Why positive thinking needs a makeover

When I hear about ‘positive thinking’, my immediate reaction is to screw up my face and shudder with revulsion. This year I’m aiming to change that, for my own good, and in my own way. I’ll tell you why in just a moment.

First, though, I do need to have a quick rant about positive thinking, just to get it out of my system.

The phrase ‘positive thinking’ conjures up images of excessively cheery people, bounding around with ceaseless, inexplicable joy, squirting out irritating, glib catchphrases like “There are no problems, only opportunities”.

I associate ‘positive thinking’ with the kind of grating, false positivity that’s often touted in a supposedly motivational way. I was once at a conference, eating my dinner and chatting to the people I was sitting with, when a motivational speaker popped up and began to address us. The one thing I remember from his talk was his method for dealing with people who weren’t positive. If someone objected, complained, or appeared disgruntled, however justifiably, he would shout ‘FANTASTIC!’ in their faces. As a motivator, he was actually very effective – a number of people felt highly motivated to leave the company soon after that conference.

It’s not that I’m a ‘the glass is half empty’ sort of person. I’m not really a ‘glass half full’ person either. I’m more of a ‘there’s some water in the glass’ person. I’d class myself as a realist, rather than an optimist or a pessimist.

I have to admit, though, that when I think about something, I tend to think through the difficulties or problems before I get to the good bits. When it comes to managing difficult projects, which is something I do quite a lot, identifying problems is actually quite a useful skill, and part of making sure the project is successful.

But it’s less useful when it comes to most other things. The more problems you can foresee, the more difficult something appears. And the more difficult something appears, the less likely you are to do it. And the less likely you are to do something, the less likely you are to get anywhere. So you stop trying to get anywhere, then you get frustrated at yourself for not getting anywhere. That kind of thinking is a dream killer of the highest order. It stops you thinking ‘What if?’ and drives you down the road of ‘You can’t’.

I recognise that pattern of negative thinking from my experience of depression. It’s my default setting – imagine the worst first. Even now I’m feeling better, all it takes is tiredness, hunger or a difficult day, and the negative-thinking demons start dancing a gleeful jig in my brain, dragging me down.

I decided at the end of last year that I would try to be more positive this year. However, I started writing this in December and only now, at the end of February, am I posting it – because I didn’t feel positive enough.

I’ve come to realise that what I need is not just an unthinking dollop of positive thinking, but just to try and see the positive side of something first, before the negative jumps in. It’s hard. It involves changing years of habitually doing the opposite. But I don’t want those dancing demons to get the upper hand again, so it’s got to be worth a shot.


Five reasons why I keep talking about depression

Even if you haven’t experienced a mental health problem yourself, you’ll know someone who has. And chances are they haven’t told you about it.

This Thursday, Time to Change is encouraging people to take five minutes to talk about mental health.

Here are five reasons why I keep talking about depression – and why I would urge you to do the same, whatever your mental health problem:

  • Talking makes a difference. The more I’ve talked about my experiences of depression, the more I’ve realised I’m not alone. Countless others have similar experiences and we can all learn from each other. It might seem daunting, but I have benefited enormously from taking the plunge and sharing my experiences four years ago. While medication and time off can play a vital part in coping with depression, I believe that talking therapies – as well as talking to friends, relatives, colleagues and other people who are happy to share their experiences – offer the best chance of finding a long-term way of managing and overcoming it. Counselling has been a huge help to me in the last few years.
  • Mental health problems are nothing to be ashamed of. They are not your fault. But we act like they are, and we often believe they are. As a society, we need to recognise these facts, talk openly about them and remove the stigma.
  • People still get in a muddle over the difference between feeling depressed (a passing mood) and depression (a mental health problem). This confusion is betrayed by phrases like “What’s he got to be depressed about?” when people are discussing depression. We’re not talking about a lifestyle choice here, people. Would you ask me what I’ve got to be asthmatic about? Would you advise me to snap out of my hayfever? It’s easy to make these throwaway judgements and suggestions until you’ve experienced depression yourself – then you know that depression is a cruel condition that dictates your life and affects you in all kinds of hideous mental and physical ways. Attitudes are easier to change, so let’s snap out of our ignorance.
  • If people with mental health problems don’t get the help and support they need, it can make their problems worse, reduce their chances of coping and feeling better, and can be very dangerous. There are several reasons for this, and not all can be solved by talking about our problems (waiting times for therapy, for example), but we can all make it feel more socially acceptable for people to talk openly about their mental health.
  • Depression thrives on secrecy. It is a shadowy menace, like Harry Potter’s nemesis, Voldemort – an enemy so terrifying that people don’t speak his name. Do we want the bad guy to win, or are we going to rise up against him and banish him forever?

An intruder called depression

Five years ago, depression broke into my life.

Its partners in crime – stress, worry and exhaustion – distracted me at the front door, while depression sneaked round the back.

Once inside, he made himself at home, feeding off my anxiety and insecurity, and using up all my energy. He took me hostage and made my life his own. I wasn’t looking forward to anything – everything we did seemed to be on his terms.

After a while, I got some help. Citalopram, an antidepressant, gradually offered me some protection against the tension and headaches, but it was counselling that really started to make a difference. Talking through my problems and how I was feeling helped me come to terms with it and think about what I could do to cope better with my enemy.

After a while, things seemed to be getting better, and I didn’t feel my intruder’s crushing presence as strongly. Had he gone?

Well, if he had, he hadn’t gone far.

Stress came beating on the door again, and this time depression’s attack was far less subtle. He flattened the front door, broke all the windows and beat me up. He cruelly brought insomnia with him. Sleep deprivation and dark moods are a destructive cycle. I had time off work, upped the dose of my Citalopram again, and returned to the counsellor a few months later.

I did find a new weapon against my enemy during that difficult time, though. I’d started a blog a couple of months earlier. It wasn’t about depression – it was about fun stuff like birds, Elvis and the seaside. But once I started to blog about my experiences of depression, I found loads of other people going through it too, or who had some experience of it – friends and strangers alike. Someone recommended a book called ‘Depressive Illness: The Curse of the Strong’ by Dr Tim Cantopher, and I found it was the only book on the subject that I could read and understand.

Along with these new allies, family and friends gave me invaluable support, and with further help from the counsellor and GP I started to fight back against depression. Eventually I was able to try reducing the dose of my antidepressants. It took a long time, but I stopped taking them last October.

So, does that mean depression has gone away for good? No, he doesn’t give up that easily. He keeps trying. He’s stubborn. Perhaps he gets that from me. There are times when it feels like he has gone far away, and other times when he’s got his nose pressed against the window, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The crucial thing is that I know about him. I have exposed him and learned his tricksy ways. I know what he is up to. It is hard to keep an eye on him all the time, and it feels like I constantly have to outwit him, but now my intruder alarm is set to ring BEFORE he gets in.


An embarrassing dad’s cringe-worthy near miss

Dads have a duty to embarrass their children, and I like to think I perform the role pretty well. But yesterday I was within a second of entering the dads’ hall of fame for excruciating embarrassment.

We’d gone out for lunch – my wife, nine-year-old daughter, six-year-old son and I – to an Italian restaurant, to celebrate my wife’s birthday.

It was all very enjoyable, and the only embarrassment I caused during the meal itself was for my wife, when she became the centre of attention for a rousing chorus of ‘happy birthday’.

My brush with notoriety came as we were leaving the restaurant. As we neared the door, I found the waiter standing in front of me, with his arms outstretched and a big, daft grin on his face.

I was struck by panic. What was happening? Did he really want to hug me? I mean, he was a nice man but I didn’t think we got on THAT well. I’ve never hugged waiters anywhere else. I wasn’t prepared for it.

He did seem very enthusiastic about it, though. I wondered if it was an Italian custom and didn’t want to cause offence by snubbing his warm gesture.

It was all a bit awkward, though. Why me? There didn’t seem to be any other hugging going on. And he was about a foot-and-a-half shorter than me, which would add an extra level of awkwardness to our impending embrace. I’d either have to stoop (ungainly) or pick him up (just weird).

Caught in a moment of indecision, I felt my arms rising into cuddle position. I was about to give him the most awkward hug ever, when I noticed he had a lollipop in each hand and was actually handing them to the kids, who were standing either side of me.

Breathing a sigh of relief, and thanking my unwitting would-be hugger, we left the restaurant, and I revealed to my unsuspecting family what had almost happened.

It would have been social awkwardness on a whole new level, and I’d have surely had to stay away from the restaurant and surrounding areas for at least five years.

A brush with infamy narrowly avoided, we drove off guffawing at my silliness.

I may have dodged the hall of fame, but I like to think my cringe-worthy near miss has at least given my children a glimpse of how humiliating their futures could be and scored me some bonus embarrassing dad points.


A year without antidepressants

It is one year since I last took an antidepressant, and I am going to celebrate – not because I feel wonderful and am bursting with elation, but because I want to rub depression’s face in it.

I’m going to celebrate because I do not want this milestone to pass without pausing to reflect on it. And that’s the kind of celebration it will be – a quiet, reflective one. Armed with a posh hot chocolate, I have sat myself down to write my first blog post for a couple of months, mainly out of sheer stubbornness (I put this evening aside to write, so that is what I am doing) but also because I get the feeling Paul Brookes – the name I give my depression – doesn’t want me to. And I will not let him have his way any more.

It has, at times, and for some prolonged periods, been a tough year without Citalopram, which was, after all, my constant companion for three-and-a-half years, and there have been moments when I’ve been very close to reuniting with it.

Brookes has lined up his henchmen, stress and anxiety, and sent them round to rough me up on a number of occasions, thinking that when they’ve given me a beating he can sneak back in. And he has come very close to doing just that.

The difference between now and five years ago, when he crept up on me for the first time, or three years ago, when he reappeared with brute force, is that I am wise to his ways. I can hear his stealthy footsteps. I can see his shadow on the wall. I can sense his malicious presence.

The fear is still the same. He still scares me. The innate caveman instincts of fight and flight kick in – I want to run away from my troubles, and end up fighting those henchmen day after day.

But, to a certain extent, I know what to do about it. I have learned how to look after myself. That’s all very well, but the trick I have yet to master is how to remember and do those things when I’m feeling weary, worn down, battered and lethargic, or when my stress levels are threatening to make my eyes pop out.

In those times when Brookes attacks, I need more than my natural fight and flight instincts, so I am building up a virtual box of tricks – some emergency rations for my well-being, and some weapons against the dark one’s powers. To outfox my enemy, this box will need to be crammed full of quickly accessible wisdom and self-care. I will need ways of reminding myself what is in the box, and ways of remembering to look inside it.

The first thing to go in the box will be a bit of self-praise. Well done, Paul. You did it. You made it through a year without Citalopram, hard though it may have been at times. And you wrote this blog when you really couldn’t be bothered.

The second thing will be to look back on all the good things that have happened, which can be too easy to forget. Good job I keep a book of such things (note to self – remember to look at it).

Oh yeah, and Brookes? I may not be jumping for joy, but I’m not dancing to your tune either. And if that isn’t worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.


Running and talking with otters

I must confess, I have not actually run with an otter (sounds like fun, though, and I might win if we had a race). I haven’t exactly talked to one either (again, sounds like fun). But I did see one for the first time this week, I have done a run, I am about to give my first talk on depression, and I only have time to write one blog post, so I’ve mixed them all together.

Running

At the start of August, I ran the York 10K with my friends Kate and Keith in memory of Dan Rhodes, my friend who took his own life this January after a long battle with mental illness. Big thanks to everyone who sponsored us – we raised £382.50 for Dan’s memorial fund at Jubilee Church Hull, which will be used to provide facilities and education for homeless and vulnerable people in Hull. Donations still very welcome!

Here’s photographic proof that I did it, finishing with a face as red as my T-shirt.

Finishing the York 10K and looking forward to a lie down and some chocolate.

Finishing the York 10K and looking forward to a lie down and some chocolate.

The run ended up being rather more challenging than expected, as I came down with a cold and spent the two nights before the big day coughing horribly (not that anyone ever coughs nicely). There was no way I was going to miss it, though, even if I had to walk all the way.

As it turned out, the hindrance of my lurgy made me do some unusually positive thinking. With each kilometre I ran, I congratulated myself on another km that I didn’t think I’d be able to do, until I found myself panting my way to the finish line, having run all the way.

From one challenge to another…

Talking

I’ve written a lot about my experiences of depression, and chatted to a lot of people about it. I’ve even done a couple of radio interviews, like this one on BBC Radio York last week (listen from 08:45 for about six minutes). However, public speaking is an exciting yet terrifying new venture, and that’s what I’ll be doing this Saturday. I’m joining the brilliant Jayne Hardy and Lotte Lane in London to talk about depression and self-care at the first BLURT Talks event, run by the Blurt Foundation. There are still some tickets left – come along and see me face my fears!

Otters

Every year, my dad and I go for a day’s walking somewhere. This year, we decided to spend the best part of a day at the RPSB’s Leighton Moss reserve in Lancashire, and a very wise decision that turned out to be.

It was one of those rare, magical days when we happened to be in the right places at the right times.

I’d heard that great white egrets had been seen at Leighton Moss and – being a keen birder and never having seen one before – was keen to clap my eyes on one.

The staff told us where the egrets had most recently been seen. We walked into the hide and found a small, excited group of visitors who’d just spotted an otter!

After straining my eyes for a couple of minutes, I saw it too – first an arched back, breaking the surface of the water like a miniature whale, then a head popped up, then there was a flick of a pointed tail. For a good ten minutes, the cheeky beast played hide and seek with us, swimming rapidly back and forth, disappearing then reappearing. Having already seen my first living badger earlier this year, it seemed too good to be true that I’d just seen my first otter as well.

Our luck was also in with the egret. While we were sitting eating our sandwiches, my dad spotted a large white bird drifting over a distant reedbed in the distance, and within a few minutes we were watching this magnificent, pure white bird stretching its almost impossibly long neck out over a lagoon, looking for something to snap up in its big yellow bill.

And I did talk to the otter, if calling out “Ah, there you are!” in an excited voice counts…


Help us raise loads of money in Dan’s memory

This January, my friend Dan Rhodes took his own life, aged 39, after battling mental illness on and off for 15 years.

He was a lovely, genuine, funny, talented man and is much missed by his family and friends. His death shocked and saddened us all.

Dan

On 3 August, I’m running the York 10K with my friends Kate Wilkinson and Keith Bremner to raise money in Dan’s memory.

We want to remember him by raising as much money as we can for his memorial fund at his church, Jubilee Church Hull. The money will go towards the church’s work supporting people who are homeless or at risk of homelessness in Hull.

If you’d like to make a donation, you can do so on the church’s website here.

Your donation will help to empower vulnerable people and offer practical support. This year, the church is providing showers and laundry facilities and opening a recovery college, providing accessible educational opportunities.

Thank you very much,

Paul, Kate and Keith

P.S. Dan loved a good ‘dad joke’ – the sort of terrible pun that makes you cringe. Share your best ones with us!


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