an ambassador for mental health charities including SANE and Rethink Mental Illness, her endorsement means a great deal. Interestingly, neither Fran nor I think of our book as offering advice. It was written more as a collection of ideas and strategies from which our readers might select what resonates for them. Fran made this explicit in our book’s Epilogue:

How do I help my friend? What should I try? What works? So many choices. So many possibilities. To me this book is less of a memoir than a menu. [...] Choose something. A bit of this. A bit of that. And let that something ease another’s pain.

In Teardrops and Waterfalls I describe a conversation with Fran in which we discussed what it’s like to hold space for a friend who wants to talk about whatever’s going on for them. Fran said she found this overwhelming at times. 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.

The waterfall analogy is something we both find helpful and refer to from time to time.

I asked two friends if there was anything I’ve offered them by way of advice that they found especially useful. Louise interprets advice the way I do, in terms of suggestions and opinions. “You’ve helped by just listening and offering an opinion on a situation,” she said. “I really appreciate the opinions of like-minded others such as yourself when I’m going through a hard time. Reassurance about a decision, you always offer that. And sometimes you have offered an alternative perspective based on your experiences of similar things. You’ve also often got support materials that you’re able to signpost me to.”

Aimee recalled a time when she asked me to proofread her presentation for a major conference. I noticed a few of the headings were inconsistently capitalised and suggested an online capitalisation tool I use myself. This is a good example of practical advice and demonstrates the importance of offering appropriate guidance in appropriate ways. We both blog in the mental health space but our approaches, workflows, and writing styles are very different. Unless I spot an obvious typo or error in Aimee’s writing, I keep my thoughts or suggestions to myself. She does the same. “You should do it this way” wouldn’t go down well, no matter which of us said it! On this occasion, she’d explicitly asked for my opinion and I felt my contribution was both welcome and appreciated.

Contributions from Others

I’m grateful to everyone who responded to my social media request for thoughts about advice in general, and my five questions in particular. Contributions are presented with only minor edits for clarity.

Advice has an edge to it. “May I make a suggestion” is gentler.
— Fran

My worst advice was from the crisis team when I was self harming. They told me to have a warm bath. I think people relate when they have been through the same as you and can open up more, I could never open up to a professional as it’s all text book talking.
— Joanne

Seconding Joanne’s experience with the bath advice! I actually have a wet room in my home so there’s only a shower so I once told them that if I say I’m having a bath, be more concerned cuz it means I’m hallucinating baths! I wrote a blog post about it called STOP TELLING ME TO TAKE A BATH!” | WHAT TO DO WHEN THEIR ADVICE DOESN’T HELP.
— Aimee

Advice is a delicate thing, I think. It’s about social courtesy, or social dynamics. You have to feel it out. Listening and just being present are really important. I try and let people think things out for themselves.
— Jen.

Always bear in mind when offering advice, that each person has their own “map of the world” and what works for you might not be the right thing for the other person. Try to ask a few questions, listen and respect what you hear, before you start talking. When someone offers you advice, then try to accept it, listen before you decline. Then decide for yourself.
— Charlotte

I’ve thought about it and the first thing that comes to mind (repeatedly) is that it’s VERY important (helpful) to know when not to offer advice and when to offer it. The next thing is, is it advice I would or do take for myself.
— Andrea

When we give advice we need to remember the person is not us, their situations is not ours. I am happy to take advice. I may not follow it, but it’s good to have as it’s a starting place to think about and helps you to begin to deal with the circumstances. Worst advice for me was don’t do it or you can’t do that, although maybe in some situations it may have been the best advice. I was a young people’s support worker and then social worker. I have seen a few now grown up and they have said I helped them through by listening, discussing, and asking them what they wanted long-term and supporting them to work best way to get there. I was a social worker and had to give advice to parents sometimes that they didn’t want to hear, but that was to protect their children.
— Anonymous

First, know the person you are advising. Second, don’t give advice on something you haven’t personally experienced. Third, make sure the advice isn’t given with a negative/criticism kind of connotation. No one likes a know it all lol.
— Jessica

Paul responded to each of my questions at length, which is much appreciated.

What does giving advice mean to you?
When to offer someone advice, and when not to?

There are two scenarios for me. Someone asks me for some help or I can see they need some help and I offer it. With the first scenario obviously there are multiple questions that I could be asked but it usually is in the format “This is what is happening, what do you think?” I then view what I’m hearing [from the perspective that] the person wants to be out of their state of mind or even physical predicament, and what’s the best I can do to work out a plan or set of ideas with them to do that.

The second scenario is where I see somebody who has got something on their mind and they are displaying that so I ask questions. If they don’t want to talk about it I stop but if they do, revert to scenario one.

With both scenarios it is always the default from me that I sympathise. Sometimes the best “giving advice” is simply being there in front of the person, hearing it all out. All of this is outside the family of course. How we do things in our family is completely different. Families are worlds of their own!

How good (or bad) are you at taking advice?

Pretty good because if I am asking anybody for advice it really does mean I have done absolutely everything to try and figure it out what’s bothering me but I can’t. I only ask people who I consider to have good intellectual ability because to be quite honest those sorts of people I believe always do really understand. Currently the only three people I would turn to (as in meet physically) for specific advice for a couple of things that were bugging me a while back are Martin Baker, a guy called Gaz Robinson who lives in York who I knew from the 80s, and Martin Wood a Darlington guy who is upfront and as analytical as they come, which is how I like people to be when I need some advice. I also talk to my two children Miles and Clifford occasionally because they have always been superbright lads, and as they are now past the age 30 mark they have some experience as well. I have definitely picked up some good tips to figure out my own dilemmas from them.

What’s the best (or worst) advice you’ve ever received?

I’ve never had bad advice from anybody because by the time I need advice I really have gone over all the possibilities, but I am still unsure which one of them is the best to get what I want to happen. Occasionally I have been told that all the possibilities I have worked out are probably not good ideas! They were definitely “Ouch” moments but that is the way it has to go sometimes!

A time when your advice was really helpful to someone else.

This is usually when the advice is of the type “Stick in there and you will win through” or “Get out of the situation because you’re wasting your time.” The confidence booster is welcomed and the understanding warning to ditch what is happening is also appreciated.

— Paul

Thank you again to everyone who contributed.

Over to You

In this post I’ve shared my thoughts and experiences concerning advice, and those of others who have been generous with their perspectives. What do you think about giving other people advice? Are you comfortable asking for advice? Who do you trust to approach for advice? I’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Todd Morris at Unsplash.

 

You Feel like Someone I Knew a Long Time Ago — Why Are Friendship Breakups So Hard?

Somebody asked me if I knew you. A million memories flashed through my mind, but I just said, I used to.

— Unknown

This post was inspired by my friend Louise who sent me a short video from a day trip to Mallorca. After showing me the blue sky, sandy beach, and palm trees Louise focused on a magazine open beside her. “I’ve just been reading this article,” she said. “I thought you’d find it interesting.” The article was Why don’t we treat friendship breakups as seriously as romantic ones? by Michelle Elman. According to the magazine, the author “has had her fair share of heartbreak but when her best friend of eight years ghosted her, she felt a new, confusing kind of loss.”

Louise was right. Friendships, especially mutually supportive ones, are important to both of us. We’ve been firm friends since we met online in 2019. Coincidentally, her trip to Mallorca fell on the fourth anniversary of us meeting in person for the first time. That morning I’d shared social media memories of us at my local coffee shop and sitting together on my favourite bench.

Breakups and Emotional Honesty

But this blog post isn’t about close friendships. It’s about the ending of close friendships. Louise and I have yet to experience anything approaching a breakup. I don’t think we’ve had so much as a serious disagreement or argument. I hope we never do, but I’m not complacent. Over the course of my adult life many friendships have had issues and disagreements, up to and including total breakups. The breaks haven’t all been as permanent as they appeared at the time. Some have never been repaired but I’ve reconnected with several friends after shorter or longer periods apart. In a few cases that’s happened more than once.

A friendship which breaks and resumes can be stronger for the experience, but that’s not automatic and cannot be assumed. Growth requires a willingness to examine what led to the breakup in the first place. Simply picking up where you left off won’t address the underlying differences or issues. This isn’t easy work. There have been times I’ve held back from asking the important questions — What really happened? Did I hurt you? What do we need to guard against or watch out for? How can we do this better? — because I was scared to uncover the truth. As I’ve written previously, it can be easier to permanently end relationships — or allow them to end — than deal with the reality of them changing. A little more courage and honesty on my part might have saved a great deal of hurt over the years, for me and the other people involved.

Each breakup was unique to that friendship and to that time. In some cases the responsibility is easily attributed. I was largely responsible for some breakups, less so for others. Reasons and responsibility aside, how did it feel? How will it feel next time (because there will be a next time)? In my experience, there are three breakup scenarios. When it feels right, when it feels wrong, and when you don’t understand what’s happening.

When It Feels Right

As hard as any breakup is, there are times when you recognise things have run their course and separation feels natural, if not inevitable. The following insight came to me after one such parting.

In the end there comes a time when you are ready to let go. Not because you stopped caring about them. But because you started caring about you.

That breakup was no one’s fault but that’s not always the case. There are situations where the connection itself has become toxic. In that case, ending the friendship is not only appropriate but healthy. There’s wisdom in recognising that the toxicity doesn’t always come from the other person. As I’ve written elsewhere, “maybe you were an asshole and they needed to push you away for their safety and well-being.” I explored this further in a post discussing healthy boundaries.

Not all relationships are healthy, however. I have had to acknowledge the concept of toxic relationships: not as a label of judgement or blame, but as a valuable descriptor. This has been hard, not least because I have far more examples of me being toxic to others than of others being toxic to me.

This was often down to me being either overly attentive or insufficiently engaged. These scenarios are not unconnected. There were times when I overcompensated and held back from a friend for fear of overwhelming them or causing concern. There are echoes of this in two poems of mine from long ago. The first was written during a period of upheaval within my circle of friends. I navigated what was happening very poorly. Worse, I withdrew from people who had a right to expect my empathy and support.

Mothly,
how i ache to understand you,
neither comfort nor console
but holdyou .then a fiercer
flame repels: the memory
of another that my flutterings
confused (an age too long ago.

— from “Mothly”

The second was addressed to a new friend.

i feel i’ve found a newfriend
in you .someone to think fondly of
speak fondly to, afraid though i
might hurt you (like the rest)
by coming on too strong

— from “untitled three”

I hope I’ve developed some emotional maturity in the intervening years, but I’d never judge someone for exiting a friendship — with me or anyone else — that felt toxic or worrisome to them.

When It Feels Wrong

There are breakups which just feel wrong. Something happened between you but it feels like it should be fixable. Except it isn’t. Or wasn’t. Or it might have been but somehow a line was crossed. It feels worse because of that sense of injustice. Whatever happened, the consequences seem disproportionate to the offence.

If that’s how you feel, check your assumptions. You may have hurt your friend far more than you anticipated or imagine. Maybe they misunderstood your intentions. Maybe you meant nothing by it. But you don’t get to tell your friend how to feel or respond. Actions have consequences. Apologise if it’s not too late, but respect their right to act however seems appropriate to them, up to and including ending your friendship.

It’s not always your fault, of course. Maybe your friend crossed a red line and you’re not prepared to ignore it or set it aside. I’ve walked away from very few friendships in my life, but there have been a few occasions when it felt the only thing to do.

When You Don’t Understand What’s Happening

And then there are the breakups where you don’t understand what’s happening at all. Maybe it’s your fault. Maybe it’s theirs. Maybe there’s really no one at fault. Earlier today I checked my social media “memories” and was reminded of a day trip to the coast with a new friend, fifteen years ago. Nothing went wrong between us, but that excursion was never repeated and the friendship lapsed. It was the gentlest of breakups with no lasting hurt beyond my incomprehension. The day had seemed so promising.

The hardest endings are where there’s been a breakdown in communication. It’s hard to resolve things and move forward together, or part gently, when you’re scarcely talking. The mixture of pain and confusion is expressed perfectly by Taylor Swift in her song The Story of Us.

I’d tell you I miss you but I don’t know how.
I’ve never heard silence quite this loud.

Now I’m standing alone in a crowded room
And we’re not speaking and I’m dying to know
Is it killing you like it’s killing me?

The song triggers painful memories. In the midst of an emotional maelstrom forty years ago I told my best friend, “It feels like you’re someone I knew a long time ago.” The words were honest but it appals me that I said them to someone who meant the world to me and was both vulnerable and hurting. What made it worse was that my friend was attempting to reach out. Not necessarily to explain — some things are beyond explanation — but to reconnect. I was confused and upset, but that’s no excuse. I handled things poorly and treated my friend with far less compassion and understanding than she deserved. We moved forward, though it’s arguable if things were ever the same. (If you read this, I’m sorry. I will always be sorry.)

There are more recent examples. Other friends. Other breakdowns in communication. In each case things would have been easier if we’d been able to talk. To ask what was going on. To challenge each other as to what we wanted. It’s not always easy.

How to Handle Your Next Friendship Breakup

Until I met Fran I’d always considered a broken friendship to be a failure. She taught me that not every friendship has to last forever and that sometimes letting go is the healthy thing to do. Recognising that any friendship can end heightens rather than diminishes their importance. Good friendships don’t happen by accident and are worth fighting for, as is any relationship.

Louise offered me the following insight. “The magazine article was saying how we get kind of ‘prepared’ for the fact that in life we’ll experience relationship breakups; but not in the case of friendships. I see a lot of people struggle when this has happened.” I think that’s true. We have an idealised view of friendship. We believe that “real” or “true” friendships last forever. From that mistaken premise follows the unhealthy idea that a friendship which ends was never real in the first place, so there’s no need to dwell on it. Buck up and move on. Needless to say, I disagree.

It’s healthy to grieve the ending of close friendships as much as any other loss, including the breakup of romantic relationships. Recognising how much had changed during our months apart, one friend said to me when we reconnected, “You’ll always have your good memories. And so will I.” We broke up again shortly after but her gentle wisdom still means a great deal to me.

From Fran I’ve learned not to expect or push for reconnection, but to remain open to the possibility. I cited a conversation with her in a blog post on healthy boundaries. We were talking about how she manages to release her hold on difficult, even toxic, relationships without forever banishing the other person to the Forbidden Zone.

Fran: I don’t give up on people.

Martin: I have learned to let go.

Fran: Giving up is different than letting go.

Martin: I was just pondering that. I’m not sure. Maybe.

Fran: Giving up implies hopelessness. Letting go implies openness. Open handedness.

Martin: Closing the door vs leaving it open?

Fran: Yes.

Martin: It’s not always healthy to leave the door open. (That’s what I’m thinking, anyway, about me and my relationships.)

Fran: It’s ok to close the door but not the heart.

Years later, I’d revisit those words. During a prolonged breakup with a friend I wrote:

I didn’t lock the door. I just stopped watching at the window for your return.

The insight has helped me more than once. Whether we’ve reconnected or not, if I ever called you my friend I still care, and I’ll be here if you want my help or support. Those are not mere words on my part. That said, I’m wary of reaching out to former friends if we’ve spent considerable time apart. There is peace in closed chapters.

 

Over to You

In this blog post I’ve shared some of my thoughts about friendship breakups. How do you feel when close friendships end? How do you manage friendship breakups? Do you have friendships that have lasted decades, or do you tend to make new friends as older ones end or fall away? I’d love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Kateryna Hliznitsova at Unsplash.

 

The Real BFFs: Best and Fairest Friends Who Know the Difference Between "I'm Fine" and "I'm F-I-N-E"

Noun

best and fairest (plural best and fairests)
(Australia, sports, rugby, Australian rules football) an award given to a player deemed to have been the best performer in a game or over a season.

See also: MVP [Most Valued Player], man or woman of the match

I recently learned of the Australian sporting term best and fairest. It’s used to recognise the best player on a team, often reflecting both their skill and sportsmanship. More generally, it describes a player who is exceptional in some way or has made a significant impact. It struck me as an accolade deserving of wider use, specifically in the context of being a best and fairest friend. In this post I’ll explore what being a best and fairest friend means in a friendship where one person lives with a mental health condition. I’ll focus on bipolar disorder, but the principle isn’t limited to any particular diagnosis or label. Most of the examples will be drawn from my fourteen year connection with my best friend Fran who lives with three chronic health conditions: bipolar disorder, chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), and fibromyalgia.

What Being a Best and Fairest Friend Isn’t — and Is

Best and fairest friends aren’t therapists, medics, psychiatrists, or trained crisis workers. (If your BFF is any of those things, hold on to them, but Fran’s excitement at learning I had a First Class degree in pharmacy was short-lived. My four years at university taught me little of value in supporting her as a friend.) A BFF may not be able to list their friend’s clinical history or remember all their current medications. They may not have memorised the DSM criteria for their friend’s condition. But somehow they get it. Not by accident, but by caring, by asking the right questions and by being open to learn what their friend’s diagnosis means for them.

“I’m Fine”

There’s no clearer example of this than how we respond to hearing the words, I’m fine. Fran hates being asked how she’s doing. I’ll get away with it occasionally, especially if she’s been poorly in some specific respect such as a headache, neck pain, or several consecutive bad days. She hates it because of the societal expectation to reply “I’m fine, thanks,” regardless of how you’re actually feeling. She summed this up in her 2010 autobiographical essay Lessons of the Night.

“How are you?” Another hated and seemingly innocuous question. The simple answer is F–I–N–E. F**ked up, insecure, neurotic, emotional. Most friends really don’t want the long answer. This way I can simply smile and be honest gracefully.

But best and fairest friends really do want the long answer. The honest answer. Every time.

Vigilance Is a BFF Sport

If you live with bipolar disorder or know someone who does you’ll know that communicating isn’t just about the words. Sometimes, it’s about the gaps between the words. The pauses and silences which might signal depression, withdrawal, or hyperfocus elsewhere. The all-of-a-sudden urgency to share the latest brilliant plans at two in the morning. The periods of relative silence after weeks of high-energy voice messages and rambling, exotically punctuated e-mails.

Best and fairest friends are vigilant. They notice the changes in the nature and frequency of the connection, and what that might signify. They’re the ones who’ll respond to “I’m fine” by pausing a moment before asking “Are you really? Or are we pretending?” Being a BFF doesn’t confer the right to know everything that’s going on, of course. Your friend may not want to share with you right now and that’s okay. It’s about being there to hold space for your friend if and when they want it.

How to Be a Best and Fairest Friend

If you want to support someone living with a mental health condition, there’s good news. You don’t need to be a mental health expert or a mind reader. As I admit in our book High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder I knew very little about mental illness before I met Fran.

I have learned a great deal since then, and I am still learning. It is okay to be less than perfect, because none of us are. It is okay to get things wrong sometimes; we all do that. It is okay to become upset and frustrated; we all feel like that from time to time. What counts is showing up, having the courage to be honest with yourself and with your friend about what is happening, and finding a way through to the other side.

And again, answering the question “What is the secret of your friendship?”

Is there a secret? No. There really is nothing special about us! We are friends, and like friends the world over we handle what comes up as best we can. But while there is no great secret to share, there are qualities which are crucial to our success as friends. We trust each other, we are open and honest, and we love to connect.

Every person is different, but here’s what being a best and fairest friend might look like.

Check in gently with your friend. Instead of “What’s wrong now?” you might reach out with “Hi. I was just thinking of you. How are things with you today?” That today brings the focus in to what’s happening right now, rather than asking them to account for everything that’s happened since you were last in touch. I know Fran lives with illness and her life is often difficult. But, how are things today? Can I help with anything today?

Offering options respects your friend’s autonomy and preferences. What do you need? Would you like a call or is chat better for you right now? Do you want to vent or talk things through? Do you want suggestions or for me to just listen? How about we set it all aside for a while and watch TV together? What would you like to watch?

You can spend quality time with your friend without talking about mental health. Fran and I enjoy reading to each other, and often share comfortable quiet time together.

Consistency is an important quality in a best and fairest friend. More than anything else, what matters is your presence. Be the person your friend knows will be there for them.

And if they tell you they’re fine, trust your instincts. Challenge gently if things feel off to you, but sometimes I’m fine means exactly that. In which case, saying, “Cool. Just know I’m here if that changes,” is everything. This can be challenging if you’re used to being their first port of call. It’s something I’ve blogged about before, so check out What to Do When Your Loved One With Bipolar Is Doing OK and How to Be There for Your Friend When They Need Space if you’d like to know more.

BFFs Need Care Too

Being someone’s best and fairest friend is a great thing but it brings its own challenges. Being the go-to emotional support person for someone — or several someones — can be quietly exhausting, and occasionally overwhelming. Boundaries are important. What these look like will vary from person to person, but maintaining healthy boundaries respects your availability, time, and resources. It also gives your friend the opportunity to develop a wider support network, and can go a long way to countering co-dependency.

For example, it’s okay to say, “I love you, but I don’t have the capacity right now.” As much as you care about your friend, you have other priorities, activities, and people in your life and they’ll sometimes need to take precedence. Be upfront and honest with your friend if you need to step away for any reason so they understand what’s going on.

Acknowledging the Best and Fairests in Our Life

Healthy friendships thrive when both people feel valued and cared for. That doesn’t change because one person lives with illness. It’s why Fran and I always describe our long-term, long distance friendship as mutually supportive. We’re best friends because we show up for each other. Friendship is important to everyone, but in the realm of mental health it can be life-changing. Life-saving, even. As Fran expressed it in the epilogue to our book:

There are many like me who live in invisible institutions of stigma, shame, and silence, the walls built by others from without, or by ourselves from within. [...] Stick around. It may not be easy but you can help someone make a life worth living. Maybe even save a life.

So let’s take a moment to acknowledge those who are there for us, and those who trust us to be there for them. Whether you’re the one saying “I’m fine” and hoping someone understands, or the one reading between the lines, reach out to recognise what you have. A “thank-you for being in my life” text or message. A silly gif. That private joke that always makes you both smile. Whatever your friendship language is, use it. Today. Because best and fairests aren’t merely good friends. They’re rare. If you have one, that’s worth celebrating. If you are one, that’s awesome too!

If you’d like to reward the BFF in your life, check out these Best and Fairest pin badges.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (July 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

1. The Box on the Shelf: A Strategy for Handling Difficult Issues and Situations
2. Shhhhhhh! A Friend’s Guide to Secrets
3. Twelve Songs That Remind Me What Caring Is All About
4. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
5. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man
6. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
7. How Sad the Song: An Atheist Ponders His Mortality
8. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
9. I’m on My Way: Thoughts Inspired by Ed Sheeran’s “Castle on the Hill”
10. How Sharing Quiet Moments Can Deepen Your Friendship

Our most visited pages were:

1. Contact Us
2. Our books
3. About Us
4. News and Appearances
5. Resources
6. Testimonials

 

Photo of Etal Castle, Northumberland by Martin Baker.

 

One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy: Two Strangers Discuss the Absurd in an Ambleside Pub

“Camus.” It wasn’t a question. I turned from the bar to find a man standing beside me. He nodded at the quotation emblazoned across my t-shirt.

“The struggle itself
towards the heights is
enough to fill a man’s
heart. One must
imagine Sisyphus
happy.”

The pub was almost empty. Mid-morning on a rainy Monday. More than a little damp my tweed jacket was draped over the back of my chair at a table in the middle of the room. I placed my order, a half of Swift Best (3.4% ABV) named for MV Swift, largest of the boats that plies the tourist routes on Windermere.

We introduced ourselves. It was immediately clear John knew a lot more than I do about Camus in particular and philosophy in general. A long-time interest on his part I think, whereas I only encountered Camus a couple of years ago. I was unaware of the philosopher’s lifelong interest in football, for example. Fortunately, I knew enough of his theories and writings to hold my own in what developed into a lively and engaging discussion.

John recommended a book by English existentialist philosopher and novelist Colin Wilson, noting that nowadays he uses it as a footrest when playing guitar. He mentioned music a couple of times and I wish I’d asked him about it. It’s clearly an important part of his life, as writing is to mine. I believe the book John was talking about is Wilson’s The Outsider. (“Through the works and lives of various artists, including Kafka, Camus, Hemingway, Hesse, Lawrence, Van Gogh, Shaw, Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, Wilson explored the psyche of the outsider, his effect on society and society’s on him.”) I’ve ordered myself a copy. As I don’t play guitar, I’ll probably read it.

Talk turned to Camus’ 1942 philosophical work The Myth of Sisyphus, from which my t-shirt quotation is taken. It was my introduction to the French-Algerian philosopher’s work. I know it well enough to have gleaned thoughts and ideas that resonate strongly with my own. Moving to Camus’ novels, I was happy we settled on the only one I’ve read in full. Published in 1942, the title of L’Étranger translates literally as “the foreigner” but the book has appeared in English editions as The Outsider (in the United Kingdom) and as The Stranger in the United States. It’s a dark tale but one I find compelling. I’ve read it in print, listened to it on audiobook, and watched an English-dubbed version of the 1967 Italian film Lo Straniero (The Stranger) directed by Luchino Visconti. John was unaware of the film and I was happy to recommend it to him.

Pausing our philosophical discussion, we touched on what had brought each of us to the Wateredge Inn that day. John was on a coach trip, though from where I don’t know. I shared that I was on vacation, staying a couple of miles away, and that I’d previously stayed in the Quaysiders Club apartments across the road and loved being able to walk to the pub of an evening. I mentioned it was one of my happy places and that I’ve blogged about it previously. I gave him a contact card with details of the blog and my social media accounts. I rarely have any cause to hand them out and was relieved to find a few in my wallet. John commented that as I’d written about happy places I could write about miserable places too. It’s an idea I might take up in the future.

He told me a story about a time he went to France with a group of friends. They stayed overnight somewhere in England — Seaford? — before crossing the Channel but everything went wrong and he hated the place because of it. In France, he met up with someone who spontaneously said of the same English town, “Oh I love that place!” We laughed and agreed it demonstrated the power of perspective. I’d add that our feelings about a place or situation are essentially arbitrary and can change — or be changed — in a moment.

This relates well to Camus’ theory of the absurd, which I summarised as a response to “mankind’s need to find meaning in a universe that doesn’t give a shit.” This seemingly bleak perspective is saved from nihilistic despair by recognising that we are free to find our own meaning and purpose. That day, for example. I’m no fan of heavy rain, but without it John and I wouldn’t have met. Likewise if I’d chosen a different t-shirt, stood further down the bar, or taken a phone call before ordering my drink. Serendipity? Happenstance? The universe doesn’t give a damn about my search for meaning or purpose, but I do. I choose to smile and call my life richer for meeting this stranger at the bar. My little bit of Camusian rebellion.

I could have stood talking with John for hours but at a certain point it felt right to bring the conversation to a close. We shook hands and I returned to my table, leaving John at the bar. A moment later, on a whim, I went back and asked for a photo and to confirm he was okay with me sharing it online. He was happy to agree. Later that day I posted the photo on social media with the following description.

This is John. We got chatting at the bar when he commented on my Albert Camus t-shirt. Brilliant conversation about Camus, his ideas and novels, other philosophers (of which John is far more knowledgeable than me), happy places, miserable places, expectations, blogging ... Thanks for the conversation, John. There’s a more than passing chance it will feature in a blog post in the none too distant future!

It led to a short discussion with my friend Cal regarding Camus’ L’Étranger and why The Outsider is a better English title than The Stranger. To be honest, I think both work, for different reasons. The principal character Meursault is certainly a societal outsider, unable to understand, relate to, or fake the responses considered appropriate by those around him. This is something I relate to, not least in his inability to express the expected level of grief at his mother’s death.

But the words strange and stranger are also highly relevant to the story, the latter both in the sense of increasingly strange and as someone you don’t know. Interestingly, the word “strange” appears just once in my English translation of the book. It’s elsewhere given as “queer” in the original sense of that word. At one point, Meursault refers to his own strangeness (queerness) and its impact on others. He’s talking here of his girlfriend Marie.

Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course, couldn’t enlighten her as to that. And, after another silence, she murmured something about my being “a queer fellow.” “And I daresay that’s why I love you,” she added. “But maybe that’s why one day I’ll come to hate you.”

To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.

The word is rendered as “strange” in Visconti’s 1967 film adaptation.

Then she said I that I was strange somehow and that she loved me because I was strange. But that maybe some day she would come to hate me for just that reason.

The story as a whole turns on Meursaut’s unpremeditated, almost accidental, murder of a man he’s never met before and knows nothing about. It occurs to me that John and I were no less strangers when we met at the bar of the Wateredge Inn than Meursault and the unnamed Arab he encountered on the beach of Algiers. The outcomes of the two meetings were, thankfully, very different.

I’m reminded of two quotations. The first is widely attributed to the Irish poet William Butler Yeats. “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t met yet.” That’s very much how I feel about to my short encounter with John. The second is by Virginia Woolf from her novel The Waves.

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.

This is a favourite of mine, reflecting as it does the essential strangeness of us all, even to those who believe they know us well. In all of this, there’s an echo of a conversation I had years ago in the toilet of a bar in Newcastle. The other guy instigated that conversation too, responding to what I had on my t-shirt at the time.

“So, where are your roots?”

It’s not every day you get asked a question like that in the gents’ toilet at Bar Loco. At least, it’s not every day I get asked that in the gents’ toilet at Bar Loco. Then again, I’m not there very often.

It was the t-shirt, of course. My American Roots t-shirt. Specifically, given I was standing at the urinal, the back of the shirt which asks WHERE ARE YOUR ROOTS? in sans serif caps.

Caught off-guard, mid pee, I stumbled for an answer. “Well,” I said, looking down at my chest. “I’m not American. The shirt is. It was a gift from my bestie in Maine. I’m from Liverpool.”

I can think of one more conversation with a stranger that was inspired by a t-shirt I was wearing. I was sitting in my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero in Newcastle, before heading to a mental health event. A young guy at the next table noticed my t-shirt approvingly. “Fucking good shirt, man.”

All told, my conversation with John lasted no more than ten minutes, but it left me feeling invigorated. Proud of myself, even. It’s something I’ve rarely been able to do. Engage fully in conversation with someone I don’t know at all. John has my details if he wants to connect but if not, that’s fine too. The conversation itself was enough to fill this man’s heart.

PS: John, if you’re reading this, I wish you an absurd life!

 

Photo by Martin Baker at the Wateredge Inn, Ambleside, July 2025.