Saturday 28 October 2017

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.” 

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

Tuesday 10 October 2017

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. TolkienThe 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