Why I stopped twittering

A friend was surprised recently when she could no longer find me on Twitter - I was actually surprised that anyone noticed. I closed my account years ago and I had actually forgotten all about it and certainly didn't think that I'd need to let anyone know. This post is not about dissing Twitter or anyone who uses it, just a meandering through a decision about connecting and disconnecting.

So why did I stop twittering? Well to be honest I wasn't really twittering, or tweeting, or hash tagging. I was hovering around the fringes of that vast internet creature. I found it unwieldy, too fast and to be honest, pretty mean. I wouldn't call myself a conspiracy theorist (I'm supposed to be a sensible science-based psychologist for goodness sake) but there was an episode of Black Mirror that finally sparked my rapid departure from the Tweeting machine.

But it wasn't just an irrational fear of being attacked by a drone bee that impacted my decision. It just didn't do anything for me. I watched a webinar recently - welcome to the new normal - which was talking about psychological research into use of social media. There's a lot of negative press around how we are all looking at it too much and it's not psychologically healthy, how it makes us all feel not good enough because people only present the best version of themselves.

“A life had been ruined. What was it for: just some social media drama? I think our natural disposition as humans is to plod along until we get old and stop. But with social media, we’ve created a stage for constant artificial high drama. Every day a new person emerges as a magnificent hero or a sickening villain. It’s all very sweeping, and not the way we actually are as people.”  

 Jon Ronson, So You've Been Publicly Shamed

Then there's the internet trolls and Twitter does seem like a breeding ground for this type of behaviour. If you have never read Jon Ronson's "You've been publicly shamed", it is definitely worth a look. The book follows the journey of several people, public figures and ordinary people and how their lives were destroyed in the modern day equivalent of a village square public flogging and shaming - except on a stage of billions. It all makes me feel a bit sick.

However, social media can benefit us, in really specific ways. When we are scrolling through mindlessly to these snapshots of the lives of others, it is very easy for our social brains to slide into comparison mode. This is so unhelpful because being alive is not a competition, you can only ever be you with your own truths, trying to be someone else is always setting you up to fail. However, our brains do something different if we actually hover on the content we like in a mindful way, if we appreciate and encourage each other.

"Love and kindness are never wasted. They always make a difference. They bless the one who receives them, and they bless you, the giver."   

Barbara de Angelis 

 

I'm not talking about banal cheerleading here, yeah go you, everything you do is incredibly fabulous... yuk! But thoughtful and accurate comments of genuine appreciation for other people, their achievements, how they have gifted you with a moment of laughter in a rubbish day, how you feel proud of them or admire them because they have overcome something difficult. Instead of triggering the fear system in our brain, they trigger the reward system. Because our brains are designed to make us feel good when we connect with others and are designed to make us feel fear, anxiety and stress when we are in competition with others. Mirror neurons are a real incredible part of our brains. We give out compassion and kindness, then we feel connected. We give out criticism, hate and fear, then we feel disconnected.

I think this is beautiful and I've been trying to change my own behaviour and make thoughtful and meaningful comments, to have fun and to feel more connected. It's working, but I'm still not going back to twittering, because frankly, I'd rather be in the garden, not smelling the flowers, because I actually have no sense of smell. But putting my hands in the dirt, because that's who I am. Someone who likes to get her hands dirty.

May you be safe. May you be well. Dr M signing off

Unfinished business

It's not that I don't finish things, but I do start an awful lot of things, all the time. I was reading a post by the famous author and psychotherapist Irvine Yalom about a new book he has just finished. Even the short post made me cry, so I can't wait until it's published, I love his raw honesty and wry humour at life, and death. And his new book, like some of his others, is about death - the dying and death of his wife and their journey together and I think it sounds devastatingly beautiful.

But it set me on a train of thought, why haven't I finished writing a book? There is some irony in the fact that it prompted a blog post, something of a manageable size, that I imagine, as I start, I will be able to complete. Although who knows, maybe this will sit here unfinished for an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year... (edit - it's been a week).


There's also the untidied office, the unwatched webinar, the unanswered emails, the unsorted reams of paperwork, the piles of printed therapy worksheets waiting to be poly-pocketed, the unorganised photo-albums, the unread books, the unwritten books, the unknitted wool, the untidied kitchen drawer, the unchanged lightbulb, the unspoken words, the unfinished conversation, the unplanted seeds, the unweeded garden, the unclean muddied boots, the unsewn hole in the sock, the unpainted rocks collected from the beach, the unclimbed hills, the unvisited places, the unmet friends, the unfinished list....

Urgh, this is why I avoid thinking about this stuff -it's relentless! Some things feel great to finish, but often there's an anti-climax. Okay, yes I concede, there's something very satisfying about cleaning things and sorting things but then it gets in a guddle again and you have to do it all over again. But some things are frankly depressing to finish. I worked my way through Yalom's entire works on audiobook and then what? It felt like the end of a relationship, like being dumped or abandoned. Maybe I won't read his latest book. What if it's the last one? That would feel so so sad.

Yes, I know, some of this is rooted in attachment stuff. I don't like endings. I don't like them at all. I don't like it when books end and I guess it is a metaphor for not liking life ending, or love ending. I don't like the emptiness afterwards. Maybe what I'm most afraid of is not death, but of an unlived life. So I start things, and then start another thing, so there's always something to be done, something to be finished, some bit of life still to be lived.

“Sure baby, mañana. It was always mañana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard––mañana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Part of it might also be that "bored" was a bad word growing up. I learned very quickly not to say it out loud. I learned there was always some nonsense or mischief to get up to, some adventure to go on - either outside or in my head. So I wrote stories, I played in the dirt, no material - no problem, I'll cut up my mother's curtains; no paper - no problem, I'll draw on the wallpaper.

Maybe it's okay to not finish things. Maybe it's okay to not want to reach the end. Because it's really okay to want to stay here, to live, and to live fully every day and still have some life left over to live tomorrow... and tomorrow... and tomorrow.

When I was growing up there was a familiar phrase in our home "mañana, I guess that will get done mañana". Yes, indeed, tomorrow is not a criticism. Tomorrow is hope.

Signing off. Dr M

Who knit ya?

"Who knit ya?" is a phrase which hails from wondrous Newfoundland in Canada. Many of the people who settled there were Scots or Irish and the whole island is an eclectic mix of cultures, with a strong Celtic vibe. Who Knit ya - basically is a question about who you are, or rather who contributed to you being the way you are.

It is intended to be said in jest - laughing at themselves is something Newfies are renowned for. For example, if you do something a bit daft, the response might be - who knit ya? The phrase fascinated me and I guess I took another meaning out of it - more about the threads and patterns that are woven into the fabric of our lives, our being, our creation and in particular who contributed to that. 

We carry places and people inside us, they become part of ourselves. A sunset in the north of Scotland, a stranger on the train. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles, cousins, teachers, friends, enemies, strangers - they all "knit us". They all contribute a stitch or a thread, a colour. 

And when we look at ourselves, what do we see? Sometimes it might feel like a tangled mess. In therapy, that's exactly what we do - untangle the tangles. Unpick the bits that don't make sense and weave them back into a pattern. We call it integration. Integrating the parts of ourselves that we find unacceptable or the experiences we have had that we just can't get our heads around.

Sometimes there are mistakes, or those in the creative world like to call them "design features". What would it be like to think of our lives as having design features? Unique aspects that cannot ever be replicated. The experiences of our lives make us who we are, in all our multi-coloured imperfect beauty. People who make stuff continually have WIPs - Work in Progress. That's what we will always be, that's the incredible beauty of us, we have the ability to change the pattern and create something amazing with our lives.

"I am a part of all that I have met."

 Alfred Lord Tennyson

Knitting takes time and patience - for some of us it involves ripping out and starting all over again. For some of us, it involves swearing or throwing things across the room. But it is always worth the effort. (Well, maybe apart from that very dodgy primary colours jigsaw jumper I knitted in the eighties).

And people. People are always worth the effort.

Signing off. Dr M

Back on the wagon but don't forget the brakes

It's been so long since I've written my blog that I may actually have forgotten what to do. But I have so many words, thoughts and energy pumping round my body just now I feel the need to get back on the blogging horse. Maybe it will give people something more positive to read among the fear, panic and anger. Maybe it will ground me. Maybe it will make me take the space to reflect on everything - not just what's going on in the world, but what's going on inside me.

I have been blown away by people's creativity and care in these unprecedented times. I'm aiming to be like these swans taking it all in my stride, but I'm not quite sure I'm pulling it off. There are moments of peace and gratitude, but also moments of lots of other feelings too.

The appeal of slowing down, not driving anywhere, not squeezing in just one more thing, another bit of work, another meeting - well, it's vast. But I've realised over the past few days, bear with me, I'm clearly slow on the uptake, it's me, it's all me. No one else made my life this way - only me.

The clue is in my pinging inbox. Oh let's sign up for this that and the next thing. Here's another free course. Here's another online group. Here's another craft thing you can do. Here's another instrument you can learn. Here's another room you can paint. Here's another drawer or shelf you can sort out. Here's another vegetable you can plant. Here's another list of a million ways to slow down. I know, I'll write a blog post...

“Strange, what being forced to slow down could do to a person.”

― Nicholas Sparks, The Last Song

And... breathe. Yes. Just breathe in. And breathe out. I'm noticing as it reaches the end of a frantic week that my body is tense and I need to fill my lungs with air. Yes, I can cope. Yes, I can rally round. Yes, I can adapt in a crisis. That's all fab. But I can also use work and busyness as a way to cope with uncertainty. Yes, just do stuff. And then do some more stuff.

So I'm giving myself a gentle talking to. Not a great big telling off. But a gentle reminder that this is an opportunity to develop some better habits, some different ways of being.

Signing off. Dr M

What shall we remember?

When I was a kid in primary school I remember volunteering to sell poppies for the Earl Haig fund. I knew it was important but in a typically childish way, it was exciting because I got to trawl the streets and pubs which is a big deal for an 8 year old. But I had no concept of what war really meant. It had not touched my life in a real or tangible way. We pulled apart war poems in school because they were part of the curriculum. We analysed the language and the structure and used words like horror and gore, but still, it was not real to me. It was stories, it was fiction, it was history. It was something we were taught to be proud of and the poppy was a representation of that.

Now, I'm filled with ambivalence about this iconic symbol. The public displays of national pride move me very deeply, but also stir up conflicting emotions of sorrow, anger and deep disappointment in the human race. Human beings have been fighting each other since the beginning of time - this is now an industry with unfathomable monetary cost, but the cost that moves me most is the human one. There are statistics about the most recent wars costing trillions and many thousands of lives, but statistics are numbers and almost impossible to get our heads around. The individual cost is something much more tangible.

I have worked with many veterans and active military personnel in a number of settings. I have heard their stories, I have heard their families stories. I have had both the honour and the horror of having them share their deepest pain and most disturbing nightmares and witnessed the impact of what haunts them daily. Most of their scars are not visible to the eye. They are internal amputees, with parts of them cut off, mangled and mutilated. The most unimaginable disturbing images burned into their brains causing the wiring to short-circuit and disrupt every part of their lives. Tortured to the point of the suicide.

"We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields." John McCrae

Should they be left to suffer with their wounds for the rest of their lives? What tiny fraction of the trillions of pounds and dollars invested in war actually contributes to their recovery, healing and rebuilding of their lives? Who takes responsibility for clearing up the mess that war has made of people's lives? Should more be invested in research into PTSD? Who is fighting for those who fought for us while we went about our lives and slept soundly in our beds? I can't begin to answer these questions without getting political, which is not the point of this blog, but it is mainly charities funding activities that aid the recovery of veterans. They are doing amazing work, but they have to fight for their funding. Is that right? Is that fair?

I consider it a privilege to have contributed a small part in trying to help people rebuild their minds and their lives, but it does feel like a single arrow being fired into a raging battlefield. I hold on to the fact that helping even one person fight for their mind, for their sanity is something that can make a difference.

The poppy became a symbol of war following the poem In Flanders Fields, written by John McCrae, inspired by the flowers that flourished in the soil churned up by shelling and fighting. How ironic that something so beautiful thrives in such an environment. Human beings are the same. Emerging research into post-traumatic growth shows that people are inevitably changed by the most terrible things, but they can also grow and transform into something else, into something incredible.

I shall remember. And I shall believe in the power of the human spirit.

Signing off. Dr M

http://mrmpsychology.com

Faith in humanity restored to factory settings

So I had a bit of a wake up call last week. I realised that much of what I write about is on the darker side. Part of me thrives on that, but I don't think I've spent enough time thinking about the beams of light that shine out in the darkness. I felt the full force of that when I was attending a suicide prevention trainers conference in Canada recently.

I had the honour to meet and spend some time with Jonny Benjamin and Neil Laybourn. Yes, ironic that I should go all the way to Canada to meet a couple of English blokes. If the names sound familiar, it is because they are the men behind the story of the Stranger on the Bridge (link at the end). Short story, Neil finds Jonny on the Waterloo Bridge in London one morning, planning to end his life. Neil talks to Jonny and a transformation takes place, which results in Jonny's turning point towards life. Years later Jonny tracks Neil down to say thank you and the pair are now working together to raise awareness. Of course, there's much more to it than that, so watch their story. It is moving, powerful and inspiring.

I'd like to share what hearing their story meant to me. I spend a lot of time listening to other people's pain, listening to the terrible things that have happened to them and the terrible things that other people have done to them. It's fair to say that gives me a somewhat jaded opinion of the human race. It gives me a stark awareness of the ugly side of humanity and the devastation that other people can inflict - sometimes intentional, often not. Of course, I also see people's incredible ability to survive these things and am continually fascinated by human beings' creative ways of making their way through the most horrendous events. But essentially it is impossible not to think about the evil that men do - to each other.

This brings me to what touched me most about Jonny and Neil's story. I've spent a huge chunk of my life talking about suicide, helping people understand it, teaching them what to do, helping others deal with their thoughts about suicide. But Neil was just a 23 year old bloke. He hadn't been on training courses, or worked in mental health, or spent years stuck in psychology books. He just knew what to do. He maybe didn't feel like it at the time, but what he said and what he did made a difference. It saved someone's life. It saved Jonny's life. He was just a human being who saw the flicker of life force in another human being.

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” 

Mahatma Gandhi

I was 30 when I lost my best friend to suicide. She wasn't a stranger. I talked to her all the time. I knew she was struggling, but I still didn't know how to help her. I know very well that it's much more complicated, but still all these years later, I wish and I wonder. Sitting in a room, with tears streaming down my face, listening to Neil and Jonny - I was the most humbled I have ever felt. I have this image in my head of two life forces being drawn to each other - the universe propelling them together. And it gives me hope. It makes me believe again that humans can be amazing, selfless, compassionate, courageous, instinctive and incredible. And yes, it does even up the balance of light and darkness in the world.

Jonny has the most incredible force of courage inside him. He shares his story and the raw humanity is palpable. The shadows of shame that have long cloaked mental health issues visibly falls away when talks. His determination to find the man who didn't have to stop that day is a part of the story that has touched the lives of millions of people - their story went viral and it has spread throughout the world. It reminds all of us that we can never really know the full implications of our actions.

Bonus - Jonny and Neil are top blokes. Funny, smart, sharp and interesting as well as brilliant advocates for mental health awareness. If you ever get a chance to go hear them talk - take it. They are transforming the world around them with every step, everywhere they go. They both have some really important things to teach all of us.

https://youtu.be/VrcBUr974tM

Humbled and in gratitude. Signing off Dr M.

http://mrmpsychology.com

Raw - avoiding the pain of grief and loss

Someone asked me recently why my blog posts had become so sparse over the past year or so. I humbly and finally admit that it's a classic case of avoidance. Yes, that self-protective panacea that we are all so familiar with, but our clever little brains always find a good excuse for. I remain ambivalent about sharing this, which leads me to my own good excuse.

Grief strips a layer off you. And when you experience several losses one after the other, the layers drip off so fast that you quickly find a way to stop looking at yourself. You peek out the corner of your eye, you catch sight of your shadow and shirk away from it, you step away from your own reflection - especially when you see it in the eyes of other people.

Sympathy nips like vinegar on raw flesh. It feels like the worst possible thing you could put on a wound. But no one knows what to do or say, they have little to offer except sympathy. What does that really mean? They feel sorry for you and they're glad it's not them. I know I sound ungrateful, but maybe I am just voicing the unspeakable truth that actually there isn't anything that takes the pain away and often other people make it worse.

As a therapist, I regularly "deal with" grief. It's different. There's a process. There's time. There's space. To just sit with the pain, so someone doesn't have to sit with it alone. Outside of the therapy room there isn't time and space or the willingness to tolerate another person's bottomless pit of distress. Even people sharing the same grief, it's not sharing. It's different for each of them. Loss is so very personal and individual that we struggle to comfort each other and mostly just feel alone with what we are feeling. The ripping away of an attachment is so basic and core that we can never fully explain what a person meant to us and what their absence means.

There's a reason why traditionally we wore black for eons while in mourning. It's off-putting. By nature, we are not drawn towards it. Black is so solid, so immovable, so permanently black. There's also a reason why every guideline ever says it's not a good idea to try and therapise the grief out of people, why people should wait before accessing grief counselling. We are supposed to be sad when someone dies. If we loved them, it's supposed to hurt. It's what makes us human. It sucks. it really really does. But it's supposed to.

“I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

So I've been hiding. Otherwise known as avoidance. Normally I'm not an advocate, it's not the most helpful response and can get us in a right mess. But it's what I needed. I can do lots of other things and be sad at the same time, but I can't write when I'm sad. I can suspend sadness while I'm in the therapy room, while I'm doing training, while I'm laughing with my friends and my family. But I cannot write when I'm sad. I'm still sad, so maybe the blog drought will last a bit longer. For now, this is a tiny drop of moisture that wasn't quite a tear.

Till the next time. Dr M