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.

 

Pause for Thought: Hesitation is My Super Power

Marty taught me to hesitate.

— Fran Houston

TW: Mention of suicidality and self-harm

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. She described how she’s learned from me to hesitate over certain things where previously she’d have acted instinctively — and not always wisely. I knew it was a topic worth exploring but with respect to the theme I decided not to rush into doing so. I let it sit with me for several days. Every now and again an idea or reference would come to me and I’d jot it down, but I didn’t begin working on this post for a week or more.

The Perils of Hesitation

One of the first things I do when starting a new blog post is research quotes relevant to the topic. Other people’s words often afford me a fresh perspective, or provide a hook on which to hang my arguments. In this case, I was looking for quotations highlighting the positive aspects of hesitation, with a few contrary perspectives about hesitating too much or too long.

The latter weren’t hard to find. Building on the proverbial “He who hesitates is lost” Mae West declared “He who hesitates is a damned fool.” As an aside, the former is a misquotation or adaptation of a line in Joseph Addison’s 1712 play Cato: “The woman that deliberates is lost.” Oscar Wilde took things a stage further in his play The Importance of Being Earnest in which Lady Bracknell utters the damning indictment, “Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.” Amongst many other counsels against hesitating, the following three are indicative.

The minute you hesitate you are in trouble.
― Steve Waugh

Make up your mind to act decidedly and take the consequences. No good is ever done in this world by hesitation.
— Thomas Huxley

Fear causes hesitation, and hesitation will cause your worst fears to come true.
— Patrick Swayze

I could see what they were hinting at but it felt very one-sided. Surely there were some positives to hesitation.

The Positive Side of Hesitation

I found only one quotation explicitly extolling the merits of hesitation. In a line heavy with current geo-political relevance, former Prime Minister of Israel Golda Meir stated that “A leader who doesn’t hesitate before he sends his nation into battle is not fit to be a leader.”

Hesitating before taking any action that may harm others or ourselves is sound advice. Whether framed as hesitation, interruption, distraction, or pausing, not acting on perilous thoughts is central to strategies intended to prevent or limit the effect of suicidality and self-harm. This doesn’t only apply to the person at risk. It applies to us as the listener too. As I’ve explored previously in How Are You Really? Eight Things I’ve Learned About Suicidality and Self-Harm it’s easy to react out of fear if someone tells you they have thoughts of suicide or self-harm. Knee-jerk responses are unlikely to help, however, and can be unhelpful. As Fran expressed it to me on one occasion, “The worse thing someone can do is to be shocked. A much better response is ‘tell me more about how you feel.’” If we’re prepared to listen without judgment — to pause — we open a space in which both people can feel safe. For links to crisis and help lines check out our resources page. Details of suicide awareness and prevention training can be found in our article 17 Online Suicide Awareness Courses and Podcasts.

More generally, it’s wise to pause when approaching any situation which may be unhelpful or unhealthy. My friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson reminded me of the DBT (dialectical behaviour therapy) strategy known as cost benefit analysis. In a DBT context, this classic decision-making technique can be used to challenge old, unhealthy patterns of thinking, allowing them to be replaced by more healthy thoughts.

Perplexed at how few positive viewpoints I’d found, I changed my search from “quotations about hesitation” to “quotations about pausing.” Suddenly, everything fell into place. It was clearly a matter of semantics. Several writers focused on pausing in order to appreciate the progress we’ve made or the world around us. Guillaume Apollinaire reminds us that “Now and then it’s good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.” Albert Einstein pushed things up a notch, declaring “He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.” Amongst reminders of this kind I love Bruce Feiler’s quirky “Take a walk with a turtle. And behold the world in pause.” It’s impossible to mention turtles and not to think of Crush, the laid-back surfer-dude sea turtle voiced by Andrew Stanton in Disney/Pixar’s 2003 animated film Finding Nemo and the 2016 sequel Finding Dory.

Former professional cyclist and three-time Olympic gold medalist Kristin Armstrong highlights the benefits of pausing in order to reset our thinking and open our minds to new perspectives. “It’s not only moving that creates new starting points.” she says. “Sometimes all it takes is a subtle shift in perspective, an opening of the mind, an intentional pause and reset, or a new route to start to see new options and new possibilities.” The benefits to our thinking are further emphasised by Indian singer Shreya Ghoshal. She wrote, “I believe that when the going gets tough, you should just hit pause. Assimilate what is happening for ten minutes. Your thoughts will be much clearer.”

“Look before you leap” is a call to prudent hesitation originating in the fables of Aesop, a slave and storyteller who lived in ancient Greece around 620 BCE. In The Fox and the Goat, a fox falls into a well and can’t get out. A thirsty goat walks by and the fox persuades the goat to jump into the well to get a drink. The fox climbs on the goat’s back and escapes, leaving the goat unable to escape. When the goat asks the fox for help, the fox tells him he has only himself to blame. “If you had as much sense as you have beard, old fellow, you would have been more cautious about finding a way to get out again before you jumped in.”

The caution of Aesop’s fable is challenged by a poem by Christopher Logue (often wrongly attributed to Guillaume Apollinaire, to whom it was dedicated) called “Come to the Edge.”

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It’s too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
and he pushed,
And they flew.

The meaning is clear. If we push through our fears (or are pushed) we can overcome what holds us back. However intoxicating the message, it’s profoundly dangerous. As I wrote in Just Don’t: Ten Reasons Not to Do the Thing it’s not for others to push us over the edge. The motivation to transcend our fears must come from within us, albeit with encouragement and support.

Hesitation and Action: the Critical Balance

As with most things in life, there’s a balance to be struck. In the present context, the balance is between leaping into things without regard to the risks and consequences, and missing opportunities by waiting for things to fall perfectly into place. It’s not always clear in advance when to act and when to pause a while longer. Author and life coach Tony Robbins suggested that “Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.” In that moment, we may decide to do the thing, but there’s no shame in paying attention to our fears and putting it off for another day. A gentler call to action is afforded by Mark Victor Hansen.

Don’t wait until everything is just right. It will never be perfect. There will always be challenges, obstacles and less than perfect conditions. So what. Get started now. With each step you take, you will grow stronger and stronger, more and more skilled, more and more self-confident and more and more successful.

For Fran the distinction is clear. “Procrastination can lead to you damning yourself,” she told me. “There’s a power in choosing to hesitate.” She continued with an example. “When someone e-mails me my tendency is to reply immediately rather than give it space. I can react or hesitate and think about what my response might be. Hesitation is giving space.”

My tendency to hesitate helps counter Fran’s impulsivity, which can be heightened by mania and anxiety. “Hesitation is a way of protecting myself for my mental wellness,” as she put it. Rather than respond immediately to what someone says or does, I’ll encourage her to pause and consider if what she’s feeling and thinking is grounded in fact. An immediate response or action is rarely necessary, although we remain aware of the counter danger. As Fran expressed it, “The other side is I ruminate for days or weeks over things.”

My Experience of Hesitation and Pause

But what of me? How do I strike that balance? I called hesitation my super power, but do I hesitate too much? Just the right amount? Not enough? There’ve undoubtedly been times in my life when it would have been better to pause to consider the consequences of what I was about to do. The times that spring to mind are from decades ago. Most concern my feelings towards other people. I fell in love easily and deeply. I just didn’t always know what to do with those emotions. As Elvis Presley sang in “Can’t Help Falling in Love”:

Wise men say
“Only fools rush in”
But I can’t help
Falling in love with you.

By acting impulsively or recklessly I embarrassed, confused, and hurt people I cared about more times than I’m comfortable recalling. It’s something I was aware of at the time, as evidenced by several of my poems from those days.

A voice I recognise dies screaming
NOREGRETS!
but I regret the months confused the
rhymes you (were they all ?uneasingly) inspired
because I never wanted to confuse you
— from “26.”

.then a fiercer
flame repels: the memory of
another that my flutterings
confused (an age too long ago.
— from “Mothly”

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”

Experiences such as these left me with a mistrust of spontaneity and a tendency to overplay the hesitation card. As a result, I’ve undoubtedly missed out because I hesitated too long. I once deflected an explicitly romantic advance from someone I liked very much with a kiss on the nose, so confident was I there’d be plenty of other opportunities for us to take things further. It was hesitation on a comedically epic scale and I still cringe at the memory. They say at the end of life you recall the opportunities you failed to take up. If so, I’m pretty sure that will be one of them. (Sorry, Jenny!)

More prosaically, I twice declined promotion at work before finally accepting when it was made clear the offer wouldn’t be made a fourth time. I missed out on maybe a year’s elevated salary as a result of my hesitation. Continuing the financial theme, I recently opened a new savings account after holding several thousand pounds in my current (checking) account for years where it earned zero interest. Now and again I’d research options but always hesitated to make a decision. Each month’s procrastination lost me the interest I’d have earned if I’d moved the money somewhere else. Finally, I recognised that I didn’t need to find the perfect solution. There would always be a higher yield account or savings plan on offer somewhere. I only needed to choose one with a decent rate of interest. I made the decision and moved the money.

I believe I’m learning to find that sweet spot between healthy and unhealthy hesitation. This applies not only to my own life but how I feel about and respond to what my friends and loved ones are going through in theirs. Everything from how to respond to e-mails, invitations, challenge, and conflict, to handling new friendships and relationships. The following quotation by Lori Deschene, founder of Tiny Buddha, reminds me this is a skill that requires practice to perfect.

Practice the pause. Pause before judging. Pause before assuming. Pause before accusing. Pause whenever you’re about to react harshly, and you’ll avoid doing and saying things you’ll later regret.

There’s an echo there of the Sufi saying attributed to the 13^th-century Persian poet and mystic Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (Rumi).

Before you speak, let your words pass through three gates:
Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?

This is a favourite of Fran’s and something she reminds me of from time to time. It cuts to the heart of the hesitation paradox for me. Many of my past issues might have been avoided if I’d known Rumi’s words and paid heed to them.

Over to You

In this article I’ve explored what hesitation and pause mean to me. What do you feel about these topics? Are you someone who takes time to think things through or do you respond instinctively to situations and events? Have there been times you wish you’d stopped to consider the consequences of your actions? Are there things you’ve missed out on because you hesitated too long? What is your super power? Fran and I would love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Humberto Portillo at Unsplash.

 

Occasional Spikes of Mayday: The Power of Analogy When Talking About Mental Health

Fran and I find analogies helpful when discussing mental and physical health. This is especially true when one person has little or no experience of what the other is attempting to convey. In this post I want to share a few models and analogies we find useful, and introduce a new one we’ve only recently taken up. I’ve described a few of these previously in The Stress Bucket and Other Models That Help Me Talk about Mental Health.

Spoon Theory

Perhaps the most well-known analogy for chronic illness is the spoon theory created by Christine Miserandino. The idea is that people living with energy-limiting conditions such as MS (multiple sclerosis) and fibromyalgia begin each day with a limited number of energy units, represented by spoons. If you’ve ever come across the terms spoons or spoonies online in a health context, that’s what they’re talking about.

Waves

Although Fran and I reference spoon theory on occasion, we’re more likely to employ our home-grown models. I’ve always loved the sine wave analogy Fran employed on a TV interview to describe her symptoms.

My chronic fatigue syndrome operates like this ... [Fran draws an up and down sine wave in the air.] My bipolar depression operates like this ... [She draws a second wave.] And sometimes they go like this ... [She draws two synchronised waves.] And sometimes they go like this ... [Fran draws two waves out of phase, so that one peaks while the other bottoms out.] It’s really quite a bizarre experience.

In those few sentences Fran captured for me the essence of a life lived with distinct but overlapping health conditions. As we describe in our book, waves also feature in the model a friend of ours uses to explore her relationship with depression.

My analogy is a sunny beach. The sea represents my depression. If I’m in the water out of my depth I’m not feeling so good. If I’m knee deep I am getting better. If I’m walking on the beach with waves lapping at my feet it’s much better. If I’m on the dunes looking back at the sea view at sunset I am happy and content, at peace for a while.

No one can hold back the tide of illness by willpower alone, but the clarity of our friend’s model acknowledges a degree of personal responsibility.

Flatness

Analogies also serve as a form of verbal shorthand for thoughts and feelings that might be difficult to express in detail. In Flatness and Disinclination I described how I use “flat” as shorthand for a sense of feeling low. “Not actively low or depressed; it’s more like the absence of any specific emotion than the presence of a negative one.” I can use the term with Fran or other friends to let them know how I’m feeling without having to go into details. This is especially helpful to me because I find it extremely difficult to label my feelings and emotions, a key indicator of alexithymia.

The Box on the Shelf / Waterfalls

Other analogies of ours include The Box on the Shelf for handling difficult issues or situations, and the analogy of a waterfall which relates to holding space for other people.

I thought for a moment about the term holding space. We use it a lot, but I’d never really considered what it means. “The idea,” I continued, “is to hold a space open for everything that’s being shared to flow into.”

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

The waterfall analogy is about maintaining healthy boundaries, and is one we reference on a regular basis.

Air Traffic Control

I recently shared a blog post about air traffic control (ATC) as an analogy for aspects of a supportive friendship. As I wrote in Squawk 7700 “The radar analogy is a useful addition [to my toolbox]. Like an air traffic controller, I scan my collection of friends to see how everyone is doing, and to make sure no one gets left out or forgotten about.”

Plate Spinning / Mayday and Pan Pan

For a long time, Fran has been advocating for her elderly parents. This can be both mentally and physically draining, not least because things seem to transition from one crisis to another with little intervening respite. It can be difficult for Fran to prioritise the different items that need addressing or following up. During a recent conversation I reminded her of the plate spinning analogy I’ve found helpful when similarly overwhelmed. I’ve described this previously in How I Keep My Plates Spinning (Mostly).

I’ve focused on how I keep my plates spinning, but sometimes there’s just too much crockery up there! It’s more graceful to catch a few pieces before they fall and set them safely aside, but it’s okay if one or more end up on the floor. Maybe we took on too many tasks at once, either because we overestimated our capabilities or because we were given little opportunity to say no. Maybe we tried to handle just a little too much drama, our own or other people’s. Maybe life simply threw more at us than we could ever hope to keep going at the same time.

I also offered a new analogy rooted in my fascination with aviation. Mayday and Pan Pan are internationally recognised distress calls used by aviators to alert air traffic control to issues they’re dealing with. Mayday is used where there’s an imminent and serious threat to life or the aircraft. Pan Pan is a lower level alert. It’s used for situations which are urgent but not immediately life-threatening. In each case there are defined procedures for both aviators and ATC so that the situation can be resolved as safely as possible. In the case of a Mayday call, the aircraft will be afforded immediate and full attention of all relevant emergency and support services, with other aircraft and airport movements being adjusted or suspended as necessary until the crisis is over.

I asked Fran what kind of alert she’d issue for how she was feeling. She said she’s been living in a pan pan scenario for a long time, “with occasional spikes of mayday.” It’s not that I was unaware of how things had been for her. We talk every day about whatever’s going on for both of us. But those few words — using an analogy which I’d offered her because it resonates for me — conveyed the reality of her situation in a way I could immediately appreciate and understand. It was a great example of the power of analogy in helping us understand what’s going on for someone else, and in sharing how things are for us.

Over to You

In this blog post I’ve described a number of models and analogies which Fran and I find helpful when we’re discussing aspects of mental and physical health. Do any of them resonate for you? Do you use analogies to help you describe your symptoms to friends and loved ones? Do friends and loved ones use any when describing their situation to you? Which do you find most useful? Are there any you feel are unhelpful because they trivialise or gloss over the details? We’d love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Camilo Jimenez at Unsplash.

 

It Was All Story: The Wizard of Berry Hill

Our blog focuses on mental health and supportive friendships. Now and again, however, Fran and I give ourselves permission to explore other topics. This is one of those occasions. As regular readers will know, writing has always been an important part of my life. I’ve kept a daily diary for over fifty years. During that time I’ve written poetry, articles, short stories, a novella, two books, and a great many blog posts. I’ve not written creative fiction for a number of years, but in We Are All Made of Stories I described some of my past adventures in that genre.

I’ve shared two short stories here in the past. Written in 1999, Home Eleven is an urban fantasy based loosely on events and experiences at Newcastle’s Green Festival. Dating from 2001, The Hundred Stories touches on a project I was working on at that time that interwove JRR Tolkien’s life and work with British history and folklore. The story references accounts of the brothers of Lindisfarne (Holy Island) who carried the body of St Cuthbert around the north of England to escape attack by the Danes.

This time, I’d like to share a short story originally published in 2003. The Wizard of Berry Hill was inspired by a visit to the Archaeolink Prehistory Park in Oyne, Aberdeenshire. Opened in June 1997 in a historically significant area boasting seven Iron Age forts, Archaeolink has been variously described as “ahead of its time” and “Scotland’s most boring visitor centre.” It closed in 2011 after funding was withdrawn. My tale describes a nighttime visitor to the former hill fort, evoking some of the settlement’s troubled history.

---

The Wizard of Berry Hill

He walked unnoticed into the settlement. There seemed to be no one else about, a faint ember-glow in the gathering darkness was the only hint of habitation.

Something, the memory of mannish companionship perhaps, drew him in and hitching the soiled cloak above his knees he settled astride one of the roughly worked logs that circled the abandoned hearth.

In his wandering he had known many such camps huddled against the hills, each little more than a clutch of huts about a fire. He snorted. So far had men fallen! And yet, he reminded himself, some had remembered longer than others. About the hearth-fire they would gather, the day’s labour done. Then the air would thicken with smoke; with debate, argument and song, with music and the Tellings of older days.

There had been folk enough about this fire earlier in the day. From the nearby hill he had watched them with his keen grey eyes. Men and women busy about their day. Children running between the huts with whooping cries.

But now he was alone. From the voluminous pouch at his belt he drew forth a long-stemmed pipe, the wooden bowl and stem almost black with grime and smoke.

For a moment he turned it over in his hands, his mind on other journeys. Older days. Then he tapped the bowl twice against the log. The sound, sharp in the gathering dark, disturbed birds roosting in the trees beyond the nearest hut.

“Hush!” he muttered, pipe clamped firmly now in his mouth while he fumbled for weed. Teeth found familiar grooves in the chewed stem.

He lifted an ember in a twist of grass, lit the weed. Thin streams of smoke wavered in the still evening air.

An old man’s comfort in the wild.

Something moved by his foot. “Good evening, little master!” he breathed companionably. He reached half a dry loaf of bread from the pouch and scattered crumbs in the grass. The mouse hesitated a moment before settling down to eat between the high leather boots.

He had not journeyed so far north for many years. Many lives of men. The last time this land had been open forest, the tall trees lapping against the hill like a tide.

He drew deep on his weed, blew it back to the night in a silver cloud that swept across the ground like the falcon he had watched earlier in the day as it worked the ragged hedgerows away to the north.

Gone. All gone.

He sighed aloud. The mouse paused, crumb held in its tiny hands.

A breeze stirred the night air, quickening the hearth. He reached for a blackened stick and teased a lick or two of flame from the embers but no fuel lay to hand and he allowed the fire to die back again.

There was none to see but his eyes were wet with tears. A different night. A different fire.

He was standing on the high wall that had circled the hill top settlement. The man beside him was young, but men had fallen far from the times of old and twenty five summers was enough to see him lord of his people. This was his demesne, his fortress, hard won and stoutly defended. A wave of swords rising against the rude fort. The cries of the men. Women and children slain with casual savagery. The young prince fallen with his people. Their blood drenching the ground as the victors set flame upon the hill top.

Long, long ago.

Nothing stood now on Berry Hill but tumbled masonry, a few wizened spruce and everywhere the wiry, sheep-cropped turf. And yet, the land remembered.

Not an hour since he had stood there, listened to the wind lament through the grass under a sky heavy with tears. As drizzle filled the air he had circled the hilltop. Lichens, deep and venous red, slicked the wet stone and more than once he had been glad of his short staff.

His tour of homage complete he had descended the narrow steps through gorse and thistle and the hoar brambles that gave the place its name. He licked his hand where it smarted still, a two inch scratch his price for the sweet fruit he had plucked on his descent.

It was all such a long time ago. The invaders had moved on, content to have destroyed the settlement and hungry for better plunder in the east. For many years Berry Hill had been left deserted, its name a token of misfortune and dread to later days. In hard times some few had come, disdaining the ill-famed summit for the lower slopes. Of their name and fate no story told, unless it was the sound of the wind across the ruins of their house.

Night was almost upon him. The pipe, which he never once took from his mouth, pulsed slowly to the rhythm of his breathing. The last embers glowed dimly in the hearth. The little mouse had long since departed.

He turned to look behind him. The thatched roofs of the huts stood out ghostly against the tree line. All unoccupied, they were nonetheless a part of the Story, like the ruined fortress on the hill and the deserted farmstead. Like those who gathered here every day to rediscover the old ways and learn how to remember. Like himself.

It was all Story. Patterns across the land and down the years. He sighed — and the sound fell upon the air with an Age’s soft sadness.

oOo

At the first flush of dawn he drew back the rude curtain, bent his grey head beneath the low wooden lintel and stepped out into the clearing. For one night at least the settlement had been occupied again.

Clouds still brooded over Berry Hill and he drew his cloak tight against the promise of rain. For a moment he stood there between hut and hearth. His eyes were closed, the rude staff planted firmly at his side. He extended his right arm over the settlement, fingers stiffly splayed. His lips moved though he spoke no word aloud and when he opened his eyes a few minutes later he did not linger but strode from the place with not a backward glance.

He was about to emerge from the narrow stand of trees when sudden bird-call stopped him short. Bright light raked the gloom, flashed green from his dark eyes.

The car sped past, suspension effortlessly absorbing the contours of the land. Its driver was oblivious to Outside. He had driven the road a thousand times and this time in the morning there was never anyone else about. Just another early start at the office.

The robin flung himself off the low branch from which he had announced the alarm. A dozen wing-beats took him to his morning perch on the large white-painted gate post. He watched, head cocked to one side, as the sun rose higher in the sky. Shrouded in cloud it seemed to ride the contours of the hill. Then in sudden brilliance a beam of gold broke free, lighting the thatches of the huts and stirring the robin into song.

Soon the vehicles would arrive. Lights would go on in the visitor centre, the souvenir shop and restaurant. Later the visitors. Tourists looking for something different. Coaches of school kids to whoop around the huts, learning how to make flint knives and needles from splinters of bone. Story-telling around the great hearth.

His brown cloak swirling about his legs, the traveller crossed the road and disappeared into the trees on the other side.

Another day at the Archaeolink Heritage Village. Another turn of the page. And over all the mass of Berry Hill, brooding.

 

Artwork by Martin Baker.