The Song Remains the Same: Thoughts on Change and Unchange

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
The more things change, the more they remain the same.
— Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr

In this article I’m going to explore some thoughts concerning change and unchange that I’ve wanted to write about for some time.

The Words Remain the Same

Although I’ve kept a diary since I was fourteen years old, I rarely look back over what I’ve written. I might flick through my current journal to remind myself how I felt a week or so ago, but once a volume’s filled and put away, it tends to stay closed. The exception was when Fran and I were writing High Tide, Low Tide. I read every diary entry I’d written from our first meeting in May 2011, sourcing material to use in our book.

A few weeks ago, though, I decided to read one of my old journals, and chose the A4 day-to-a-page diary for 1984. It was a year of significant change: my first full year in London after graduating from university, a role as best man at the wedding of my two closest friends, a new place of work at the Parkinson’s Disease Society Research Centre, new colleagues, and new friends. Flicking through the entries, there were events, people, and moments I’d not thought about in years. There were others I couldn’t remember at all, such that I’d deny they happened if not for the evidence of my own handwriting. Did I really go to that party, have that conversation, entertain those thoughts?

Most striking of all, though, was how little I seem to have changed. Time and again I read passages from 1984 I could easily have written last year, or last week. The same doubts, fears, and insecurities. The same search for meaning and engagement. The same sense of looking for something just out of reach.

Stuckness and Drama

I recently met up with a friend I’d not seen since December 2019. Over a drink in one of my favourite coffee shops we caught up on what those two years have meant for us. Covid, of course, but there were other significant events and changes in each of our lives; some welcome, some not so much. Sharing with her gave me a fresh perspective on things. You don’t always notice slow or incremental change when you’re talking with the same people all the time. Back in March, I shared my profound sense of foreboding and loss at what the pandemic has wrought. More recently, I described how my underlying mood seems to have fallen from positive to low. Other aspects of my life have remained more or less unaltered. These include my key friendships and relationships, but also my sense of stuckness at work, and lack of clarity about career and personal goals.

Mention of stuckness reminds me of English artist Tracey Emin, whose memoir Strangeland I read years ago. Emin once told her then boyfriend Billy Childish he was “stuck! stuck! stuck!” with his art, poetry, and music. The insult was adopted by Childish and fellow artist Charles Thomson, who coined the term “Stuckism” for their art, claiming it “a quest for authenticity.” I’m probably not using it the way the artists intended, but what stuck (pun intended) in my mind was how the word could be simultaneously viewed as an insult and a label of pride and acclaim.

Much of my adult life was lived in a state of stuckness akin to being asleep. Not the restful sleep that refreshes and renews; more like being in a coma. I woke, or was woken, maybe fifteen years ago, since when my life has been anything but static. It’s been intense, dramatic, and changeable, and much of the intensity has involved other people. Not for nothing are CONNECTION and CHALLENGE my key values. It occurred to me that I may value intensity so much that I seek it out or create it if it’s not already present in my life. As I asked in my journal a few weeks ago, “Do I crave emotional drama to distract and disturb me from baseline depression and numbness?”

The Constancy of Change

The epigram with which I opened this article — Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose — was coined by French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr in 1849. It translates into English as “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” I take this as suggesting there’s a deeper order beneath the ups-and-downs we perceive as drama or change. It’s something I’ve glimpsed on occasion, most recently in relation to one of my best friends.

Ours has been amongst the most changeable and intense friendships I’ve ever known. There were times we weren’t friends at all. What I realised the other day, however, is that I feel incredibly safe and secure in our friendship. The insight is this: if I focus on the ups and downs, the things that have happened in the past and may happen again, our friendship feels dramatic and uncertain. But once I accept that change is an integral part of the connection we share, I can appreciate the underlying constancy of our commitment as friends.

This insight doesn’t mean there’ll be no further drama, in this friendship or my life in general. I’m sure there will be. I hope there is. But I see now that it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Stability and challenge can coexist.

A Need for Problems?

Karr’s words led me to an article titled The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same. It’s well worth reading, but it was an excerpt from one reader’s comments that caught my attention: “Why is it that people need to have problems? I think we get bored, life is all about making things better we almost want to break something [in order] to fix it.” This is similar to what I said about my decades asleep at the wheel and my craving for emotional drama. Author Maya Mendoza claimed that “[n]o amount of security is worth the suffering of a mediocre life chained to a routine that has killed your dreams.”

But not everyone is looking for this kind of challenge. One friend told me she’s had enough trauma and drama, and craves nothing more than the stability of “a normal life.” In her situation I’d feel the same. The decades I look back on as insufficiently challenging were largely the product of privilege and good fortune. I could afford to be bored because I was lucky enough not to have experienced trauma, serious illness, abuse, or any of the other “dramas” so many have known. There are many who would exchange the circumstances of my life for theirs in a heart-beat.

The Nature of Change

I’ve been talking as though we can choose a life of stability or one of change. We can certainly invite change into our lives. I once made a conscious decision to dissolve the inner circle of friends model I’d lived with for years. It wasn’t easy but it profoundly improved the quantity and quality of my relationships. One friend told me she hates feeling powerless when change is imposed on her; the covid pandemic being the most recent major example. On the other hand, she holds herself open to opportunities. “Chosen challenge and change,” she said. “Are things I embrace willingly.”

But the opposite isn’t true. We can’t decide to have no change in our lives at all, no matter how much we might wish it. Change happens, irregularly, and often not how we’d want it to, but it happens. No aspect of our lives is immune. The people we care about and rely on, our role in those relationships, the places we inhabit, the society in which we live, and the world at large. Everything is subject to change. Some changes creep up on us so gradually we’re scarcely aware what’s happening. Others arrive suddenly and unannounced. The latter are often the most significant and impactful, whether we deem the impact good or bad. (And our perception may shift over time as we review past changes in the light of what came afterwards.)

Every new friendship brings change into our lives. Fran and I met by chance one day in May 2011 on the social media page of a mutual friend. Within minutes, we were friends, and have never looked back. It was different with another of my best friends. Aimee and I met through the mental health charity Time to Change but our connection deepened gently over time and it’s hard to pinpoint the moment we became friends. However it begins, no relationship remains the same for long. Fran and I discuss the principal drivers of change in our friendship in our book High Tide, Low Tide.

It would be wrong to give the impression we are in a stable, fixed pattern in which we always know what to do and nothing ever goes wrong. There is little stable or fixed about living with mental illness or caring for someone who does. Our friendship grows as we face the challenges of our long-distance, mutually supportive relationship. Fran’s health is inherently variable. Depression, mania, fatigue, and pain fluctuate — sometimes together, sometimes independently — and affect us in different ways. Her love of travel is a further challenge. It limits our ability to keep in touch, and can threaten Fran’s health directly as she moves beyond her established routines and supports.

Stability and Change in Dynamic Tension

Earlier, I said how little I seem to have changed since the 1980s. I was genuinely dismayed to realise I’m still dealing with issues, frustrations, and hang-ups I wrote about in my diary thirty-seven years ago. How much of our nature and behaviour falls within our power to change? Have I not been trying hard enough?

It’s a topic that comes up a lot in conversations with Fran and other friends. It won’t surprise you to learn I have no clear answers, although I believe meaningful change and growth are possible. I see it time and again in others, and in myself too. At some fundamental level I may be the person I’ve always been, and some of the doubts and insecurities I struggled with years ago undoubtedly remain part of my make-up. But in other respects I have grown.

I believe there’s a dynamic tension between the urge to improve (which is to say change) our situation and challenge ourselves in ways that are meaningful to us, and the comforting reassurance of whatever is whole, known, and stable in our lives. Whether stability means family, friends, home, work, or some inner resilience, it provides the grounding from which we can move forward. One friend of mine is working on making healthy changes in her life, despite feeling overwhelmed at the enormity of the task. She sometimes feels she’s making no progress, but as I wrote to her, “You keep moving. It might be baby steps sometimes but you never stay stuck for long. You are always looking for ways to move forward.”

This urge to grow, to push out and on from where we are, is echoed in the following lines from the Led Zeppelin classic, “The Song Remains the Same.”

You don’t know what you’re missing, now
Any little song that you know
Everything that’s small has to grow
And it’s gonna grow, push push, yeah.

Over to You

I’ve shared some of my thoughts concerning change and stability or stasis. These affect us all in different ways and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you welcome change or find it difficult to navigate? Do you yearn for stability or does it terrify you? In what ways do you feel you’ve changed over the years? In what ways are you the same?

Over to you. Comment below or get in touch. Our contact details remain the same!

 

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash.

 

What If I Never Do All the Things I Used to Do?

In the rush to return to normal, use this time to consider which parts of normal are worth rushing back to.
— Dave Hollis

A few weeks ago I was talking with a colleague about England’s road map out of lockdown. He said he felt cautiously optimistic and that he’d made a wish list of things he wants to do again when it’s possible. He asked if I’d made a list. I said no, it hadn’t occurred to me. That wasn’t entirely true. It’s not so much that it hadn’t occurred to me. At some level it feels wrong to me, even unhealthy, to make a list like that because I’d be wishing for things that are no longer possible or available.

Like most of us, I suppose, I spent the first months of lockdown imagining a time when things would start getting back to normal — or at least to something resembling how things were before. Being back in the office. Holidays. Meeting friends for coffee, drinks, meals, or days out. Hugs. As the weeks and months passed those hopes receded, but they still felt feasible. Out there somewhere a “near normal” future was waiting for me.

At some point, though, it dawned on me that things will never return to how they used to be. The impact of covid, of lockdown, of all the changes we lived through last year and are still living through, is simply too great for us to pick up where we left off. Vaccinations will allow us to move forward but right now, as England begins gradually to open up again, I can only see that many things I valued (and some I took for granted) have already gone beyond any hope of retrieval. Others may resume, but they won’t be the same. I’m not the same. We aren’t the same. How could we be, with all we have gone through?

The holiday cottage I’ve been going to for decades, the one that felt like a second home? I had to cancel two planned visits last year but what if I never get to go back because the lady who owns it — who is practically family after all these years — decides reopening is too much to deal with, with all the new restrictions, and the risk that people may cancel at short notice?

The Wateredge Inn in Ambleside, which is one of my favourite places in the world? Maybe I’ll sit there again beside the lake with a pint and my notebooks, but it won’t be this year. What if it’s never?

STACK Newcastle, my go-to hangout until covid struck, where I’ve had so many good times hanging out with friends, or calling in on my own for a beer and a falafel wrap? The venue is set to reopen and I dare say I’ll go back at some point, but with social distancing and having to book in advance the atmosphere will never be the same. What if it never feels warm and welcoming — a Marty place — again?

The Frankie & Bennie’s restaurant in Newcastle I’ve visited for years? There’s no “what if?” about this one — it never reopened after the first lockdown and is closed permanently.

My two favourite coffee shops, where I’d sit and write, or meet up with friends, and where I always felt welcome and at ease? I’m more optimistic about these but what if they never reopen fully, or are too busy and cramped to feel comfortable again?

There are bigger things to focus on, you might be thinking. Mourning the loss of my holidays, favourite coffee shops and bars hardly registers when set against the devastating hurt and loss others have endured in the past year. These are the “little things” of my life, though. The little things that are actually the big things. Because it’s not about the coffee shop, or the pub, or the bar. Not really. It’s about the connections they represented, facilitated, and hosted.

When lockdown first hit I feared my local friendships might falter because they were born — and thrived — in meet-ups for coffee and drinks, days out, and time shared face-to-face. In fact, they flourished and grew, as we replaced face-to-face encounters with online chat, voice and video calls. They transitioned, successfully if not always seamlessly, from in person friendships to online ones. And I have some prior experience and success with those. I do wonder how things will be, when we’re finally able to meet again in person, but as with the outer trappings of my BC (before covid) life there is no going back. Only forward.

So no, I don’t have a list of things I want to do again. “Like it used to be” or “like we used to do” are false hopes, illusions, to my current way of thinking at least. Instead, I will hold myself open to whatever is possible, available, present, and real.

 

Photo by Dylan Ferreira on Unsplash

 

Mental Health for All in an Uncertain World

Organised by the World Foundation for Mental Health (WFMH) and observed each year on October 10, World Mental Health Day (WMHD) is an opportunity to raise awareness of mental health issues and to mobilize efforts in support of mental health. This year’s theme is “Mental Health for All: Greater Investment — Greater Access.” In the words of WFMH president Dr Ingrid Daniels:

Mental health is a human right — it’s time that mental health is available for all. Quality, accessible primary health care is the foundation for universal health coverage and is urgently required as the world grapples with the current health emergency. We, therefore, need to make mental health a reality for all — for everyone, everywhere.

You can read Dr Daniels’ full statement and find further resources including a downloadable information pack on the WFMH website. A joint release on WMHD 2020 by the World Health Organization, United for Global Mental Health and the WFMH is here.

Individuals and organisations will mark WMHD in their own way. Here in the UK, mental health charity Mind’s Do one thing campaign invites us to take one small step towards fostering a more inclusive and open attitude to mental health:

Making positive change can seem so hard, especially during uncertain times. And sometimes, it can be hard to know where to start. Whether you want to take the first steps towards getting some help or learn more about helping those around you. [...] Whether it’s going for a walk, learning a new skill or doing something creative, taking the first steps to[wards] getting support for yourself, or reaching out to someone else; take the opportunity to do one thing this World Mental Health Day.

This blog post is my “one thing.” As I write I’m thinking about what mental health means to me, my role in the workplace and beyond it, the impact coronavirus has had on me and those I care about, and what the future might hold for us all. Two words characterise it all for me: uncertainty and change.

Whatever our individual situations it’s fair to say very few of us were prepared for the impact of coronavirus. Our lives have, quite simply, been turned inside out, and there is little certainty about what lies ahead. I’m fortunate that my job in the IT sector has not been at risk and I’ve been able to work from home. It’s not been easy but compared to the many whose lives have been severely impacted — including some of my closest friends — I have been lucky. No, that is incorrect. I have been and remain privileged, to enjoy a degree of relative security.

Nevertheless, lockdown and the ongoing restrictions have affected me more deeply than I imagined they would. I’ve had far more voice and video calls than before lockdown but I sorely miss meeting friends in person. I’ve only managed to meet one of my local friends, once, since the start of lockdown in March. I missed my local coffee shop desperately when it closed for lockdown. That might seem ridiculous but it was very much part of the fabric of my life. I used to visit seven days a week and count several of the staff as friends. I’ve spent two lockdown vacations at home instead of going away, and am about to begin a third.

More fundamentally, I’ve struggled with working from home, especially when it became clear things are unlikely to return to how they were before the pandemic. I became more stressed and anxious than I remember being in many years. As restrictions eased, I’ve returned to the office three days a week. This has helped my mental health enormously but there’s no guarantee I can continue doing so indefinitely. Like everything else, it is contingent on events beyond my control — beyond any semblance of control at all.

An unforeseen change was announced at work last week. It has nothing to do with the pandemic but it will affect everyone in the company. I found it interesting how colleagues responded to the news. Some, myself included, approached it as something which may bring positive change and opportunity. Others reacted with dismay, as though the future holds nothing but distress, disruption, and harm. It’s not that one response is right and the other wrong. For each of us, reality will probably lie somewhere between those two extremes. It was nevertheless a lesson in how our response to unforeseen events can affect how we — and those around us — feel and behave.

I’m writing this at a table in the coffee shop I mentioned earlier. I’ve just been chatting with my friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson of I’m NOT Disordered.

Hi Marty. What are you up to?

Hello! I’m working on a blog post for WMHD.

I am too.

I’d be very surprised if you weren’t!

Lol good point!

I’m going to mention last year’s WMHD event in Cullercoats that I went to with you. Who could have imagined so much would change in a year?

I know. It’s a little bit scary

It is, yes.

Organised by Launchpad North Tyneside, the Cullercoats event was “planned and developed by a dedicated group of volunteers made up of service users, survivors, carers, workers and people with a general interest in mental health.” I attended with Aimee and members of LEAPS (Listening Ear & Positive Support) which she chairs. There was a full programme but the highlight of the day was Aimee’s talk. As I wrote in my blog of the event:

Almost the entire room was quiet and focused as she shared her lived experience, the success of her blog I’m NOT Disordered, the benefits and pitfalls of social media, and how all of us can play a role in supporting those we care about.

That day meant a lot to me. For months I’d faced doubt and uncertainty about my role at work and beyond. I found it hard to remain positive, as friends who helped me through those times can attest. The event, and Aimee’s talk in particular, renewed my focus. For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a place and a voice amongst people working for change in the mental health arena.

I’m fortunate to work for a company that is committed to building a compassionate, diverse, and inclusive culture. I co-lead the mental health and wellbeing working group and contribute to the company’s broader diversity, inclusion, and wellbeing initiatives. As I wrote in February for Time to Talk Day, “my involvement in the mental health and wellbeing working group has become the single most rewarding aspect of my job, eclipsing the technical role in personal significance.” With support and engagement from the very top of our organisation, we responded creatively and passionately to the challenges lockdown brought to our company and colleagues. I’m proud to have played a part.

This might all seem a long way from WMHD’s aim of “[making] mental health a reality for all — for everyone, everywhere.” It’s true that workplace initiatives of the kind we’ve championed are no substitute for professional mental health and support services. That said, I believe that encouraging a more open, inclusive, and caring culture takes us in the right direction. This is more important than ever with so many of us working from home, connected by phone and video calls but lacking the social dimension we’re used to in the workplace.

It is not only in the workplace, of course, that the impact of coronavirus is felt. Individually and as societies and nations, we are only beginning to grasp the long-term consequences for our mental health and wellbeing. We all have a role to play in mitigating the dangers, in supporting each other, in caring for each other. The challenges can seem overwhelming but we each bring our lived experience, talents, and gifts, to the game.

My nine-year transatlantic friendship with Fran has taught me a great deal about relationships that never or rarely include meeting face-to-face. I believe this has stood me in good stead handling lockdown and the ongoing restrictions that prevent me from meeting my local friends, family, and colleagues in person. I miss face-to-face contact but I know that connection and caring are not measured by how many times we get together in person.

I’ll close with Fran’s message of challenge and hope from the epilogue to our book:

It may not be easy but you can help someone make a life worth living. Maybe even save a life. One little bit by one little bit. A smile, a wink, a hello, a listening ear, a helping hand, a friendship all work together to interrupt the grasp of illness. Be open and honest, with your friend and others you meet. Judge not, for misunderstandings abound. Acceptance, understanding, and kindness can pave another way. Let’s.

Caring is one thing we can all do. You. Me. Everyone. And not just once a year on World Mental Health Day, but every day.

 

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

 

How to Spot a Scripted Relationship and What to Do about It

Fran and I were talking the other day about scripted conversations. You know the kind I mean; where you pretty much know what the other person is going to say and how you’ll respond. If pressed, you could probably write the whole thing out in advance.

There’s nothing wrong with this. Scripts help us navigate socially with people we don’t know very well or have no wish to engage deeply. Whether it’s our morning chat with that person we see at the bus stop, the barista in our favourite coffee shop, or water-cooler moments with colleagues, scripts reassure us we are on the same page.

It’s unhealthy, though, when our core friendships and relationships come to rely on scripted conversations and behaviours. That’s what I want to explore in this article. I will focus on essentially benign situations but toxicity and abuse can be scripted too.

Am I in a Scripted Relationship?

If you’re unsure, think ahead to the next time you’re going to meet this person. It might be face-to-face, a phone call, video call, instant messaging, or even by text (SMS) message — however you usually connect. Close your eyes and imagine how the meeting might play out. How did it go last time? The time before? If you can anticipate the topics you’ll discuss and who will say what — maybe even the words and phrases you’ll use — you’re in a scripted relationship.

How Did That Happen?

I don’t believe anyone sets out to live an overly scripted life so how does it happen? What’s the alternative? Unscripted is dynamic, risky, interesting, engaging, fun, exciting — and scary! It takes courage to be honest and open with someone. Putting our needs and emotions into words and allowing the other person to do the same invites challenge and confrontation. How much safer it is to simply not go there; to slip instead into familiar patterns of behaviour and dialogue.

Scripts mean we don’t have to think about what to say. We know what’s coming up and how to respond without ruffling feathers or risking upsetting the other person or exposing ourselves to criticism. There is safety in the familiar.

And let’s be honest, unscripted relationships can be exhausting! Sometimes we simply don’t have the energy to go off script and be open about stuff. In those circumstances, it’s understandable that we turn to a familiar script. One maybe that starts “Hi hunny, I’m home” at the end of a busy day. But if that script runs all the way through to “Goodnight” and picks up again next morning maybe there is cause for concern, especially if the same script plays night after night.

What’s the Problem?

Why should this be a cause for concern? If it’s the cashier at the grocery store or the woman you see at the bus stop you might not be missing out on much. Then again, you’ll never know unless you can set the script aside.

It’s different when it’s someone important to you; a friend, partner, colleague, or family member. Scripts are by definition limiting, predictable, and ultimately boring. Relationships which rely on them tend to become stale and utilitarian. As one friend expressed it to me, “I’ve had relationships like that. They are very... flat.”

The thing is, life does not stand still. We do not stand still. Our feelings, situations, needs, hopes, and fears change. The hallmark qualities of a scripted connection — stability and structure — can mask what is going on beneath the surface, until everything breaks down. And there is no script for that. To remain healthy our relationships must be flexible enough to adapt.

What Can I Do about It?

Ask yourself if you genuinely want to lose your reliance on scripted conversations and behaviours. This is not a trivial question. It takes courage to make changes, especially when other people are involved. If you want to proceed here are a few approaches you might find helpful.

Start with one of the scripts you rely on most. Play it over a few times in your head or even jot it down on paper. There’s no need to throw it away altogether; by definition it is something you are both familiar with. The idea is to adapt or alter it so the conversation is less regimented and closed. You might add in a non-confrontational question or share something uncontroversial you wouldn’t usually share. If it’s feasible suggest meeting somewhere new or at a different time of day. Or connect face-to-face instead of by phone, or vice versa.

One consequence of scripted conversations is that you stop listening. Why would you, when you know what’s coming up? You’ve heard it all before. So whatever else you do to mix things up, pay attention and listen as much as you speak.

Think about other people in your life where things are less scripted. Where and when do you meet? What do you talk about? Do you feel safer and more open with them than with the person in your scripted relationship? Why is that? See if there are things you can bring into the mix. Don’t expect too much to change all at once but persevere.

Have you ever had a scripted friendship or relationship? Were you happy with things as they were? If not, did you manage to change the nature of your connection with this person? Leave a comment below, we’d love to hear your thoughts.

 

When She

By Aimee Wilson

 

When she fought, he won

When she stole, he caught her

When she looked, he hid

When she bent, he broke her

When she hurt, he caused it

When she ran, he gave chase

When she saw, he missed it

When she heard, he ignored

 

But when she died, they revived her
When she cut, they mended
When she swallowed, they treat
When she cried, they soothed
When she ran, they caught
When she lost hope, they showed her the way

 

She won back what he’d taken

She mended what he had broke

She stabilized what he had moved

She finished what he had started

She lived

 

 

---

About the Author

Aimee Wilson is a 28-year-old mental health blogger who has used her personal experiences to develop a popular online profile. Aimee was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder in 2009, and after over 60 attempts on her life was admitted to a long-term, specialist psychiatric hospital almost 200 miles from home. It was during her two-and-a-half-year stay in hospital that Aimee began her blog: I’m NOT Disordered.

Originally it was meant as an outlet for pent-up frustrations from inpatient life, and a means to document her journey through the trauma therapy that eventually led her into recovery in 2014. The blog has developed into a platform for others to tell their stories and to give their own message to the world — whatever it may be.

Aimee’s blog now has close to half a million readers. Its popularity has resulted in three newspaper (in print) appearances, two online newspapers, BBC1 national news, ITV local news, interviews on BBC Radio 5 Live and Metro Radio; as well as a TV appearance on MADE. Aimee has had the opportunity to work with such organisations as North Tyneside and Wear NHS Foundation Trust, Northumbria Police, Time to Change, Cygnet Healthcare; and with individuals who range from friends, family and colleagues, to well-known people in the mental health industry.

Her first book, When All Is Said & Typed, is available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com, and in other regions. You can follow Aimee’s blog and read more about her at www.imnotdisordered.co.uk.

 

Who Are You, Really?

By Charlotte Underwood

What is our identity? Isn’t it just a compilation of every moment between our first breath and our last? It’s our name, our background – our story. Our identity has to be who we are, surely?

“You are the author of your life” is a quote that really changed my thinking. Our life, our time on this earth creates our own novel, where we are the main character. Each event, each heartbreak and tear of joy creates a story that tells others who we are. We have the ability to shape our lives, to make a novel, the book of our life, as simple or as extravagant as we desire.

However, I do have this problem, this little tick that sticks like a thorn in my mind. Who am I, really?

I struggle a lot with understanding my identity. It’s not a split personality thing, more of an uncertainty of my true self. Years of abuse and bullying have left me confused with my own self. It seems that as soon as I think I am being true to myself, I get uncomfortable in my own skin.

This is where my story seems to become a muddle, where the plot does not thicken but seems to go around in circles. It becomes especially hard as I suffer with mental illness. How can I know who I am, when I have always been ill? Surely my true self is the one before these feelings that plagued my mind? But when was that, what version of me was that?

I know it is typical to go through many relationships and jobs and change your life goals but for me this seems to be an annual thing – I can’t seem to commit with complete confidence. I’ll start a new course and learn a new subject in certainty of my future career but months in I’ll get bored and move onto something new. It explains why it took me so many relationships before I could settle down and get married. Although I am certain that my husband and I will last forever I worry that in twenty years, will I change my mind and get bored like history tells?

I have a huge level of envy for all those who seem to have a life plan, who know what they want, go after it and become successful for it. I mean, I am twenty-two and can’t drive, haven’t finished college and have no idea what I will be doing in three months’ time. Shouldn’t I have it figured out by now?

I am hoping that by working hard on my mental health this year and trying to put myself first, with the addition of a load of self-care, that I can start to find out who I am. It can be so hard when you live with constant self-doubt, but even more so when you feel like you are in a race against your peers and your car won’t even start.

All I know, for now at least, is that life is short and can end suddenly; that’s just fact. However, that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe it just proves as a reminder that we need to reprioritise our lives, focus on really living instead of living for others. So what if I am ‘falling behind,’ maybe my life just holds other things? Right?

As my father always said, “The only thing that really matters is your own happiness”.

 

About the Author

Charlotte Underwood is a twenty-two year old from Norfolk, UK. She is a growing mental health advocate and writer who aims to inform and education on mental health. The goal is to be a friend to those in need. She believes no one should feel alone. Charlotte blogs at charlotteunderwoodauthor.com. You can also find her on Twitter and on Facebook.

 

What My Mantra Means to Me: Healthy Boundaries

In a recent post I mentioned the mantra I’ve employed for the past couple of years, and chosen to carry forward into the coming year.

Well boundaried. Well focused. Well challenged. Well loved.

But what does it mean? The resonances have changed over the past two years, and will likely continue to change. But what does my mantra mean to me right now? Of the four statements, “well boundaried” is perhaps the least obvious, and I will devote this post to exploring its relevance.

I don’t think I had ever heard of the word “boundary” in a psychological context before meeting Fran in May 2011. I can’t recall precisely when or how it came up: most likely from us discussing the various therapies Fran had undergone or was undergoing. Or perhaps one of the online meditation classes we took together.

However it entered my vocabulary, it took a long time for me to see the concept of boundaries as healthy. To me, it implied an unhealthy erecting of barriers between me and the world, at a time in my life when I was learning to open up. It suggested precisely the restrictive concepts and practices I had been dismantling over the previous couple of years: in particular, the “Inner Circle vs. Rest of the World” model I’d employed most of my adult life.

My Inner Circle model had kept those closest to me within a high wall of my own devising. Inside, I felt safe, but it kept me from apprehending the World Outside, or acknowledging those who dwelt there as more than part of the scenery. Policing the walls was exhausting, and one day I realised almost none of my Inner Circle still resided there. My Walled City had become a ghost town.

My response was to dismantle the city; take down the walls; dissolve the Circle. (I have described this previously.) Like Titus Groan in Peake’s fantasy series, I left Gormenghast and set out into the Wide World. It was scary, yet intoxicating. I was open to every new experience; each new encounter. I forged new connections; found new friends—including, in time, Fran. I had found my new world view, unfettered by artificial boundaries and boxes. I had swapped the Walled City for the Wilderness.

Three books which I read or re-read around this time echo the transition. Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance—which I first read at university—with its road trip Chautauquas and its blend of scientific and philosophic/metaphysical world views. A gift from a friend, The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen expressed most clearly and cleanly for me the shedding of modern boundaries, as the author leaves behind his city existence to trek in the Himalayas. Henry David Thoreau’s The Maine Woods also spoke to me of Nature and Wilderness: a particular American Wilderness, immersing me in the geography and history of Maine, and giving me insight into Fran’s own wilderness experience.

I finally went to the backwoods of Maine for a year and lived in a camp on 189 acres with no running water and no electricity—an attempt to find my baseline, fight my demons and find the night, or die.

Fran Houston, Lessons of the Night

I began to see things were not so simple, and that a completely unboundaried existence was not merely unhealthy but dangerous. This was something I was learning first-hand with Fran. It had always been—and remains—a fundamental of our friendship that I will never ignore a call from her; be that by email, instant message, text, or phone call. Day or night. 24/7/365. With very few exceptions—and always by prior arrangement—if her call comes through I will pick up.

However, I learned it’s ok—indeed it’s healthy—for my response sometimes to be “Can’t chat right now. I’ll get back to you.” At times, I am busy and cannot be disturbed—in a meeting at work, for example; with someone else; or simply meeting my own need for space. Recognising our boundaries means Fran need never worry she is going to upset or disturb me: if she wants or needs me she can reach out knowing I will not ignore her. But she also knows I will take responsibility for managing my end of things. Fran handles her end on the same basis. It is simple, it is healthy, and it works.

For me, boundaries relate most often to how, where, and with whom I spend my time and energy. This was very much the case when Fran and I were writing our book. It took four years to bring High Tide, Low Tide to publication, but it would have taken a lot longer had I not defined and protected my “writing time.” This mostly fell between 8 and 10 p.m., after my Skype call with Fran and before I settled to write my diary for the day.

The boundaries were not rigid: many times I chose to set them aside in order to spend time with friends, or because of other commitments. But it was important for me to have defined the boundaries and to feel justified in enforcing them when necessary. This did not—and does not—come easy to me. It is very much a work in progress, which is why I place it first in my personal mantra.

“Well boundaried” also applies to my personal relationships. For many years, I held tightly to each and every close personal relationship (or, rather, to what they represented for me), in many cases long after the relationship itself had changed beyond recognition, or faded altogether. In the same way I kept my “Special People” safe in the Walled City, I kept my relationships frozen; preserved; mummified. That is no way to honour anyone.

When I left the City and set out on my grand wilderness adventure, I left the effigies of dead relationships behind me. (An echo here of Lady Cora and Lady Clarice, abandoned to die in their chamber within Gormenghast Castle.) Relics were no longer any use to me. I wanted living exchanges. I wanted dynamic relationships.

This meant setting aside lists and categories. It meant not labelling people (“Special People,” “Friends,” “Colleagues,” “Neighbours” etc), and opening my heart to experiencing people for who they are, and my relationships for whatever they might be in the moment. It meant letting go of prior expectations of what a “friendship” (for example) should or needed to be.

Not all relationships are healthy, however. I have had to acknowledge the concept of toxic relationships: not as a label of judgement/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.

I find I have dismantled the rigidly boundaried Walled City only to discover—over there, in the distance—a region labelled “Do Not Enter” on the map. Beyond its borders dwell all those I must never again attempt to contact, because I am toxic to their wellbeing. There are more of these than you might imagine. I have always found it easier to permanently end relationships than deal with the realities of their changing.

The first appearance of such a Perilous Realm, in my literary life at least, is a poem of mine dating from 1984:

And through my lands you softly came; exploring scenes
you’d once conceived as if amazed at what a little time
had wrought: found shadows cast about my heart by
trees formidable. I wished you would by some
judicial felling let the summer in, but I lay
impotent as mountains and could only watch you turn
dismayed, a little disillusioned,
to some fresher view.

From: “What Happened to the Lovetrees?”

In different guise, the realm appears in a short story of mine titled Poser V1.0. The Tolkien references are deliberate.

One part of her realm she had not revisited, though she could not fully purge it from her mind. It was a region like none other in her demesne: a region mazed in enchantments. Protected from invasion and escape by a forest of thorns, their savage spears sheathed in clouds of crimson flowers. Within the bounds of that little realm a man languished endlessly, lost in the bitterness of unsatiated lust.

This is not healthy boundarying, it is wall building born out of fear. A recent conversation with Fran touched on this. 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. I have seen this in practice several times over the course of our friendship.

Fran: This is why 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 hopeless. 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.

I still have work to do in this area. It is the primary relationship challenge for me for the year ahead.

There are many other aspects of being “Well boundaried,” including its relevance to codependency and self-care. I may return to the topic another time. If you are interested in the subject, I recommend the work of Brené Brown, including this video in which she discusses boundaries, empathy, and compassion.

Marty

 

Connection and Challenge: A Look Back at 2016

I don’t really do New Year Resolutions. Instead, I began 2016 by reaffirming the mantra which had served me well throughout the previous year:

Well boundaried. Well focused. Well challenged. Well loved.

In January, Fran signed up for Brené Brown’s online LIVING BRAVE semester, and for the next few months we worked through the lessons together. I read the books that accompanied the courses (Daring Greatly and Rising Strong) to Fran, and we shared our answers and responses to the weekly lessons. It was an intensely challenging experience for me. Early on, we were invited to explore our core life values (in my case, Connection and Challenge) and choose two or three areas in which to work (Brené Brown calls these “arenas”). I chose three, and will share one with you here. (The others I choose to keep private, as there is still work for me there.) The first arena I chose was: “To engage fully with local mental health groups.”

Within days, I was presented with the opportunity to volunteer for mental health charity Time to Change at Newcastle’s Mental Health Day. It was one of the scariest things I’d done in ages, but I stepped into the arena—and never looked back! You can read about my experiences here. I also volunteered with Time to Change at Newcastle’s Pride event in July, and was privileged to attend their Festive Networking event in December.

A chance encounter in my favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero in Saint Mary’s Place, led me to the Newcastle Literary Salon. I wrote about the meeting in an open letter to Fran.

I got talking here at the cafe earlier with a guy who told me about a local writers’ group—Newcastle Literary Salon—which meets once a month. I looked them up and the next two meetings are on mental and physical illness. I will go along, and see if I can get a slot to read from our book. It’s scary to put myself out there in person, but that is part of what I’ve learned: to dare, to challenge myself—whether it’s doing a zip-wire slide from the Tyne Bridge to raise funds for Crisis, addressing the Mental Health First Aid team at Virgin Money, volunteering at the Time to Change Mental Health Day event, or appearing live on radio! I would never have done any of this if it were not for our friendship. Connection and challenge have become my watchwords.

The first Salon event I attended left a lasting impression on me, which I wrote about for the hastywords #BeReal blog series.

Courage and vulnerability were out in force last night at the Salon. I heard—really heard—people sharing words from the heart, from the guts of their personal experience. I connected with people I’d never met before, who knew nothing about me and about whom I knew nothing. I had fun. I felt my heart open. I made a new friend. I dared to be real amongst people who get what that means. I can’t wait until next time!

I’ve attended most of the monthly Salon meetings since then, and read aloud from our book on three occasions: June, July, and September. This fit perfectly with my twin values of Connection and Challenge. I remember especially one lady who approached me in person after my first live reading, to share how much my words had meant to her.

I’d like to take this opportunity to commemorate local poet Mark Potts, a Salon regular who died recently. I didn’t get to know Mark well at all, but he was someone whose performances I enjoyed, and who spoke to me—a newcomer to the literary scene—with warmth, and welcome in his eyes. He will be deeply missed by those who knew and loved him.

This year I have travelled both physically here in the UK—holidaying with my wife Pam in Brough (twice) and in Bowness—and virtually, accompanying Fran on trips in the US including New York City and Samoset.

When Pam and I stayed at Brough in April, Fran and I were eagerly awaiting confirmation of a publishing contract offer. I was floating that whole week. After three and a half years, we had found a home for our book. There would still be a great deal of work to be done, both before and after publication, but—we’d done it! On the final day of the holiday, news broke that the publisher had gone out of business. It was a huge disappointment, but something of a lucky escape. Had we been accepted six months earlier, it might have been hard to extricate ourselves from the mess. As it was, we had the satisfaction of knowing our book had been deemed worthy of publication. It did mean having to continue the search for a publisher or literary agent.

As things turned out, we didn’t have to wait long! Pam and I were on our next holiday, in July, when our son Mike messaged me to say the publisher he was working with on his novel was interested in seeing High Tide, Low Tide. Things moved quickly. Fran and I started working with Michael Kobernus from Nordland Publishing almost immediately. We signed our contract on August 8. One of the year’s highlights was the delighted shriek of excitement from one of my senior work colleagues on hearing the news! (No less noteworthy was pitching our book to the team conducting my bowel cancer screening examination. Connection and Challenge? You couldn’t make this stuff up!)

Our Facebook cover reveal event ran for ten hours straight. The official High Tide, Low Tide launch party was on October 1, which is also Fran’s birthday. We were delighted that so many of our friends were able to attend these events, both virtually and in person.

Later that month, I was proud to appear as a panellist in Maine Behavioral Healthcare’s annual It Takes a Community forum discussing social media and mental health. In November, Fran and I hosted a book party and fundraiser for Maine-based mental health nonprofit Family Hope at Blue.

At the close of the year, our book is “out there.” It is available for sale online at Amazon (Amazon UK) and Barnes & Noble, and in one highstreet bookshop: Longfellow Books in Portland, Maine. It is also available to borrow from the City Library here in Newcastle.

Fran and I have been blown away by the support and encouragement we’ve received, not just since our book was released but throughout the four years it took us to bring our dream to fruition. There are too many to thank individually, but we have recognised as many of you as possible in the Acknowledgements, which you can read using Amazon’s Look Inside feature.

We’ve been interviewed a number of times throughout the year. I’d like to give special thanks to Aimee Wilson, Steven Hesse, Diane Atwood, and Rebecca and Joe Lombardo for making us feel so welcome.

So, what’s next? I certainly achieved my 2016 ambition “to engage fully with local mental health groups” but I want to take it further. Mental health advocate and blogger Aimee Wilson, recently invited her followers to share their highlight from 2016 and their hopes for the year ahead. I responded:

1) Launch party for our book HIGH TIDE LOW TIDE!
2) To get more involved with Time to Change and other mental health folks

Aimee replied “Yay! Well 2 = more time with me!” which suits me just fine! Aimee, you are a great ambassador for Time to Change and a personal inspiration to me. I look forward to working with you in the year to come.

Book marketing will be a huge part of 2017. I’ve learned a lot, especially from book marketing guru Rachel Thompson, but there is a lot more to learn and a lot of work putting it into practice. Rachel’s new book BadRedhead Media 30-Day Book Marketing Challenge is a must-read and is on my Kindle already. A related challenge is to blog more regularly than I have done to date.

Fran and I are particularly keen to connect with trainers, tutors, and organisations interested in adding High Tide, Low Tide to reading and resource lists. If you are able to help in any way, please get in touch!

Whatever happens in 2017, I welcome the Challenges and Connections it brings. As for my mantra: I don’t think I can improve on the one I have:

Well boundaried. Well focused. Well challenged. Well loved.

Peace.

Marty

 

We Wrote a Book!

Writing a book—a book like ours at least—isn’t about the book itself. Not really. It’s about connections. I have my copy of High Tide, Low Tide beside me this morning as I sit at my favourite table at Caffé Nero, and thus far I’ve had two conversations sparked by it.

Neither conversation resulted in a sale, but each resulted in an opening of heart between me and the other person. And it’s not just since the book has been published, although that certainly helps. Throughout its four year journey from inception to realisation, our book has brought me and Fran into contact—into connection—with folk we simply would not otherwise have met.

Some call it networking. Some call it platform building. It is both these things, and much more. It is what happens when you find your feet on the right road (what Spock described to Kirk as one’s “first, best destiny”) and open yourself to what the journey may bring. I have learned a few things.

• Not everyone you meet is supportive. Most are.
• Not everyone is open to the changes the journey brings in you. Most are.
• Not everyone can see that your dreams do not threaten them. Most can.
• Not everyone in your life at the start of the journey will stay the distance. Most will (and how many more!)

We wrote a book! If you are reading this (whether you buy a copy or not!) we’re glad you stuck with us, or found us along the way, or were here all along. Whatever, we are glad you are here!

High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend's Guide to Bipolar Disorder is available at: Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Barnes & Noble.

Marty